Fire in the Steppe Page 2

  He found troubled times at home: the army was forming a confederacy; in the Ukraine uprisings continued; at the eastern boundary the conflagration had not ceased. New forces were assembled to defend the frontiers even in some fashion. Before Pan Michael had reached Warsaw, he received a commission issued by the voevoda of Rus. Thinking that the country should be preferred at all times to private affairs, he relinquished his plan of immediate marriage and moved to the Ukraine. He campaigned in those regions some years, living in battles, in unspeakable hardships and labor, having barely a chance on occasions to send letters to the expectant lady.

  Next he was envoy to the Crimea; then came the unfortunate civil war with Pan Lyubomirski, in which Volodyovski fought on the side of the king against that traitor and infamous man; then he went to the Ukraine a second time under Sobieski.

  From these achievements the glory of his name increased in such manner that he was considered on all sides as the first soldier of the Commonwealth, but the years were passing for him in anxiety, sighs, and yearning. At last 1668 came, when he was sent at command of the castellan to rest; at the beginning of the year he went for the cherished lady, and taking her from Vodokty, they set out for Cracow.

  They were journeying to Cracow, because Princess Griselda, who had returned from the dominions of the emperor, invited Pan Michael to have the marriage at that place, and offered herself to be mother to the bride.

  The Kmitas remained at home, not thinking to receive early news from Pan Michael, and altogether intent on a new guest that was coming to Vodokty. Providence had till that time withheld from them children; now a change was impending, happy and in accordance with their wishes.

  That year was surpassingly fruitful. Grain had given such a bountiful yield that the barns could not hold it, and the whole land, in the length and the breadth of it, was covered with stacks. In neighborhoods ravaged by war the young pine groves had grown in one spring more than in two years at other times. There was abundance of game and of mushrooms in the forests, as if the unusual fruitfulness of the earth had been extended to all things that lived on it. Hence the friends of Pan Michael drew happy omens for his marriage also, but the fates ordained otherwise.

  CHAPTER II.

  On a certain beautiful day of autumn Pan Andrei Kmita was sitting under the shady roof of a summer-house and drinking his after-dinner mead; he gazed at his wife from time to time through the lattice, which was grown over with wild hops. Pani Kmita was walking on a neatly swept path in front of the summer-house. The lady was unusually stately; bright-haired, with a face serene, almost angelic. She walked slowly and carefully, for there was in her a fulness of dignity and blessing.

  Pan Andrei gazed at her with intense love. When she moved, his look turned after her with such attachment as a dog shows his master with his eyes. At moments he smiled, for he was greatly rejoiced at sight of her, and he twirled his mustache upward. At such moments there appeared on his face a certain expression of glad frolicsomeness. It was clear that the soldier was fun-loving by nature, and in years of single life had played many a prank.

  Silence in the garden was broken only by the sound of over-ripe fruit dropping to the earth and the buzzing of insects. The weather had settled marvellously. It was the beginning of September. The sun burned no longer with excessive violence, but cast yet abundant golden rays. In these rays ruddy apples were shining among the gray leaves and hung in such numbers that they hid the branches. The limbs of plum-trees were bending under plums with bluish wax on them.

  The first movement of air was shown by the spider-threads fastened to the trees; these swayed with a breeze so slight that it did not stir even the leaves.

  Perhaps it was that calm in the world which had so filled Pan Kmita with joyfulness, for his face grew more radiant each moment. At last he took a draught of mead and said to his wife,—

  "Olenka, but come here! I will tell you something."

  "It may be something that I should not like to hear."

  "As God is dear to me, it is not. Give me your ear."

  Saying this, he seized her by the waist, pressed his mustaches to her bright hair, and whispered, "If a boy, let him be Michael."

  She turned away with face somewhat flushed, and whispered, "But you promised not to object to Heraclius."

  "Do you not see that it is to honor Volodyovski?"

  "But should not the first remembrance be given to my grandfather?"

  "And my benefactor— H'm! true—but the next will be Michael. It cannot be otherwise."

  Here Olenka, standing up, tried to free herself from the arms of Pan Andrei; but he, gathering her in with still greater force, began to kiss her on the lips and the eyes, repeating at the same time,—

  "O thou my hundreds, my thousands, my dearest love!"

  Further conversation was interrupted by a lad who appeared at the end of the walk and ran quickly toward the summer-house.

  "What is wanted?" asked Kmita, freeing his wife.

  "Pan Kharlamp has come, and is waiting in the parlor," said the boy.

  "And there he is himself!" exclaimed Kmita, at sight of a man approaching the summer-house. "For God's sake, how gray his mustache is! Greetings to you, dear comrade! greetings, old friend!"

  With these words he rushed from the summer-house, and hurried with open arms toward Pan Kharlamp. But first Pan Kharlamp bowed low to Olenka, whom he had seen in old times at the court of Kyedani; then he pressed her hand to his enormous mustache, and casting himself into the embraces of Kmita, sobbed on his shoulder.

  "For God's sake, what is the matter?" cried the astonished host.

  "God has given happiness to one and taken it from another," said Kharlamp. "But the reasons of my sorrow I can tell only to you."

  Here he looked at Olenka; she, seeing that he was unwilling to speak in her presence, said to her husband, "I will send mead to you, gentlemen, and now I leave you."

  Kmita took Pan Kharlamp to the summer-house, and seating him on a bench, asked, "What is the matter? Are you in need of assistance? Count on me as on Zavisha!"[3]

  "Nothing is the matter with me," said the old soldier, "and I need no assistance while I can move this hand and this sabre; but our friend, the most worthy cavalier in the Commonwealth, is in cruel suffering. I know not whether he is breathing yet."

  "By Christ's wounds! Has anything happened to Volodyovski?"

  "Yes," said Kharlamp, giving way to a new outburst of tears. "Know that Panna Anna Borzobogati has left this vale—"

  "Is dead!" cried Kmita, seizing his head with both hands.

  "As a bird pierced by a shaft."

  A moment of silence followed,—no sound but that of apples dropping here and there to the ground heavily, and of Pan Kharlamp panting more loudly while restraining his weeping. But Kmita was wringing his hands, and repeated, nodding his head,—

  "Dear God! dear God! dear God!"

  "Your grace will not wonder at my tears," said Kharlamp, at last; "for if your heart is pressed by unendurable pain at the mere tidings of what happened, what must it be to me, who was witness of her death and her pain, of her suffering, which surpassed every natural measure?"

  Here the servant appeared, bringing a tray with a decanter and a second glass on it; after him came Kmita's wife, who could not repress her curiosity. Looking at her husband's face and seeing in it deep suffering, she said straightway,—

  "What tidings have you brought? Do not dismiss me. I will comfort you as far as possible, or I will weep with you, or will help you with counsel."

  "Help for this will not be found in your head," said Pan Andrei; "and I fear that your health will suffer from sorrow."

  "I can endure much. It is more grievous to live in uncertainty."

  "Anusia is dead," said Kmita.

  Olenka grew somewhat pale, and dropped on the bench heavily. Kmita thought that she would faint; but grief acted more quickly than the sudden announcement, and she began to weep. Both knights accompanied her immediatel
y.

  "Olenka," said Kmita, at last, wishing to turn his wife's thoughts in another direction, "do you not think that she is in heaven?"

  "Not for her do I weep, but over the loss of her, and over the loneliness of Pan Michael. As to her eternal happiness, I should wish to have such hope for my own salvation as I have for hers. There was not a worthier maiden, or one of better heart, or more honest. O my Anulka![4] my Anulka, beloved!"

  "I saw her death," said Kharlamp; "may God grant us all to die with such piety!"

  Here silence followed, as if some of their sorrow had gone with their tears; then Kmita said, "Tell us how it was, and take some mead to support you."

  "Thank you," said Kharlamp; "I will drink from time to time if you will drink with me; for pain seizes not only the heart, but the throat, like a wolf, and when it seizes a man it might choke him unless he received some assistance. I was going from Chenstohova to my native place to settle there quietly in my old age. I have had war enough; as a stripling I began to practise, and now my mustache is gray. If I cannot stay at home altogether, I will go out under some banner; but these military confederations to the loss of the country and the profit of the enemy, and these civil wars, have disgusted me thoroughly with arms. Dear God! the pelican nourishes its children with its blood, it is true; but this country has no longer even blood in its breast. Sviderski[5] was a great soldier. May God judge him!"

  "My dearest Anulka!" interrupted Pani Kmita, with weeping, "without thee what would have happened to me and to all of us? Thou wert a refuge and a defence to me! O my beloved Anulka!"

  Hearing this, Kharlamp sobbed anew, but briefly, for Kmita interrupted him with a question, "But where did you meet Pan Michael?"

  "In Chenstohova, where he and she intended to rest, for they were visiting the shrine there after the journey. He told me at once how he was going from your place to Cracow, to Princess Griselda, without whose permission and blessing Anusia was unwilling to marry. The maiden was in good health at that time, and Pan Michael was as joyful as a bird. 'See,' said he, 'the Lord God has given me a reward for my labor!' He boasted also not a little,—God comfort him!—and joked with me because I, as you know, quarrelled with him on a time concerning the lady, and we were to fight a duel. Where is she now, poor woman?"

  Here Kharlamp broke out again, but briefly, for Kmita stopped him a second time: "You say that she was well? How came the attack, then, so suddenly?"

  "That it was sudden, is true. She was lodging with Pani Martsin Zamoyski, who, with her husband, was spending some time in Chenstohova. Pan Michael used to sit all the day with her; he complained of delay somewhat, and said they might be a whole year on the journey to Cracow, for every one on the way would detain him. And this is no wonder! Every man is glad to entertain such a soldier as Pan Michael, and whoever could catch him would keep him. He took me to the lady too, and threatened smilingly that he would cut me to pieces if I made love to her; but he was the whole world to her. At times, too, my heart sank, for my own sake, because a man in old age is like a nail in a wall. Never mind! But one night Pan Michael rushed in to me in dreadful distress: 'In God's name, can you find a doctor?' 'What has happened?' 'The sick woman knows no one!' 'When did she fall ill?' asked I. 'Pani Zamoyski has just given me word,' replied he. 'It is night now. Where can I look for a doctor, when there is nothing here but a cloister, and in the town more ruins than people?' I found a surgeon at last, and he was even unwilling to go; I had to drive him with weapons. But a priest was more needed then than a surgeon; we found at her bedside, in fact, a worthy Paulist, who, through prayer, had restored her to consciousness. She was able to receive the sacrament, and take an affecting farewell of Pan Michael. At noon of the following day it was all over with her. The surgeon said that some one must have given her something, though that is impossible, for witchcraft has no power in Chenstohova. But what happened to Pan Michael, what he said,—my hope is that the Lord Jesus will not account this to him, for a man does not reckon with words when pain is tearing him. You see," Pan Kharlamp lowered his voice, "he blasphemed in his forgetfulness."

  "For God's sake, did he blaspheme?" inquired Kmita, in a whisper.

  "He rushed out from her corpse to the ante-chamber, from the ante-chamber to the yard, and reeled about like a drunken man. He raised his hands then, and began to cry with a dreadful voice: 'Such is the reward for my wounds, for my toils, for my blood, for my love of country! I had one lamb,' said he, 'and that one, O Lord, Thou didst take from me. To hurl down an armed man,' said he, 'who walks the earth in pride, is a deed for God's hand; but a cat, a hawk, or a kite can kill a harmless dove, and—'"

  "By the wounds of God!" exclaimed Pani Kmita, "say no more, or you will draw misfortune on this house."

  Kharlamp made the sign of the cross and continued, "The poor soldier thought that he had done service, and still this was his reward. Ah, God knows better what He does, though that is not to be understood by man's reason, nor measured by human justice. Straightway after this blasphemy he grew rigid and fell on the ground; and the priest read an exorcism over him, so that foul spirits should not enter him, as they might, enticed by his blasphemy."

  "Did he come to himself quickly?"

  "He lay as if dead about an hour; then he recovered and went to his room; he would see no one. At the time of the burial I said to him, 'Pan Michael, have God in your heart.' He made me no answer. I stayed three days more in Chenstohova, for I was loath to leave him; but I knocked in vain at his door. He did not want me. I struggled with my thoughts: what was I to do,—try longer at the door, or go away? How was I to leave a man without comfort? But finding that I could do nothing, I resolved to go to Pan Yan Skshetuski. He is his best friend, and Pan Zagloba is his friend also; maybe they will touch his heart somehow, and especially Pan Zagloba, who is quick-witted, and knows how to talk over any man."

  "Did you go to Pan Yan?"

  "I did, but God gave no luck, for he and Zagloba had gone to Kalish to Pan Stanislav. No one could tell when they would return. Then I thought to myself, 'As my road is toward Jmud, I will go to Pan Kmita and tell what has happened.'"

  "I knew from of old that you were a worthy cavalier," said Kmita.

  "It is not a question of me in this case, but of Pan Michael," said Kharlamp; "and I confess that I fear for him greatly lest his mind be disturbed."

  "God preserve him from that!" said Pani Kmita.

  "If God preserves him, he will certainly take the habit, for I tell you that such sorrow I have never seen in my life. And it is a pity to lose such a soldier as he,—it is a pity!"

  "How a pity? The glory of God will increase thereby," said Pani Kmita.

  Kharlamp's mustache began to quiver, and he rubbed his forehead.

  "Well, gracious benefactress, either it will increase or it will not increase. Consider how many Pagans and heretics he has destroyed in his life, by which he has surely delighted our Saviour and His Mother more than any one priest could with sermons. H'm! it is a thing worthy of thought! Let every one serve the glory of God as he knows best. Among the Jesuits legions of men may be found wiser than Pan Michael, but another such sabre as his there is not in the Commonwealth."

  "True, as God is dear to me!" cried Kmita. "Do you know whether he stayed in Chenstohova?"

  "He was there when I left; what he did later, I know not. I know only this: God preserve him from losing his mind, God preserve him from sickness, which frequently comes with despair,—he will be alone, without aid, without a relative, without a friend, without consolation."

  "May the Most Holy Lady in that place of miracles save thee, faithful friend, who hast done so much for me that a brother could not have done more!"

  Pani Kmita fell into deep thought, and silence continued long; at last she raised her bright head, and said, "Yendrek, do you remember how much we owe him?"

  "If I forget, I will borrow eyes from a dog, for I shall not dare to look an honest man in the face with my own eyes."

&nbs
p; "Yendrek, you cannot leave him in that state."

  "How can I help him?"

  "Go to him."

  "There speaks a woman's honest heart; there is a noble woman," cried Kharlamp, seizing her hands and covering them with kisses.

  But the advice was not to Kmita's taste; hence he began to twist his head, and said, "I would go to the ends of the earth for him, but—you yourself know—if you were well—I do not say—but you know. God preserve you from any accident! I should wither away from anxiety— A wife is above the best friend. I am sorry for Pan Michael but—you yourself know—"

  "I will remain under the protection of the Lauda fathers. It is peaceful here now, and I shall not be afraid of any small thing. Without God's will a hair will not fall from my head; and Pan Michael needs rescue, perhaps."

  "Oi, he needs it!" put in Kharlamp.

  "Yendrek, I am in good health. Harm will come to me from no one; I know that you are unwilling to go—"

  "I would rather go against cannon with an oven-stick!" interrupted Kmita.

  "If you stay, do you think it will not be bitter for you here when you think, 'I have abandoned my friend'? and besides, the Lord God may easily take away His blessing in His just wrath."

  "You beat a knot into my head. You say that He may take away His blessing? I fear that."

  "It is a sacred duty to save such a friend as Pan Michael."

  "I love Michael with my whole heart. The case is a hard one! If there is need, there is urgent need, for every hour in this matter is important. I will go at once to the stables. By the living God, is there no other way out of it? The Evil One inspired Pan Yan and Zagloba to go to Kalish. It is not a question with me of myself, but of you, dearest. I would rather lose all I have than be without you one day. Should any one say that I go from you not on public service, I would plant my sword-hilt in his mouth to the cross. Duty, you say? Let it be so. He is a fool who hesitates. If this were for any one else but Michael, I never should do it."