Генрик Сенкевич
On the Field of Glory
Pan Serafin seized his head, and Marek continued, -
"Yes! Now we know all; God helped us till people shouted that the fight was near the king's palace, and a crime, – that we should die for it. We were frightened and ran. They tried to seize us, but when we, in old fashion, cut one on the face and another on the neck, they fled in a hurry. Stanislav saved us with the horses of his attendants, but even then we had to work hard to bring our heads with us; we were hunted to Senkotsin; if the horses had been slow our case would have ended. Our names were not known; that was lucky, and there will be no accusation against us."
Long silence followed.
"Where are those horses which Stanislav gave you?" asked Pan Serafin.
The brothers began their confession a third time, -
"We have sinned, benefactor, we have sinned!"
Pan Serafin walked with long strides through the chamber.
"Now I understand," said he, "why ye did not bring Stashko's letter. He wrote me that various sad things had happened you, and he predicted your return, thinking that ye would need money for horses and outfits, but how ye would end was unknown to him."
"So it is, benefactor," said Yan.
Men now brought in heated wine, to which the brothers betook themselves with great willingness, for they were road weary. Still they were frightened by the silence of Pan Serafin, who was striding up and down in the chamber, his face severe and gloomy. So again Marek spoke to him, -
"Your grace, my benefactor, has asked about Stanislav's horses. Two of them foundered before we reached Groyets, for we galloped all the way in a terrible windstorm; we sold them for a trifle to Jew wagoners, for the beasts were no good after foundering. And we had not a coin to keep the souls in us; since we left in such a hurry Pan Stanislav had no time to assist us. Then strengthened a little we rode farther, two men on each animal. But your grace will understand this. We met then some noble on the road, and immediately he seized his side, laughing. 'What kind of Jerusalem nobles are these?' asked he. And we from such terrible scornfulness were ready for anything. So we had endless encounters and fights till we came to Bialobregi, where for dear peace we sold the last two of our crowbaits; then, when people wondered at our travelling on foot we replied that we were making that journey through a vow of devotion. So forgive us now like a father, for there are not more ill-fated men in this world, as I think, than we brothers."
"It is true! it is true!" exclaimed Mateush and Lukash; while Yan, the youngest, moved by remembrance of past suffering, and wine, raised his voice, and cried, -
"We are orphans of the Lord! What is left now in this world to us?"
"Nothing but brotherly love," put in Marek.
And they fell to embracing one another, shedding bitter tears as they did so; then all drew up to Pan Serafin, but Marek seized his knees before the others.
"Oh, father," said he, "our first-born protector, be not angry. Lend us once more for the levy, and from plunder, God grant, we will give it back faithfully; if you lend not-it is well also, but be not angry, only forgive us! Forgive us through that great friendship which we cherish for Stashko; for I tell you, let any man harm even one of Stashko's fingers, we will bear that man apart on our sabres! Is this not true, dearest brothers? – on our sabres?"
"Give him hither, the son of a such a one!" cried Mateush, Lukash, and Yan.
Pan Serafin halted before them, put his hand on his forehead, and answered in these words, -
"I am angry, it is true! but less angry than grief-stricken; for when I think that in this Commonwealth there are many such men as ye, the heart in me is straitened, and I ask myself: Will this mother of ours have the power with such children to meet the attacks which are threatening her? Ye wish to implore me, and ye expect my forgiveness. By the living God! it is not a question here of me, and not of my horses, but of something a hundred times greater, a question of the public weal, and the future of this Commonwealth; and of this, that ye do not understand the position, that even such a thought has not come to you; and since there are thousands such as ye are, the greater is the sorrow and the keener the anxiety, the more dreadful the desperation both of me and each honest son of this country-"
"For God's sake, benefactor! How have we sinned against the country?"
"How? By lawlessness, license, by riot and drunkenness. Oh! With us, people treat such things over lightly, and do not see how the pestilence is spreading, how the walls of this lordly building are weakened, and our heads are endangered by the ceiling. War is approaching; it is not known yet whether the foe will turn his power against us directly-but, ye Christian soldiers, what is the best that ye are doing? The trumpet is calling you to battle, but in your heads there is nothing save wine and lawlessness. With a glad heart ye cut down the guardians of that law which gives order of some kind. Who established those laws? Nobles. Who trampled them? Nobles! How can this country move to the field of glory, if this advance post of Christianity is inhabited not by warriors but drunkards, not by citizens but roysterers and rioters?"
Here Pan Serafin stopped and, pressing his hand to his forehead, walked again with great steps through the chamber. The brothers glanced at one another in amazement and confusion, for they had not thought to hear from him anything of that sort.
But he sighed deeply and continued, -
"Ye were called out against pagans, and ye spill the blood of Christians; ye were summoned in defence of this country, and ye have gone out as its enemies, for it is evident that the greater the disorder in a fortress, the weaker is the fortress. Fortunately there are still honest children of this mother, but of men such as ye there are, as I have said, many legions; for here not freedom, but riot is nourishing, not obedience, but impunity, not stern discipline, but wantonness, not love of country, but self-seeking; for here diets are broken, here the treasury is plundered, disorder increases, and civil wars like unbridled horses trample the country; hence drunken heads are fixing its fortunes; here is oppression of peasants, and from high to low lawlessness so that my heart bleeds, and I fear defeat, with God's anger as the consequence."
"In God's name must we hang ourselves?" cried Lukash.
Pan Serafin measured the chamber a number of times with his steps yet, and spoke on, as if it were to himself, and not to the Bukoyemskis, -
"Through the length and the breadth of this Commonwealth there is one immense feast, and on the wall an unknown hand is now writing: 'Mane-Tekel-Fares.' Wine is flowing, but blood and tears also are flowing. I am not the only person who sees this, I am not the only man predicting evil, but it is vain to put a light before the sightless, or sing songs to those who have no hearing."
Silence followed. The four brothers stared now at one another, and now at Pan Serafin with increasing confusion; at last Lukash said in a low voice to the other three, -
"May I split, if I understand anything!"
"And may I split!"
"And may I!"
"If we could drink a couple of times-"
"Quiet, do not mention it-"
"Let us go home."
"Let us go."
"With the forehead to your grace, our benefactor!" said Marek, pushing out in front and bending down to the knees of Pan Serafin.
"But whither?"
"To Lesnichovka. God help us."
"And I will help you," said Pan Serafin; "but such grief seized me that I had to pour it out. Go upstairs, gentlemen, – rest; later on ye will learn my decision."
An hour later he commanded to drive to Father Voynovski's. The priest was scandalized no little by the deeds of the Bukoyemskis, but at moments he could not restrain himself from laughter, for having served many years in the army he recalled various happenings which had met him and his comrades. But he could not forgive the brothers for drinking away the horses.
"A soldier will often run riot," said he, "but to drink away his horse! that is treason to the service. I will tell the Bukoyemskis that I should have been glad if martial law had taken the heads from their shoulders, and that certainly would have given an example to rioters, but I confess to you that I should have been sorry, for all four are splendid fellows. I know from of old what men are, and I can say in advance what each is good for. As to the Bukoyemskis, it will be unhealthy for those pagans who strike breast to breast with them in battle. What do you think to do with them?"
"I will not leave them without rescue, but I think if I were to send them off alone the same kind of thing might meet them a second time."
"True!" said the priest.
"Hence it has occurred to me to go with them, and give them straight into the hands of the captain. Once with the flag and under discipline, they can grant themselves nothing."
"True, this is a splendid idea! Take them to Cracow; there the regiments will assemble. As I live I will go with you! Thus we shall see our boys, and come back with more pleasantness."
At this Pan Serafin laughed, and said, -
"Your grace will come back alone."
"How is that?"
"I am going myself to the war."
"Do you wish to serve again in the army?" asked Father Voynovski, in astonishment.
"Yes, and no; for it is one thing to go to the army and make a career out of service, and another to go on a single expedition. Of course, I am old, but older than I have gone to the ranks more than once in reply to Gradiva's trumpet. I have sent my only son, that is true, but it is not possible to yield up too much for the country. Thus did my fathers think, therefore, that Mother showed them the greatest honor at her disposal. Hence my last copper coin, and my last drop of blood are now ready to be sacrificed for her sake! Should it come to die-think, your grace, what nobler death, what greater happiness could meet me? A man must die once, and is there not greater pleasure in dying on the field of glory, at the side of one's son, than in bed; to die from a sabre or a bullet than from sickness; in addition fighting against pagans for the faith and the country?"
Then Pan Serafin, moved by his own words, opened his arms and repeated, -
"God grant this! God grant this!"
Then Father Voynovski took him in his arms, and pressing him, said, -
"God grant that in this Commonwealth there be as many men like you as possible; there are not many as honorable, more honorable there are none whatever. It is true that it becomes a noble better to die on the field than in bed, and in old times every man held that idea, but to-day worse times have come on us. The country and the faith are one immense altar, and a man is a morsel of myrrh, predestined for burning to the glory of that altar. Yes, times are worse at the present. Then war is nothing new to you?"
Pan Serafin felt his breast, and continued, -
"I have here a few wounds from sabres and shots of the old time."
"It would be pleasanter for me to defend the flag," said Father Voynovski, "than listen to old women's sins in this neighborhood. And more than one of them tells me such nonsense, just as if she had come to shake out fleas at confession. When a man commits sin he has at least something to speak about, and all the more if he is a soldier! When I took this robe of a priest I became a chaplain in the regiment of Pan Modlishevski. Ah, I remember that well. Between one absolution of sins and another there was sometimes a shooting in the teeth, or blades were drawn. Ah, there was great need of chaplains in that time. I should like now to go, but my parish is large, and there is a tempest of work in it; the vicar is wilful but worst of all is a wound from a gunshot, which I received long ago, and which does not let me stay more than an hour in the saddle."
"I should be happy to have a comrade," said Pan Serafin, "but I understand that even without that wound your grace could not leave the parish."
"Well, I shall see. In a couple of days I will ride and learn how long I can stay in the saddle. Something may have straightened out in me. But who will look to the management at Yedlinka?"
"I have a forester, a simple man, but so honest that he might almost be canonized."
"I know; that one who is followed by wild beasts. Some say that he is a wizard; you know better, however. But he is old and sickly."
"I wish to take also that Vilchopolski who on a time served Pan Gideon. Perhaps you remember him? a young noble who lost one foot, but he is vigorous and daring. Krepetski removed him because he was too independent. He came to me two days ago offering his service, and to-day I will agree with him surely. Pan Gideon did not like him, since the man would not let any one blow on his pudding, but Pan Gideon praised his activity and faithfulness."
"What is to be heard in Belchantska?"
"I have not been there for some time. It is clear that Vilchopolski does not praise the Krepetskis, but I had no chance to inquire about everything in detail."
"I will look in there to-morrow, though they are not over glad to behold me, and then I will return to rub the ears of the Bukoyemskis. I will command them to come to confession, and for penance the whips will be moving. Let them give one another fifty lashes; that will be good for them."
"It will, that is certain. But now I must take farewell of your grace because of Vilchopolski."
Then Pan Serafin shortened his belt-strap, so that his sabre might not be in the way when he was entering the wagon. A moment later he was on the road moving toward Yedlinka, thinking meanwhile of his expedition, and smiling at the thought that he would work stirrup to stirrup with his one son, against pagans. After he had passed Belchantska he saw two horses under packs, and a trunk-laden wagon which Vilchopolski was driving. He commanded the young man to sit over into his wagon, and then he inquired, -
"Are you leaving Belchantska already?"
Vilchopolski pointed to the trunks, and wishing to prove that though he served he was not without learning, he said, -
"See, your grace, omnia mea mecum porto" (I am taking all my things with me).
"Then was there such a hurry?"
"There was not a hurry, but there was need; therefore I accept all your grace's conditions with pleasure, and in case you go away, as you have mentioned, I will guard your house and possessions with faithfulness."
Pan Serafin was pleased with the answer and the daring, firm face of the young man; so, after a moment of meditation, he added, -
"Of faithfulness I have no doubt, for I know that you are a noble, but inexperience I fear, and incautiousness. In Yedlinka one must sit like a stone, and watch day and night, because it is almost in the wilderness, and in great forests there is no lack of bandits, who at times attack houses."
"I do not wish an attack upon Yedlinka, but for myself I should like it, to convince your grace that courage and alertness would not be lacking on my part."
"You look as though you had both," said Pan Serafin.
He was silent a while, and then continued, -
"There is one other thing of importance of which to forewarn you. Pan Gideon is in God's hands at the present, and touching the dead nothing save that which is good may be mentioned; but it is known that he was hard to his people. Father Voynovski blamed him for this, and there was variance between them. The sweat of the peasant was not spared in Belchantska; trials were short and punishment grievous. We will be outspoken-there was oppression, and his agents were too cruel with people. This is not my case, be sure of that; there must be discipline, but paternal. I look on excessive severity as a great sin against God and the country. Fix it well in your mind that a man is not curds, and it is not allowable to press him too cruelly. I do not wring out people's tears-and I remember that before God all are equal."
A moment of silence followed. Vilchopolski seized Pan Serafin's hand and put his lips to it.
"I see that you understand me," said Pan Serafin.
"I understand, your grace; and I answer, More than a hundred times I wanted to say to Pan Gideon: 'Find another manager;' more than a hundred times I wanted to go from his service, but-well, I could not do so."
"Why was that? Is there a lack of work in the world?"
Vilchopolski was confused and spoke as if fear had seized hold of him.
"It did not happen-I could not go-day after day I loitered. Besides, there was severity, and there was not."
"How was that?"
"The people were driven to work, it is true, no one could prevent that; but as to flogging, I will say briefly that instead of whips straw ropes were used on them."
"Who was so merciful-you?"
"No. But I chose to obey the will of an angel, not that of a devil."
"I understand, but tell me whose will?"
"Panna Anulka's."
"Ah! so it was she?"
"Really an angel. She too was in dread of Pan Gideon, who in recent times only began to regard what she told him. But all loved her so much that each man exposed himself to Pan Gideon's anger rather than refuse what she asked of him."
"May God bless her for that! So you all conspired against Pan Gideon?"
"Yes, your grace."
"And it was not discovered?"
"It was discovered once, but I did not betray the young lady. Pan Gideon flogged me himself, for I declared to him that if any other man flogged, or if he flogged me except on a carpet, I, a noble, would let his house up in smoke, and shoot him besides that. And it would have been done as I promised, even had I to join forest bandits in consequence."
"You please me for this," said Pan Serafin.
"More than once I found it difficult to stay with Pan Gideon," continued Vilchopolski; "but in the house there was simply one of God's cherubim, and so, though a man might wish to go, he would stay there. After that, as the young lady grew up Pan Gideon gave her more consideration, and recently he gave thought to no one save Panna Anulka. He knew often that she commanded to give wheat to the poor from the granary, then, as I have said, she had straw used instead of whips; besides, she had labor remitted; he affected not to notice it. At last he was so much ashamed that she had no need to do anything in secret. She was a real protector of people, and for that reason may God, as you have said, bless and save her."
"Why do you say 'save'?" inquired Pan Serafin.
"Because it is worse for her now than it has been."
"Have the fear of God! What is the danger?"
"The two women are terrible. Young Krepetski himself restrains them apparently, but I know why he does this; but let him be careful, some one may shoot him down like a dog if he is not."
It was deep night then, but very clear, for the full moon was shining, and by the light of it Pan Serafin saw that the eyes of the young man were glittering like wolf eyes.
"What dost thou know of him?" asked Pan Serafin, with curiosity.
"I know that he removed me not merely for my independence, but because I watched and listened carefully to what people in the house said. I went away because I had to go, but Belchantska is not far from Yedlinka, and in case of need-"
Here he was silent, and on the road was heard only the sound of the pines as they were moved by the night wind.
CHAPTER XVI
AT Belchantska it was not only evil for the young woman, but worse and worse daily. A good deal of time had passed since that moment in which old Pan Gideon had noticed that Martsian gazed at the young girl with too much of a "goat's look," and had driven him from the mansion. Later on, Martsian saw her at church, and sometimes at the houses of neighbors, and always her beauty of springtime roused fresh desires in him. Now when he was living under one roof with her, when he saw her daily, he fell in love in his own way, that is, with the beastlike desire, and that feeling of which he was alone capable. A change had taken place in his wishes. His first intent had been to bring the girl to shame, and then marry her only in case that a will should be found in her favor. Now he was ready to go with her to the altar, if he could in any case have and possess her forever. Reason, which when urged by desire becomes its obedient assistant, told him, moreover, that a young lady bearing the name of Sieninski was, although dowerless, a match of great moment. But even if reason had told him the opposite, Martsian would not have listened, for as each day appeared he lost some part of his self-mastery. He burnt, he raged, and if up to that time he had restrained himself from violence it was only because desire, even the most urgent, craves and yearns for a willing surrender, and is charmed with the thought of mutuality in which it sees the highest pleasure, and deceives itself even when there is no cause whatever for doing so.
Thus Krepetski deceived himself, and thus he pampered his wishes with pictures of that blissful moment in which the young lady would herself, radiant and willing, incline to his embraces. But he dreaded to lose should he risk all on the hazard of a trial, and when he put to himself in spirit this question, What would follow? fear seized him in presence of himself, and in presence of the terror which would threaten him; for the laws of the Commonwealth guarding the honor of woman were pitiless, and around him were sabres of nobles by the hundred, which would flash above his head most unfailingly. But he felt also that the hour might come in which he would care for nothing, since in his insolent, wild spirit there was hidden a craving for battle, and a hunger for peril; so not without a certain charm for him was the picture of a great throng of nobles besieging Belchantska-the flame of conflagration above him, and a red executioner standing, axe in hand, somewhere off in the mist of a distant city.
And thus desire, dread, and also a longing for battle struggled like three whirlwinds within him. At the same time, wishing to give exit to that storm, and to cool that flood which was seething in his person as water in a caldron, he grew mad, wallowed in riot throughout village inns, rode down his horses, fell upon people, and drank to kill in every dramshop of Radom, Prityk, and Yedlina. He collected around him a company of road-blockers, who did not go to the war because of evil fame, or of poverty. He paid these men and tyrannized over them; he did this thinking that such a mob might be useful in the future, but he did not admit any man of them to confidence, and never mentioned in their presence the name of the young lady. Once when a certain Vysh, from some Vyshkov of unknown situation, mentioned her in rude, obscene fashion, Martsian slashed the fellow on his snout and drew blood from him.
Martsian galloped home at breakneck speed, and usually about daylight. But that mad riding sobered him thoroughly. He dropped down in his clothes to the horse skin which covered his bed, and slept like a stone for some hours on it; when he rose he put on his best garments, went then to the women, and strove to please the young lady, whom his eyes did not leave for one moment, he meanwhile rousing desire, while his glances crawled over her person. And more than once, when he was alone with Anulka, his lips were pushed forward, his arms of monstrous length quivered as if powerless against his wish to seize hold of her; his voice became stifled, his words became insolent, vague, and double-meaning; through them circled both flattery and an ill-restrained threatening.
But Anulka feared him simply as she would have feared a tamed wolf, or a bear, and with difficulty did she hide the repulsion with which the sight of him filled her. For in spite of the parrot-like colors in which he arrayed himself, in spite of the shining jewels at his neck, and the costly flageolet which he never let slip from his fingers, he looked worse each day, and more repulsive. Sleepless nights, rioting, drinking, and flaming desires had placed on him their impress. He grew thin, his shoulders drooped, through this his arms, long by nature, seemed longer, so that his hands reached below his knees and were beyond human proportions. His gigantic trunk was like a knotty section of a tree trunk, and his short bow-legs bent still more from mad riding. Moreover, the skin of his face took on a kind of green pallor, and because of his sunken cheeks, his protruding eyes and pouting lips were pushed forward phenomenally. He became simply dreadful to look at, especially when he laughed, for from his eyeballs when lighted with laughter looked out a kind of nervous, unrestrained threat and malice. But the feeling of her misfortune, deep sadness, and unhappiness produced in Anulka a dignity of which she had not a trace somewhat earlier. This dignity imposed on Krepetski. Once she had been a twittering maiden, active all day as a water-mill; now she had learned to be silent, and her eyes had a fixity of expression. So, though her heart trembled often from fear of Krepetski, she restrained him by her calm glance and her silence. He drew back then as if fearing to offend such a majesty. It is true that she seemed to him still more desirable, but also more difficult of access. She, however, feeling that from him immense danger was threatening, and later on being perfectly convinced of this, strove to avoid him, to be alone with him the shortest time possible, to turn away conversation from things which might facilitate confession, and finally she had the boldness sometimes to indicate that she was not by any means abandoned and left to the favor or ill-will of fortune, as it might seem to him.
She avoided even memories of Yatsek, understanding that after what had passed between them he could not be then, and would not be ever a defence to her. She felt besides that every word touching him would rouse hatred and anger in Martsian. But having noted that the Krepetskis were careful of the prelate, and looked as if with secret dread on him, she let it be understood frequently that she was under his special protection, which rose from a secret agreement which, in view of every contingency, Pan Gideon had concluded. The prelate, who from time to time came to Belchantska, aided her notably, for he turned to the Krepetskis with pleasure, since he was studying mankind; he expressed himself with mystery, and quoted subtle phrases in Latin; he reminded Martsian of various things which that young man might interpret as suited him.
But a great point was this: The servants and the whole village loved the "young lady." People considered the Krepetskis as intruders, and her as the genuine inheritor. All feared Martsian, except Vilchopolski. But even after the removal of that young noble, the unseen care of the people went, as it were, with Anulka, and Martsian understood that the fear which he roused had its limit, beyond which for him would begin real danger. He understood also that Vilchopolski, whose eyes had a daring expression, would not go far from Belchantska, and that if the young lady should be in need of defence he would not draw back before anything; hence he confessed to himself that she was not really so deserted by every one as at first he had thought, and as on a time he had told his old father.
"Who will take her part? No one!" said he, when the old man commanded him to remember the terrible punishments which the laws threatened for an attempt on the honor of a woman.
At last he understood that there were such defenders. That raised one more obstacle, but obstacles and perils were only an incitement to a nature like Martsian's. He deceived himself yet, thinking that he would move the young lady and make her love him; but there came moments in which he saw, as clearly as a thing on the palm, that he was quite powerless; and then he raged, as said the comrades of his revels, and had it not been for a certain dull, but strong and irresistible foreboding that if he attacked the girl he should lose her forever, he would long ere that have set free the wild beast within him.
And in just those times did he drink without measure and memory.
Meanwhile relations in the house had become unendurable, seasoned with bitterness and poison. The Krepetski old maids hated Anulka, not only because she was younger than they and more beautiful, but because people loved her, and because Martsian took her part for every reason, and even for no reason. They flamed up at last with implacable hatred toward their brother; but seeing that Anulka never complained, they tortured her all the more stubbornly. Once Agneshka burnt her with a red-hot shovel, as if by accident. Martsian, hearing of this through the servants, went to ask pardon of the young lady, and beg her to seek his protection at all times; but he pushed up to her with such insistence, and fell to kissing her hand with such greed and so disgustingly, that she fled from him, unable to repress her abhorrence. Thereupon he broke into a rage and beat his sister so viciously that for two days she feigned illness.
The two "heiresses" as they were called at the mansion did not spare biting words on the young lady, or open inventions and humiliations, taking vengeance in this way for all they were forced to endure from their brother. But out of hatred for Martsian they warned her against him, censuring her at the same time for yielding to his wishes, for they saw that with nothing could they wound and offend her so painfully as with this implication. The house became a hell for her, and every hour in it a torment.
Hatred toward those people, who themselves hated one another, was poisoning even her heart. She began to think of a cloister, but she kept the thought in her bosom, for she knew that they would not let her enter one, and that by unfettering Martsian's anger she would expose herself to great peril. Alarm and fear of danger dwelt in her continually, and produced the desire of death, a desire which she had never felt previously. Meanwhile each day added to her cup new drops of bitterness. Once, early in the morning, Agneshka surprised Martsian looking through the keyhole of the orphan's chamber. He withdrew gritting his teeth and threatening with his fist, but the "heiress" called her sister immediately, and the two, finding the girl still undressed, began to torment her, as usual.
