ARGUMENT
Hunting the hare with hounds—A guest in the castle—The last of the
retainers tells the story of the last of the Horeszkos—A glance
into the garden—The girl among the cucumbers—Breakfast—Pani
Telimena’s St. Petersburg story—New outbreak of the quarrel over
Bobtail and Falcon—The intervention of Robak—The Seneschal’s
speech—The wager—Off for mushrooms.
Who among us does not remember the years when, as a young lad, with his
gun on his shoulder, he went whistling into the fields, where no rampart,
no fence blocked his path; where, when you overstepped a boundary strip,
you did not recognise it as belonging to another! For in Lithuania a
hunter is like a ship upon the sea; wherever he will, and by whatever path
he will, he roams far and wide! Like a prophet he gazes on the sky, where
in the clouds there are many signs that the hunter’s eye can see; or like
an enchanter he talks with the earth, which, though deaf to city-dwellers,
whispers into his ear with a multitude of voices.
There a land rail calls from the meadow—it is vain to seek it, for it
flees away through the grass like a pike in the Niemen; there above your
head sounds the bell of early spring, the lark, hidden as deeply in the
sky; there an eagle rustles with its broad wings through the airy heights,
spreading terror among sparrows as a comet among stars; or a hawk, hanging
beneath the clear blue vault, flutters its wings like a butterfly impaled
on a pin, until, catching sight in the meadow of a bird or a hare, it
swoops upon it from on high like a falling star.
When will the Lord God permit us to return from our wanderings, and again
to dwell upon our ancestral fields, and to serve in the cavalry that makes
war on rabbits, or in the infantry that bears arms against birds; to know
no other weapons than the scythe and the sickle, and no other gazettes
than the household accounts!
Over Soplicowo arose the sun, and it already fell on the thatched roofs,
and through the chinks stole into the stable; and over the fresh,
dark-green, fragrant hay of which the young men had made them a bed there
streamed twinkling, golden bands from the openings of the black thatch,
like ribbons from a braid of hair; and the sun teased the faces of the
sleepers with its morning beams, like a village girl awakening her
sweetheart with an ear of wheat. Already the sparrows had begun to hop and
twitter beneath the thatch, already the gander had cackled thrice, and
after it, as an echo, the ducks and turkeys resounded in chorus, and one
could hear the bellowing of the kine on their way to the fields.
The young men had arisen; Thaddeus still lay dozing, for he had gone to
sleep last of all. From the supper of the day before he had come back so
disquieted that at cockcrow he had not yet closed his eyes, and on his
couch he tossed about so violently that he sank into the hay as into
water; at last he fell sound asleep. Finally a cool breeze blew in his
eyes, when the creaking doors of the stable were opened with a crash; and
the Bernardine, Father Robak, came in with his belt of knotted cord,
calling out, “Surge, puer!” and plying jocosely over his shoulders his
knotted belt.
Already in the yard could be heard the cries of the hunters; horses were
being led forth, waggons were coming up; hardly could the yard contain
such a throng. The horns sounded, they opened the kennels. The pack of
hounds rushing out whined joyfully; seeing the chargers of the huntsmen
and the leashes of their keepers, the dogs as if mad scampered about the
enclosure, then ran and put their necks in the collars. All this foreboded
a very fine hunt; at last the Chamberlain gave the order to proceed.
The hunters started slowly, one after another, but beyond the gate they
spread out in a long line; in the middle of it rode side by side the
Assessor and the Notary, and though they occasionally cast a malicious
glance at each other, they conversed in friendly fashion, like men of
honour, who were on their way to settle a mortal quarrel; no one from
their words could have remarked their mutual hatred: the Notary led
Bobtail, the Assessor Falcon. The ladies in carriages brought up the rear;
the young men, galloping alongside near the wheels, talked with the
ladies.
Father Robak walked with slow steps about the yard, finishing his morning
prayers, but he glanced at Thaddeus, frowned, smiled, and finally motioned
to him with his finger. When Thaddeus rode up, Robak with his finger on
his nose made him a threatening sign; but despite the requests and
entreaties of Thaddeus that he would explain to him clearly what he meant,
the Bernardine did not deign to answer or even to look at him again; he
merely pulled his cowl over his face and finished his prayer: so Thaddeus
rode off and joined the guests.
Just at that instant the hunters were holding their leashes and all were
standing motionless in their places; each gave a sign to the other to be
silent, and all had turned their eyes to a stone near which the Judge had
halted: he had caught sight of the game, and was waving his arms in order
to make his orders known. All understood him and stopped, and slowly
across the field trotted the Assessor and the Notary; Thaddeus, being
nearer, arrived before them, paused beside the Judge, and gazed at the
spot to which he was pointing. It was long since he, had been in the
field; on the grey expanse it was hard to distinguish the grey rabbit,
especially amid the stones. The Judge pointed him out; the poor hare was
crouched cowering beneath a stone, pricking up its ears; with a crimson
eye it met the gaze of the hunters; as if bewitched, and conscious of its
destiny, for very terror it could not turn its eye away from theirs, but
beneath the rock crouched dead as a rock. Meanwhile the dust in the field
came nearer and nearer, Bobtail was running in his leash and after him the
fleet Falcon; then the Assessor and the Notary shouted at once behind
them, “At him,” and vanished with the dogs in clouds of dust.
While they were thus pursuing the hare, the Count made his appearance near
the castle wood. All the neighbours knew that this gentleman could never
present himself at the appointed time; to-day also he had overslept, and
was therefore in a scolding humour with his servants. Seeing the hunters
in the field, he galloped towards them, with the skirts of his long white
coat, of English cut, trailing in the wind. Behind him were mounted
servants, wearing little black shiny caps like mushrooms, short jackets,
striped boots, and white pantaloons; the servants whom the Count thus
costumed, in his mansion were called jockeys.
The galloping train was rushing towards the meadows, when the Count caught
sight of the castle and checked his horse. It was the first time that he
had seen the castle so early, and he could not believe that these were the
same walls, so wonderful a freshness and beauty had the early morning
imparted to the outlines of the building. The Count marvelled at so new a
sight. The tower seemed to him twice as high, for it rose up above the
early mist; the tin roof was gilded by the sun, and beneath it shone in
the sashes fragments of the broken panes, breaking the eastern beams into
many-coloured rainbows; the lower stories were wrapped in a mantle of mist
that hid from the eye the cracks and huge nicks. The cries of the distant
hunters, borne on the winds, echoed several times against the castle
walls; you would have sworn that the cry came from the castle, that under
the curtain of fog the walls had been restored and were again inhabited.
The Count liked new and unwonted sights, and called them romantic; he used
to say that he had a romantic head, but truth to say he was an out-and-out
crank. Sometimes when chasing a fox or a hare he would suddenly stop and
gaze mournfully at the sky, like a cat when it sees a sparrow on a tall
pine; often he wandered through the wood without dog or gun, like a
run-away recruit; often he sat by a brook motionless, inclining his head
over a stream, like a heron that wants to consume all the fish with its
eye. Such were the queer habits of the Count; everybody said that there
was some screw loose in him. Yet they respected him, for he was a
gentleman of ancient lineage, rich, kind to his peasants, and affable and
friendly with his neighbours, even with the Jews.
The Count’s horse, which he had turned off the road, trotted straight
across the field to the threshold of the castle. The Count, left solitary,
sighed, looked at the walls, took out paper and pencil, and began to draw.
Thereupon, looking to one side, he saw a dozen steps away a man who seemed
likewise a lover of the picturesque; with his head thrown back and his
hands in his pockets he seemed to be counting the stones with his eyes.
The Count recognised him at once, but he had to call several times before
Gerwazy heard his voice. He was a man of gentle birth, a servitor of the
ancient lords of the castle, the last that remained of the Horeszkos’
retainers; a tall grey-haired old man with a hale and rugged countenance,
ploughed by wrinkles, gloomy and stem. Of old he had been famous among the
gentry for his jollity; but since the battle in which the owner of the
castle had perished, Gerwazy had changed, and now for many years he had
not gone to any fair or merry-making; since then no one had heard his
witty jests or seen a smile upon his face. He always wore the ancient
livery of the Horeszkos, a long yellow coat with skirts, trimmed with lace
that now was yellow, but once had doubtless been gilt; around its edge was
embroidered in silk their coat of arms, the Half-Goat, and thence all the
neighbours had given the title of Half-Goat to the old gentleman.
Sometimes also, from a phrase that he incessantly repeated, they called
him My-boy, sometimes Notchy, for his whole bald head was notched with
scars. His real name was Rembajlo, but no one knew his coat of arms; he
called himself the Warden, because years ago he had held that office in
the castle. And he still wore a great bunch of keys at his girdle, on a
band with a silver tassel, though he had nothing to open with them, for
the gates of the castle stood gaping wide. However he had found two
folding doors, which he had repaired and set up at his own expense, and he
amused himself daily with unlocking these doors. In one of the empty rooms
he had chosen a habitation for himself; though he might have lived at the
Count’s mansion on alms, he refused, for he pined away everywhere else,
and felt out of sorts unless he was breathing the air of the castle.
As soon as he caught sight of the Count, he snatched the cap from his
head, and honoured with a bow the kinsman of his lords, inclining a great
bald pate that shone from afar and was slashed with many a sabre, like a
chopping-block. He stroked it with his hand, came up, and, once more
bending low, said mournfully:—
“My boy, young master—pardon me, that I speak thus to Your Excellency the
Count; such is merely my custom, and it betokens no lack of respect. All
the Horeszkos used to say ‘My boy’; the last Pantler, my lord, was fond of
the phrase. Is it true, my boy, that you grudge a penny for a lawsuit, and
are yielding this castle to the Soplicas? I would not believe it, yet so
they say all through the district.”
Here he gazed at the castle and sighed incessantly.
“What is there strange in that?” said the Count. “The cost is great and
the bother greater yet; I want to finish up, but the stupid old gentleman
is obstinate; he foresaw that he could tire me out. Indeed I cannot hold
out longer, and to-day I shall lay down arms and accept such conditions of
agreement as the court may offer me.”
“Of agreement?” cried Gerwazy, “of agreement with the Soplicas? with the
Soplicas, my boy?” (So speaking he contorted his lips as though he were
amazed at his own words.) “Agreement with the Soplicas! My boy, young
master, you are jesting, aren’t you? The castle, the abode of the
Horeszkos, pass into the hands of the Soplicas! Only deign to dismount
from the steed; let us go into the castle; just look it over a bit! You do
not know yourself what you are doing; do not refuse; dismount!” And he
held the stirrup for him to dismount.
They entered the castle; Gerwazy stopped at the threshold of the hall:—
“Here,” he said, “the ancient lords, surrounded by their retinue, used
often to sit in their chairs, after they had dined. The lord settled the
disputes of the peasants, or good humouredly told various curious stories
to his guests, or found amusement in their tales and jests. But in the
courtyard the young men fought with staves or broke in the master’s
Turkish ponies.”
They entered the hall.—“In this immense paved hall,” said Gerwazy, “you
cannot find as many stones as tuns of wine have been broached here in the
good old times. The gentry, when invited to a diet, a district assembly, a
family holiday, or a hunting party, would pull the casks from the wine
cellar on their girdles. During the banquet an orchestra was stationed in
that gallery and played the organ36 and various other instruments; and
when they proposed a health the trumpets thundered in chorus; the vivats
followed in orderly succession, the first to the health of His Majesty the
King, then to the Primate,37 then to Her Majesty the Queen, then to the
Gentry and the whole Republic. But finally, after the fifth glass had been
drunk, they always proposed, ‘Let us love one another!’ a toast unceasing,
which, proclaimed while daylight still lingered, thundered on till dawn,
when horses and waggons stood ready to carry each guest to his lodging.”
They passed through several rooms; Gerwazy in silence now fixed his gaze
on the wall and now on the vaulted ceiling, recalling now a sad and now a
pleasant memory; sometimes, as though he would say, “All is over,” he
bowed his head in sorrow; sometimes he waved his hand—evidently even
recollection was a torture to him and he wished to drive it off. Finally
they paused, in a large room on the upper story, once set with mirrors;
to-day the mirrors had been removed and the frames stood empty; the sashes
lacked their panes; directly opposite the door was a balcony. Going out on
it, the old man bowed his head in thought, and buried his face in his
hands; when he uncovered it it wore an expression of great sadness and
despair. The Count, though he did not know what all this meant, when he
looked at the face of the old man felt a certain emotion, and pressed his
hand. The silence lasted for a moment; then the old man broke it, shaking
his uplifted right hand:—
“There can be no agreement, my boy, between the Soplica and the blood of
the Horeszkos; in you flows the blood of the Horeszkos; you are a kinsman
of the Pantler by your mother the Mistress of the Hunt, whose mother was
the child of the second daughter of the Castellan,38 who was, as is well
known, the maternal uncle of my lord. Now listen to a story of your own
family, which took place in this very room and no other.
“My late lord the Pantler, the first gentleman of the district, a rich man
and of noted family, had but one child, a daughter beautiful as an angel;
so not a few of the gentry and the young notables paid their court to the
Pantler’s daughter. Among the gentry there was one great roistering blade,
a fighting bully, Jacek Soplica, who was called in jest the Wojewoda; in
truth he was of great influence in the wojewodeship, for he had absolute
authority over the whole family of the Soplicas and controlled their three
hundred votes according to his will, although he himself possessed nothing
except a little plot of ground, a sabre, and great mustaches that
stretched from ear to ear. So the Pantler often invited this ruffian to
his place and entertained him there, especially at the time of the
district diets, in order to make himself popular among the fellow’s
kinsmen and partisans. The mustachioed champion was so much elated by his
courteous reception that he took it into his head that he might become his
host’s son-in-law. He came to the castle more and more frequently, even
when uninvited, and finally settled down among us as if in his own home,
and it seemed that he was on the point of declaring himself; but they
remarked this, and served him at the table with black soup.39 It may very
well be that the Pantler’s daughter had taken a fancy to the Soplica, but
that she kept it a deep secret from her parents.
“Those were the times of Kosciuszko; my lord supported the Constitution of
the Third of May,40 and was already gathering the gentry in order to go to
the aid of the Confederates, when suddenly the Muscovites encircled the
castle by night; there was barely time to fire an alarm signal from the
mortar, and to close the gates below and fasten them with a bar. There was
no one in the whole castle except the Pantler, myself, and the lady; the
cook and two turnspits, all three drunk; the parish priest, a servingman,
and four footmen, all bold fellows. So to arms and to the windows! Here a
throng of Muscovites came streaming across the terrace to the door,
shouting ‘Hurrah!’ But we met them with bullets from ten guns, ‘Back with
you!’ Nothing could be seen; the servants shot without cessation from the
lower stories, and my lord and I from the balcony. All went finely,
although amid such great alarm. Twenty guns lay here on this floor; we
shot one and they handed us another; the parish priest attended diligently
to this task, and the lady and her daughter, and the serving maids: there
were but three marksmen, yet the fire was unceasing. The Muscovite boors
showered on us a hail of bullets from below; we replied from above
sparsely, but with better aim. Three times that rabble pressed up to the
door, but each time three of them bit the dust: so they fled behind the
storehouse. It was already early dawn; with a cheerful face the Pantler
came out on the balcony with his gun, and whenever a Muscovite thrust
forth his brow from behind the storehouse he at once fired—and he never
missed; each time a black helmet fell on the grass; so that at length
scarcely a man crept out from behind the wall. The Pantler, seeing his
enemies in confusion, thought of making a sally; he seized his sabre, and,
shouting from the balcony, gave orders to the servants; turning to me he
said: ‘Follow me, Gerwazy!’ At that instant there was a shot from behind
the gate; the Pantler’s speech faltered, he turned red, turned pale, tried
to speak, spat blood. Then I perceived that he had received the bullet
full in the breast; my lord, tottering, pointed towards the gate. I
recognised that villain Soplica, I recognised him! by his stature and by
his mustaches I By his shot the Pantler had perished; I saw it! The
villain still held his gun raised aloft; smoke still came from the barrel!
I sighted at him; the brigand stood as if petrified! Twice I fired, and
both shots missed; whether from hatred or from grief, I aimed ill. I heard
the shrieks of women; I looked around—my lord was no longer living.”
Here Gerwazy paused and burst into a flood of tears; then he concluded:—
“The Muscovites had already broken down the door, for after the death of
the Pantler I stood helpless and did not know what was going on around me.
Luckily to our help came Parafianowicz, bringing from Horbatowicze two
hundred of the Mickiewiczes, who are a numerous and a valiant family of
gentry, every man of them, and nourish an immemorial hatred of the
Soplicas.
“Thus perished a powerful, pious, and just lord, whose ancestors had held
seats in the Senate, worn badges of honour, and carried the hetman’s staff
of office; a father to his peasants, a brother to the gentry—and he had no
son left after him to vow vengeance on his grave! But he had faithful
servants; with the blood of his wound I wet my broadsword, called the
penknife—you have surely heard of my penknife, famous at every diet,
market, and village assembly—and swore to notch it on the shoulders of the
Soplicas. I pursued them at diets, forays, and fairs; two I hewed down in
a brawl, two others in a duel; one I burnt in a wooden building, when with
Rymsza we sacked Korelicze—he was baked like a mudfish; but those whose
ears I have cut off I cannot count. One only is left who has not yet
received a reminder from me! He is the own dear brother of that
mustachioed bully; he still lives, and boasts of his wealth; the edge of
his field borders on the Horeszkos’ castle; he is respected in the
district, he has an office, he is a judge! And you will yield the castle
to him? Shall his base feet wipe the blood of my lord from this floor? No!
While Gerwazy has but a pennyworth of spirit, and enough strength to move
even with one little finger his penknife, which still hangs on the wall,
never shall a Soplica get this castle!”
“O!” cried the Count, raising his hands on high, “I had a fair foreboding
that I loved these walls, though I knew not that they contained such
treasures, so many dramatic memories, and so many tales! When once I seize
from the Soplicas the castle of my ancestors, I will establish you within
its walls as my burgrave: your tale, Gerwazy, has mightily affected me. I
regret that you did not lead me here at the hour of midnight; draped in my
cloak I should have sat upon the ruins and you would have told me of
bloody deeds. I regret that you have no great gift of narration! Often
have I heard and often do I read such traditions; in England and Scotland
every lord’s castle, in Germany every count’s mansion was the theatre of
murders! In every ancient, noble, powerful family there is a report of
some bloody or treacherous deed, after which vengeance descends as an
inheritance to the heirs: in Poland for the first time do I hear of such
an incident. I feel that in me flows the blood of the manly Horeszkos, I
know what I owe to glory and to my family. So be it I I must break off all
negotiations with the Soplica, even though it should come to pistols or to
the sword! Honour bids me!”
He spoke, and moved on with solemn steps, and Gerwazy followed in deep
silence. Before the gate the Count stopped, mumbling to himself; gazing at
the castle he quickly mounted his horse, and thus in distraction he
concluded his monologue:—
“I regret that this old Soplica has no wife, or fair daughter whose charms
I might adore! If I loved her and could not obtain her hand a new
complication would arise in the tale; here the heart, there duty! here
vengeance, there love!”
So whispering he applied the spurs, and the horse flew towards the Judge’s
mansion, just as the hunters came riding out of the wood from the other
direction. The Count was fond of hunting: hardly had he perceived the
riders, when, forgetting everything, he galloped straight towards them,
passing by the yard gate, the orchard, and the fences; but at a turn of
the path he looked around and checked his horse near the fence—it was the
kitchen garden. Fruit trees planted in rows shaded a broad field; beneath
them were the vegetable beds. Here sat a cabbage, which bowed its
venerable bald head, and seemed to meditate on the fate of vegetables;
there, intertwining its pods with the green tresses of a carrot, a slender
bean turned upon it a thousand eyes; here the maize lifted its golden
tassels; here and there could be seen the belly of a fat watermelon that
had rolled far from its parent stalk into a distant land, as a guest among
the crimson beets.
The beds were intersected by furrows; in each trench there stood, as if on
guard, ranks of hemp stalks, the cypresses of the vegetable garden, calm,
straight, and green; their leaves and their scent served to defend the
beds, for through their leaves no serpent dares to press, and their scent
kills insects and caterpillars. Farther away towered up the whitish stalks
of poppies; on them you might think a flock of butterflies had perched,
fluttering their wings, on which flashed, with all the colours of the
rainbow, the gleam of precious stones; with so many different, living
tints did the poppies allure the eye. Amid the flowers, like the full moon
amid the stars, a round sunflower, with a great, glowing face, turned
after the sun from the east to the west.
Beside the fence stretched long, narrow, rounded hillocks, free from
trees, bushes, and flowers: this was the cucumber patch. They had grown
finely; with their great, spreading leaves they covered the beds as with a
wrinkled carpet. Amid them walked a girl, dressed in white, sinking up to
her knees in the May greenery; stepping down from the beds into the
furrows, she seemed not to walk but to swim over the leaves and to bathe
in their bright colour. Her head was shaded with a straw hat, from her
brow there waved two pink ribbons and some tresses of bright, loose hair;
in her hands she held a basket, and her eyes were lowered; her right hand
was raised as if to pluck something: as a little girl when bathing tries
to catch the fishes that sport with her tiny feet, so she at every instant
bent down with her hands and her basket to gather the cucumbers against
which she brushed with her foot, or of which her eye caught sight.
The Count, struck with so marvellous a sight, stood still. Hearing from
afar the trampling of his comrades, he motioned to them with his hand to
stop their horses: they halted. He gazed with outstretched neck, like a
long-billed crane that stands apart from the flock, on one leg, keeping
guard with watchful eyes, and holding a stone in the other foot, in order
not to fall asleep.
The Count was awakened by a pattering on his shoulders and brow; it was
the Bernardine, Father Robak, who held aloft in his hand the knotted cords
of his belt.
“Will you have cucumbers?” he cried; “Here they are!” [So saying he showed
him the knots on his belt, which were shaped like cucumbers.41] “Look out
for danger, in this garden patch there is no fruit for you; nothing will
come of it!”
Then he threatened him with his finger, adjusted his cowl, and departed;
the Count tarried on the spot a moment more, cursing and yet laughing at
this sudden hindrance. He glanced at die garden, but she was no longer in
the garden; only her pink ribbon and her white gown flashed through the
window. On the garden bed one could see the path by which she had flown,
for the green leaves, spurned by her foot in her flight, raised themselves
and trembled an instant before they became quiet, like water cut by the
wings of a bird. Only on the place where she had been standing, her
abandoned willow basket, empty and overturned, was still poised upon the
leaves and tossing amid the green waves.
An instant later all was silent and deserted; the Count fixed his eyes on
the house and strained his ears; still he mused, and still the huntsmen
stood motionless behind him.—Then in the quiet deserted house arose first
a murmur, then an uproar and merry cries, as in an empty hive when bees
fly back into it: that was a sign that the guests had returned from
hunting, and that the servants were busying themselves with breakfast.
Through all the rooms there reigned a mighty bustle; they were carrying
about platters, plates of food and bottles; the men, just as they had come
in, in their green suits, walked about the rooms with plates and glasses,
and ate and drank; or, leaning against the window casements, they talked
of guns, hounds, and hares. The Chamberlain and his family and the Judge
were seated at the table; in a corner the young ladies whispered together;
there was no such order as is observed at dinners and suppers. In this
old-fashioned Polish household this was a new custom; at breakfasts the
Judge, though loth, permitted such disorder, but he did not commend it.
There were likewise different dishes for the ladies and for the gentlemen.
Here they carried around trays with an entire coffee service, immense
trays, charmingly painted with flowers, and on them fragrant, smoking tin
pots, and golden cups of Dresden china, and with each cup a tiny little
jug of cream. In no other country is there such coffee as in Poland. In
Poland, in a respectable household, a special woman is, by ancient custom,
charged with the preparation of coffee. She is called the coffee-maker;
she brings from the city, or gets from the river barges,42 berries of the
finest sort, and she knows secret ways of preparing the drink, which is
black as coal, transparent as amber, fragrant as mocha, and thick as
honey. Everybody knows how necessary for coffee is good cream: in the
country this is not hard to get; for the coffee-maker, early in the day,
after setting her pots on the fire, visits the dairy, and with her own
hands lightly skims the fresh flower of the milk into a separate little
jug for each cup, that each of them may be dressed in its separate little
cap.
The older ladies had risen earlier and had already drunk their coffee; now
they had had made for them a second dish, of warm beer, whitened with
cream, in which swam curds cut into little bits.
The gentlemen had their choice of smoked meats; fat half-geese, hams, and
slices of tongue—all choice, all cured in home fashion in the chimney with
juniper smoke. Finally they brought in stewed beef with gravy43 as the
last course: such was breakfast in the Judge’s house.
In adjoining rooms two separate companies had gathered. The older people,
grouped about a small table, talked of new ways of farming, and of the new
imperial edicts, which were growing more and more severe. The Chamberlain
discussed the current rumours of war and based on them conclusions as to
politics. The Seneschal’s daughter, putting on blue spectacles, amused the
Chamberlain’s wife by telling fortunes with cards. In the other room the
younger men talked over the hunt in a more calm and quiet fashion than was
usually the case; for the Assessor and the Notary, both mighty orators,
the foremost experts on the chase and the best huntsmen, sat opposite each
other glum and angry. Both had set on their hounds well, both had felt
certain of victory, when in the middle of the field there turned up a
patch of unreaped spring corn belonging to a peasant. Into this the hare
fled; Bobtail and Falcon were each about to seize it, when the Judge
checked the horsemen at the border of the field; they had to obey,
although in great wrath. The dogs returned without their prey, and no one
knew for sure whether the beast had escaped or had been caught; no one
could guess whether it had fallen into the clutches of Bobtail, or of
Falcon, or of both at once. The two sides held different opinions, and the
settlement of the quarrel was postponed to the future.
The old Seneschal passed from room to room, glancing absentmindedly about
him; he mixed neither in the talk of the hunters nor in that of the old
men, and evidently had something else on his mind. He carried a leather
flapper; sometimes he would stop, meditate long, and—kill a fly on the
wall.
Thaddeus and Telimena, standing on the threshold in the doorway between
the rooms, were talking together; no great distance divided them from
hearers, so they whispered. Thaddeus now learned that Aunt Telimena was a
rich lady, that they were not so near of kin as to be separated by the
canons of the Church; that it was not even certain that Aunt Telimena was
any blood relation of her nephew, although his uncle called her sister,
because their common kindred had once so styled them despite the
difference of their years; that later, during her long residence in the
capital, she had rendered inestimable services to the Judge; for which
reason the Judge greatly respected her, and in society liked, perhaps as a
mere whim, to call himself her brother, which Telimena, for friendship’s
sake, did not forbid him. These confessions lightened the heart of
Thaddeus. They also informed each other of other things; and all this
happened in one short, brief moment.
But in the room to the right, tempting the Assessor, the Notary casually
remarked:—
“I said yesterday that our hunting party could not succeed; it is still
too early, the grain is still in the ear, and there are many strips of
unreaped spring corn, belonging to the peasants. For this reason the Count
did not come, despite our invitation. The Count has an excellent knowledge
of the chase; he has often discoursed of the proper time and places for
hunting. The Count from childhood up has dwelt in foreign parts, and he
says that it is a mark of barbarism to hunt, as we do, with no regard to
laws, ordinances, and government regulations; to ride over another man’s
estate without the knowledge of the owner, without respecting any man’s
landmarks or boundaries; to course the fields and woods in spring as well
as in summer; sometimes to kill a fox just when it is moulting, or to
allow the hounds to run down a pregnant hare in the winter corn, or rather
to torture it, with great damage to the game. Hence the Count admits with
regret that civilisation is on a higher plane among the Muscovites, for
there they have ukases of the Tsar on hunting, and police supervision, and
punishment for offenders.”
“As I love my mother,” said Telimena, turning to the left-hand room and
fanning her shoulders with a small batiste handkerchief; “the Count is not
mistaken; I know Russia well. You people would not believe me when I used
to tell you in how many respects the watchfulness and strictness of that
government are worthy of praise, I have been in St. Petersburg more than
once or twice! Tender memories I charming images of the past! What a city!
Have none of you been in St. Petersburg? Perhaps you would like to see a
map of it; I have a map of the city in my desk. In summer St. Petersburg
society usually lives in dachas, that is, in rural palaces (dacha
means cottage). I lived in a little palace, just above the river Neva, not
too near the city, and not too far from it, on a small artificial hill.
Ah, what a cottage that was! I still have the plan in my desk. Now to my
misfortune a certain petty official, who was serving on an inquest, hired
a house near by. He kept several hounds; what torture, when a petty
official and a kennel live close by! Whenever I went out into the garden
with a book to enjoy the light of the moon and the coolness of the
evening, immediately a dog would rush up and wag its tail and prick up its
ears as if it were mad. I was often terrified. My heart foreboded some
misfortune from those dogs, and so it came to pass: for when I went into
the garden on a certain morning, a hound throttled at my feet my beloved
little King Charles spaniel! Ah, he was a lovely little dog; Prince
Sukin44 gave him to me as a present to remember him by—clever, and lively
as a squirrel; I have his portrait, only I don’t want to go to my desk
now. Seeing it strangled, owing to my great distress I had a fainting
spell, spasms, palpitation of the heart; perhaps my health might have
suffered even more severely. Luckily, just then there rode up on a visit
Kirilo Gavrilich Kozodusin,45 the Master of the Hunt of the Court, who
inquired the cause of so serious an attack. He had the police sergeant
pulled in by the ears; the man stood there pale, trembling, and scarcely
alive. ‘How dare you,’ shouted Kirilo with a voice of thunder, ‘course in
spring a pregnant doe, here under the nose of the Tsar?’ The amazed
sergeant in vain swore that he had not yet begun his hunting, and that
with the august permission of the Master of the Hunt, the beast coursed
seemed to him to be a dog and not a doe. ‘What!’ shouted Kirilo, ‘do you
dare, you scoundrel, to say that you have more knowledge of hunting and
the varieties of beasts than I, Kozodusin, the Tsar’s Jagermeister? The
Chief of Police shall at once pass judgment between us,’ They summoned the
Chief of Police and told him to take down the evidence. ‘I,’ said
Kozodusin, ‘hereby testify that this is a doe; he impudently alleges that
it is a domestic dog. Judge between us, which of us better understands
beasts and hunting.’ The Chief of Police understood the duties of his
office, and was greatly amazed at the insolence of the sergeant; taking
him aside he gave him brotherly advice to plead guilty and thereby atone
for his offence. The Master of the Hunt was mollified and promised that he
would intercede with the Emperor and somewhat mitigate the sentence. The
matter ended by the dogs being sent to be strangled, and the sergeant to
prison for four weeks. This trifle amused us the whole evening; the next
day the story spread abroad that the Master of the Hunt had taken up the
case of my little dog, and I even know for a fact that the Emperor himself
laughed over it.”
Laughter arose in both rooms. The Judge and the Bernardine were playing at
marriage; spades were trumps, and the Judge was just about to make an
important play. The Monk could hardly breathe for excitement, when the
Judge caught the beginning of the story, and was so interested in it that
with head thrown back and card uplifted, ready to take the trick, he sat
quiet and only alarmed the Bernardine, until, when the story was ended, he
played his knave, and said with a laugh:—
“Let whoever will praise the civilisation of the Germans, or the strict
discipline of the Muscovites; let the men of Great Poland46 learn from the
Suabians to go to law over a fox, and summon constables to arrest a hound
that has ventured into another man’s grove; in Lithuania, thank the Lord,
we keep up the old ways: we have enough game for ourselves and for our
neighbours, and shall never complain to the police about it; and we have
enough grain, so that the dogs will not famish us by running through the
spring wheat or the rye; on the peasants’ fields alone do I forbid
hunting.”
“It is no wonder, sir,” called the Steward from the room at the left,
“since you pay dear for such game. The peasants are glad of the chance;
when a dog runs into their wheat, if he shakes out ten ears, then you
repay three score and are not content even with that; often the boors get
a thaler into the bargain. Believe me, sir, that the peasants will grow
very insolent, if——”
The rest of the Steward’s argument the Judge could not hear, for between
the two discourses there had begun a dozen conversations, jests, stories,
and even disputes.
Thaddeus and Telimena had been forgotten by all the rest of the company,
and were absorbed in each other.—The lady was glad that her wit had amused
Thaddeus so greatly; in return, the young man showered compliments on her.
Telimena spoke more and more slowly and softly, and Thaddeus pretended
that he could not hear her in the buzz of voices; so, whispering, he drew
so near her that he felt on his face the pleasant warmth of her brow;
holding his breath, he caught her sighs with his lips, and with his eye he
followed every sparkle of her glance.
Then between them there suddenly darted first a fly and after it the
Seneschal’s flapper.
In Lithuania there are swarms of flies. Among them there is a special
variety, called “gentry flies”; in colour and form they are quite like
others, but they have a broader breast, a larger belly than the common
sort; as they fly they hum loudly and buzz beyond all endurance, and they
are so strong that they will break right through a spider’s web; or if one
is caught, it will buzz there for three days, for it can contend with the
spider in single combat. All this the Seneschal had carefully observed,
and he argued further that these gentry flies produce the smaller folk,
corresponding among flies to the queen bee in a swarm, and that with their
destruction the remnant of those insects would perish. To be sure, neither
the housekeeper nor the parish priest had ever believed these deductions
of the Seneschal, but held quite different views as to the nature of
flies; the Seneschal, however, did not waver from his ancient habit;
whenever he caught sight of such a fly he immediately pursued it. Just at
that moment a “gentleman” trumpeted above his ear; twice the Seneschal
swung at it, and to his amazement missed; a third time he swung at it, and
almost knocked out a window. At last the fly, bewildered by such an
uproar, seeing on the threshold two people that barred his retreat, threw
itself in desperation between their faces. Even there the right hand of
the Seneschal darted in pursuit of it; the blow was so violent that the
two heads sprang apart like the two halves of a tree torn asunder by a
thunderbolt; both bumped against the doorposts so violently that they got
black and blue spots.
Luckily no one noticed this, for the conversation, which hitherto had been
lively and animated, but fairly orderly, ended in a sudden clamorous
outburst. As, when foxhunters are entering a wood, one hears from time to
time the crackling of trees, scattered shots, and the baying of the pack;
but then the master of the hounds unexpectedly starts the game; he gives
the signal, and a hubbub arises in the throng of huntsmen and dogs, as if
every tree of the thicket had found a voice: such is the case with
conversation—it moves on slowly, until it happens on a weighty topic, as
dogs on the game. The game of the hunters’ talk was that furious dispute
of the Notary and the Assessor over their famous hounds. It lasted only a
short time, but they accomplished much in a single instant, for in one
breath they hurled so many words and insults that they exhausted the usual
three-fourths of a dispute—taunts, anger, and challenge—and were already
getting ready to use their fists.
So all rushed towards them from the other room, and, pouring through the
doorway like a swift wave, carried away the young couple who were standing
on the threshold like Janus, the two-headed god.
Before Thaddeus and Telimena could smooth the hair on their heads, the
threatening shouts had died away; a murmur mixed with laughter was
spreading through the throng, a truce had come to the brawl; the Monk had
appeased it—an old man, but strong and with very broad shoulders. Just as
the Assessor had run up to the Jurist, and when the combatants were
already making threatening gestures at each other, he suddenly seized them
both by the collar from behind, and twice knocking their two heads
violently together like Easter eggs, he spread out his arms like a
signpost, and tossed them at the same moment into opposite corners of the
room; for a moment he stood still with outstretched arms, and cried,
“Pax, pax, pax vobiscum; peace be with you!”
Both factions were amazed and even began to laugh. Because of the respect
due to a cleric they did not dare to revile the Monk, and after such a
test no one had any desire to start a quarrel with him. And Father Robak
soon calmed the assembly; it was evident that he had not sought any
triumph; he did not further threaten the two brawlers or scold them; he
only adjusted his cowl, and, tucking his hands into his belt, quietly left
the room.
Meanwhile the Chamberlain and the Judge had taken a stand between the two
factions. The Seneschal, as if aroused from deep thought, stepped into
their midst and ran his fiery eye over the assembly; wherever he still
heard a murmur, there he waved soothingly his leather flapper, as a priest
his sprinkler; finally, raising impressively the handle of it on high,
like a marshal’s staff, he imposed silence.
“Hold your peace!” he repeated, “and bear in mind, you who are the
foremost hunters in the district, what will come of a scandalous brawl.
Are you aware? These young men, in whom is the hope of our country, who
are to bring fame to our groves and forests, who, alas! even now neglect
the chase, may receive thereby a new impulse to despise it, if they see
that those who should give examples to others, bring back from the chase
only wrangling and quarrels. Have also due regard for my grey hairs, for I
have known greater sportsmen than you, and I have often judged between
them as an arbitrator. In the Lithuanian forests who has been equal to
Rejtan, either in stationing a line of beaters, or in himself encountering
the beast? Who can compare himself with Jerzy Bialopiotrowicz? Where is
there such a marksman to-day as Zegota, who with a pistol shot could hit a
rabbit on the run? I knew Terajewicz, who, when he went out for wild
boars, took no other arms than a pike, and Budrewicz, who used to fight
singly against a bear! Such men did our forests once behold! If it came to
a dispute, how did they settle the dispute. Why, they chose judges and set
up stakes. Oginski lost three thousand acres of woodland over a wolf, and
a badger cost Niesiolowski several villages! Now do you gentlemen follow
the example of your elders, and settle your dispute in this way, even
though you may set up a smaller stake. Words are wind; to wordy disputes
there is no end; it is a shame to tire our ears longer with a brawl over a
rabbit: so do you first choose arbitrators; and, whatever their verdict
may be, conscientiously abide by it. I will beg the Judge not to forbid
the master of the hounds to lead the chase even across the wheat, and I
hope that I shall obtain this favour from my lord.”
So saying, he embraced the knees of the Judge.
“A horse!” shouted the Notary, “I will stake a horse with his caparison;
and I will further covenant before the local court, that I deposit this
ring as a reward for our arbitrator, the Judge.”
“I,” said the Assessor, “will stake my golden dog-collars, covered with
lizard-skin, with rings of gold, and my leash of woven silk, the
workmanship of which is as marvellous as the jewel that glitters upon it.
That outfit I wished to leave as an inheritance to my children, if I
should marry; that outfit was given me by Prince Dominik Radziwill,47 when
once I hunted with him and with Prince Marshal Sanguszko and General
Mejen,48 and when I challenged them all to course their hounds with me.
There—something unexampled in the history of the chase—I captured six
hares with a single bitch. We were then hunting on the meadow of Kupisko;
Prince Radziwill could not keep his seat upon his horse, but, dismounting,
embraced my famous hound Kania,49 and thrice kissed her on the head. And
then, thrice patting her on the muzzle, he said, ‘I dub thee hence-forward
Princess of Kupisko.’ Thus does Napoleon give principalities to his
generals, from the places at which they have gained great victories.”
Telimena, wearied with the prolonged wrangling, wanted to go out into the
fresh air, but sought a partner. She took a little basket from the peg.
“Gentlemen, I see that you wish to remain within doors,” she said,
wrapping around her head a red cashmere shawl, “but I am going for
mushrooms: follow me who will!” Under one arm she took the little daughter
of the Chamberlain, with the other she raised her skirt up to her ankles.
Thaddeus silently hastened after her—to seek mushrooms!
The plan of a walking party was very welcome to the Judge, who saw in it a
means of settling a noisy dispute; so he called out:—
“Gentlemen, to the woods for mushrooms! The one who brings the finest to
the table I will seat beside the prettiest girl; I will pick her out
myself. If a lady finds it, she shall choose for herself the handsomest
young man.”