King Stakh's Wild Hunt

Chapter The Fourth

The inhabitants of the Giant's Gap were, evidently, not very fond of attending large balls, because it is a rare occurrence in. such a corner for someone to inherit a large estate on coming of age. Nevertheless, within two days no less than forty persons arrived at Marsh Firs. I, too, was invited, although I agreed with great reluctance. I did not like the provincial gentry, and in addition, had done almost no work these days. I had made almost no new notes, and most important of all, had not advanced in unravelling the secret of this devilish den. In an old 17th century plan there weren't any air-vents for listening, while steps and moaning sounded with an enviable regularity each night.

I wracked my brains over all this devilry, but could not think of anything.

So thus, for the first time, perhaps, in the last twenty years, the castle was meeting guests. The lampions above the entrance were lit, the covers on the chandeliers were removed, the watchman became the doorman for the occasion, three servants were taken from the surrounding farmsteads. The castle reminded one of an old Grannie who had decided to attend a ball for the last time, and got herself all dressed up to recall her youth and then to lie down in her grave.

I do not know whether this gathering of the gentry is worth describing. You will find a good and quite a correct description of something like it in the poetic works of Phelka from Rukshanitzy, an unreasonably forgotten poet. My God, what carriages there were! Their leather warped by age, springs altogether lacking, wheels two metres high, but by all means at the back a footman (footmen's hands were black from the earth they worked on). And their horses! Rocinant beside them would have seemed Bucephalo. Their lower lips hanging down like a pan, their teeth eaten away. The harnesses almost entirely of ropes, but to make up for that here and there shone golden plates with numbers on them, plates that had been passed on from harnesses of the “Golden Age”.

“Goodness gracious! What is going on in this world? Long ago one gentleman rode on six horses, while now six gentlemen on one horse.” The entire process of the ruin of the gentry was put into a nut-shell in this mocking popular saying.

Behind my back Bierman-Hacevič was making polite but caustic remarks about the arriving guests.

“Just look, what a fury (in the Belarusian of the 16th century a jade was called a fury). Most likely one of the Sas' rode on her: a merited fighting horse… And this little Miss, you see how dressed up she is: as if for St. Anthony's holiday. And here, look at them, the gypsies.”

It was really an unusual company that he called “gypsies”. A most ordinary cart had rolled up to the entrance, in it there sat the strangest company I had ever seen. There were both ladies and gentlemen there, about ten of them, dressed gaudily and poorly. They were seated in the cart crowded like gypsies. And curtains were stretched on four sticks as on gypsy carts. Only the dogs running under the cart were lacking. This was the poor Hryckievič family roaming from one ball to another, feeding themselves mainly in this way. They were distant relatives of the Janoŭskis. And these were the descendants of the “crimson lord”! My God, what you punish people for!

Then there arrived some middle-aged lady in a very rich antique rather shabby velvet dress, accompanied by a young man as thin as a whip, clearly fawning upon her. This “whip” of a fellow gently pressed her elbow.

The perfume the lady used was so bad that Bierman began to sneeze as soon as she entered the hall. And it seemed to me that, together with her, someone had brought into the room a large sack of hoopoes and left it there for the people to enjoy. The lady spoke with a real French accent, an accent, as is known, that has remained in the world in two places only: in the Paris salons and in the backwaters of Kabylany near Vorša.

And the other guests were also very curious people. Faces either wrinkled or too smooth, eyes full of pleading, worried, devouring eyes, eyes with a touch of madness. One dandy had extremely large, bulging eyes like those of the salamanders in subterranean lakes. From behind the door I watched the ceremony of introductions. (Some of these close neighbours had never seen one another, and probably never would again in the future.)

Sounds reached me badly, for in the hall the orchestra was already piping away, an orchestra that consisted of eight invalids of the Battle of Poltava. I saw oily faces that gallantly smiled, saw lips that reached the mistress' hand. When they bent down, the light fell on them from the top, and their noses seemed surprisingly long while their mouths seemed to have vanished. They shuffled their feet without making a sound and bowed, spoke noiselessly, then smiled and floated off, and new ones came floating over to take their place. This was like an awful dream.

They grinned and it was as if they were apparitions from the graves, they kissed her hand (it seemed to me that they were sucking the blood out of her) and noiselessly floated on. She was so pure in her low-necked dress, but her back reddened when some newly-arriven Don Juan in close-fitting trousers showed too great an ardour as he pressed her hand. These kisses, it seemed to me, smeared her hand with something sticky and filthy.

And only now did I realize how solitary she was, not only in her own house, but also in the midst of this crowd.

“What does this remind me of?” I thought. “Aha, Pushkin's Tatyana among the monsters in the hut. Closed round her, poor girl, as round a doe during a hunt.”

Almost no pure looks to be seen here, but to make up for it what names! It seemed as if I were sitting in an archive and was reading ancient documents of some Court of Acts and Pleas.

“Mr. Sava Matfiejevič Stachoŭski and sons,” the lackey announced.

“Mrs. Ahata Jurjeŭna Falendyš-Chobaleva with her husband and friends.”

“Mr. Jakub Barbare-Haraburda.”

“Mr. Maciej Mustafavič Asanovič.”

“Mrs. Hanna Aŭramovič-Basiackaja and daughter.”

And Bierman, standing behind me, was passing remarks.

For the first time in these days I liked him, so much malice was there in his utterances, with what blazing eyes he met each newly arrived guest, and especially the young ones.

But then there was a flash in his eyes that I couldn't understand. I involuntarily looked in that direction, and my eyes nearly popped out of my head, such a strange sight did I see. Down the steps into the hall a person came rolling, that's right, “rolling”, no other word for it. The man was over two metres in height, approximately like myself, but three Andrej Biełareckis would have fitted into his clothes. A tremendous abdomen, the lower legs like the thighs, as if they were hams, an incredibly broad chest, palms like tubs. Few such giants had ever come my way. Though this was not the most surprising thing. The clothes he was wearing can be seen today only in a museum: red, high-heeled horseshoed boots (our ancestors called them “kabci”), tight-fitting trousers made of a thin cloth. The caftan made of cherrycoloured gold cloth ready to split on his chest and abdomen! This giant had pulled over it a “chuga”, an ancient Belarusian coat. The chuga hung loosely in pretty folds and the designs in it were green, gold and black, and a bright Turkish shawl was tied around it almost up to the man's arm-pits.

And on top of all this sat a surprisingly small head for such a body. His cheeks were puffed as if the man was about to burst out laughing. His long grey hair gave a roundness to his head, his grey eyes were very small, and his long dark whiskers — they had very few grey hairs in them, — reached down to his chest. The appearance of this man was a most peaceful one, but from his left hand hung a “karbač” — a thick, short lash with a silver wire at its end.

In a word, a provincial bear, a merry fellow and a drunkard — this was immediately apparent.

While yet at the door he began to laugh, in such a robust, merry bass voice, that I involuntarily smiled. He walked, and people stepped aside to make way for him, answering him with smiles, such smiles that could have appeared on the sour faces of these people of caste only because they, evidently, loved him. “At last, at least one representative of the good old century,” I thought. “Not a degenerate, not a madman who could as well commit a crime as a heroic deed. And how rich his Belarusian is and how beautifully he speaks it!”

Don't let this last thought surprise you. Although Belarusian was spoken among the petty gentry at this time, the gentry of that stratum of society that this gentleman apparently belonged to did not know the language: among the guests no more than a dozen spoke the language of Marcinkievič and Karatynski, the language of the rest was a mixture of Polish, Russian and Belarusian.

But out of the mouth of this one, while he was walking from the door to the hall on the upper floor, poured apt little words, jokes, and sayings as out of the mouth of any village match-maker. I must confess that he captured me at first sight. Such a colourful person he was that I did not immediately notice his companion, although he also deserved attention. Imagine for yourself a young man, tall, very well-built, and what was rare in this remote corner, dressed in the latest fashion. He would have been handsome were it not for his excessive paleness, sunken cheeks, and an inexplicable expression of animosity that lay on his compressed lips. In his face it was his large eyes with their watery lustre that deserved the greatest attention. Set in a handsome though bilious face they were so lifeless that it made me shiver. Lazarus, when he was risen from the dead, probably had just such eyes.

In the meantime the giant had come up to an old lackey, a man somewhat blind and deaf, and suddenly jerked him by the shoulder.

The lackey had been napping on his feet, but he immediately pulled himself together, and taking in who the new guests were, smiled broadly and shouted:

“The most honourable gentleman, Hryń Dubatoŭk! Mr. Aleś Varona!”

“A very good evening to you, gentlemen,” Dubatoŭk roared. “Why so sad, like mice under a hat? No matter, we'll make you merry in a jiffy. Varona, what little ladies! I was born too early. Oh! What beauties-cuties!”

He walked through the crowd (Varona had stopped near a young lady), and he approached Nadzieja Janoŭskaja. His eyes narrowed and began to sparkle with laughter.

“A good day to you and good evening, my dear!” And gave her a smacking kiss on her forehead. Then he stepped back. “And how slender, how graceful and beautiful you've become! All Belarus will lie at your feet! And may Lucifer carry tar on my back in the next world, if I, an old sinner, won't be drinking a toast to you from the little slipper in a month from now at your wedding. Only your little eyes are somewhat sad. But no matter, I'll make you merry right away.”

And with the fascinating grace of a bear, he turned round on his heels.

“Anton, you devil! Hryška and Piatruś! Has the cholera got you, or what?”

And there appeared Anton, Hryška and Piatruś, bending under the weight of some enormous bundles.

“Well, you louts and lubbards, place everything at the feet of the mistress. Unroll it! You rascals! Your hands, where do they grow from? Not your back? Take it, daughter!”

On the floor in front of Janoŭskaja lay an enormous fluffy carpet.

“Keep it, my dear. It was your grandfather's, but it hasn't been used at all. You'll put it in your bedroom. The wind comes in there, and the feet of all the Janoŭskis are weak ones. It was a mistake, Nadzeyka, not to have come to live with me two years ago. I begged you to, but you wouldn't argee. Well, be that as it may, too late now, you have grown up. And now things will be easier for me. To the devil with this guardianship.”

“Forgive me, dear uncle,” Janoŭskaja said quietly, touched by her guardian's attention. “You know that I wanted to be where my father…”

“Well — well — well,” Dubatoŭk said, embarrassed. “Let it be. I myself hardly ever came to see you, knowing that you would be upset. We were friends with Raman. But no matter, my dear, we are, of course, worldly people. We suffer from overeating and too much drinking; however, God must look into people's souls. And if he does, then Raman, although he was wont to pass the church by but not the tavern, has already long been listening to the angels in heaven, and is looking into the eyes of his poor wife, my cousin. God — He's nobody's fool. The main thing is one's conscience, whereas that hole in one's mouth that asks for a glass of vodka is a vile thing. And they look at you from heaven and your mother does not regret that she gave life to you at the price of her own: such a queen have you become. And you'll soon be getting married. From the hands of your guardian into the fond and strong hands of a husband. Well, what do you think?”

“I hadn't thought of it before, and, now I don't know,” Janoŭskaja suddenly said.

“Well, well,” becoming serious, said Dubatoŭk. “But… the man should be a good one. Don't be in a hurry. And now another present… It is an old costume of our country, a real one. Not some kind of an imitation. Afterwards go and change your dress before the dances. There's no point in wearing all this modern stuff.”

“It will hardly suit her, and will only spoil her appearance,” put in some young miss of the petty gentry, trying to be flattering.

“And you keep quiet, my dear. I know what I am doing,” growled Dubatoŭk. “Well, Nadzeyka, and the last thing. I thought long and hard about whether to give this to you, but I am not accustomed to having what does not belong to me. This is yours. Among your portraits one is missing. The row of ancestors must not be broken. You know that yourself, because you belong to the most ancient of all the families in the whole province.”

On the floor, freed of the white cloth covering it, stood a very old, unusual portrait, the work, apparently, of an Italian painter, a portrait which you can hardly find in the Belarusian iconography of the 17th century. There was no flat wall in the background, no coat-of-arms hung on it. There was a window opening into the evening marsh, there was a gloomy day overhead, and there was a man sitting with his back to all this. An indefinite greyish blue light shone on his thin face, on the fingers of his hands, on his black and golden clothes.

The face of this man was more alive than that of any living man, and it was so surprisingly dismal and hard that it was frightening. Shadows lay in the eye-sockets and a nerve even seemed to quiver in the eyelids. And there was a family likeness between his face and that of the mistress, but all that was pleasant and nice in Janoŭskaja, was repulsive and terrible here. Treachery, cunning, symptoms of madness, an obdurate imperiousness, an impatient fanaticism, a sadistic cruelty could be read in this face. I stepped aside — the large eyes that seemed to read the very depths of my soul turned and again looked me in the face. Someone sighed.

“Raman the Elder,” Dubatoŭk said in a muffled voice, but it had already occurred to me who it was, so correctly had I imagined him from the words of the legend. I had guessed this was the one who was guilty of the curse, because the face of our mistress had become pale and she swayed back slightly.

I don't know how this deathly-still scene would have ended, but someone silently and disrespectfully pushed me in the chest. Involuntarily I recoiled. It was Varona making his way through the crowd, and in making his way to Janoŭskaja, he had pushed me aside. Calmly he continued walking without begging my pardon, he didn't even turn round, as if an inanimate object were standing in my place.

I was born in a family of ordinary intellectuals, the intelligentsia who from generation to generation had served the Polish gentry, who were themselves learned men, but plebians, from the point of view of this arrogant aristocrat, a man whose forefather was the whipper-in of a wealthy magnate, a murderer. I had often had to defend my dignity against such, and now all my “plebian” pride bristled.

“Sir,” I said loudly. “You can consider it worthy of a true aristocrat to push a person aside without begging his pardon?”

He turned round.

“You are addressing me?”

“You,” I calmly answered. “A true aristocrat is a gentleman.”

He came up to me and began scrutinizing me with curiosity.

“H'm,” he said. “Who is going to teach a gentleman the rules of good behaviour?”

“I don't know,” I answered, just as calmly and as bitingly. “At any rate, not you. An uneducated priest must not teach others Latin — nothing will come of it.”

I saw, over his shoulder, Nadzieja Janoŭskaja's face, and was happy to notice that our quarrel had diverted her attention from the portrait. The blood had returned to her face, but in her eyes there flashed something resembling alarm and fear.

“Choose your expressions carefully,” Varona said in a strained voice.

“Why? And most importantly, for whom? A well-bred man knows that in the company of polite people one should be polite, while in the company of rude fellows, the greatest degree of politeness is to repay in the same coin.”

Varona was apparently unaccustomed to being repulsed. I knew such arrogant turkey-cocks. He was surprised, but then glanced at the hostess, turned towards me again, and a turbid fury flashed in his eyes.

“But do you know with whom you are talking?”

“With whom? Not with God Himself?”

I saw Dubatoŭk appear at the side of the hostess. His face showed that he had become interested. Varona began to boil.

“You are speaking with me, with a man who is in the habit of pulling parvenues by the ear.”

“But hasn't it occurred to you that some parvenues are themselves capable of pulling your ears? And don't come up closer, otherwise, I warn you, not a single gentleman will receive such an insult, as you from me.”

“A caddish fist fight!” he exploded.

“Can't be helped!” I said coldly. “I have met noblemen on whom nothing else had any effect. They weren't cads, their ancestors were long-serving hound-keepers, whippers-in, ladies' men for the widows of magnates.”

I intercepted his hand and held it as with a nipper.

“Well…”

“Damn you!” he hissed.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, calm yourselves,” Janoŭskaja exclaimed, alarmed beyond expression. “Mr. Biełarecki, don't, don't! Mr. Varona, for shame!”

Evidently, Dubatoŭk also understood it was time to interfere. He came up, stood between us, and put a heavy hand on Varona's shoulder. His face was red.

“You pup!” he shouted. “And this is a Belarusian, an aristocrat? To insult a guest in such a way! A disgrace to my grey hair. Don't you see whom you are picking a fight with? He is not one of our chicken-hearted fools. This is not a chick, this is a man. And he will quickly tear off your moustache for you. You are a nobleman, sir?”

“A nobleman.”

“So you see, the gentleman is an aristocrat. If you must have a talk together you can find a common language. This man is an aristocrat and a good one, too; his forefathers and ours may have been friends. Do not compare him to the modern snivellers. Ask your hostess to forgive you. You hear me?”

Varona was as if a changed man. He muttered some words and walked aside with Dubatoŭk. I remained with Janoŭskaja.

“My God, Mr. Andrej, I was so frightened for you. You're too good a person to have anything to do with him.”

I raised my eyes. Dubatoŭk stood nearby and curiously looked at me and then at Miss Janoŭskaja.

“Miss Nadzieja,” I said with a warmth I hadn't myself expected. “I am very grateful to you, you are a kind and sincere person, and your concern for me, your goodwill, I shall long remember. It can't be helped, but my pride — the only thing I have, — I never allow anybody to tread on.”

“So you see,” she lowered her eyes. “You are not at all like them. Many of these highborn people would have given in. Evidently, you are the real gentleman here, while they only pretend to be gentlemen… But remember, I have great fear for you. This man is dangerous, he's a man with a dreadful reputation.”

“I know that,” I answered jokingly. “The local ‘aurochs’…”

“Don't joke about it. He is a well-known brawler among us and a rabid duellist. He has killed seven men in duels. And it is perhaps worse for you that I am standing beside you. You understand me?”

I did not at all like this feminine dwarf with her large sad eyes. Her relations with Varona held no interest for me whatsoever, whether he was a sweetheart or a rejected admirer. However, one good deed deserves another. So sweet was she in her care for me, that I took her hand and carried it to my lips.

“My thanks, mademoiselle.” She did not remove her hand, and her transparent gentle little fingers slightly trembled under my lips. In a word, all this sounds too much like a sentimental and somewhat cheap novel about life in high society.

The orchestra of invalids began to play the waltz “Mignon” and the illusion of “high society” immediately disappeared. In conformity with the orchestra were the clothes, in conformity with the clothes were the dances. Cymbals, pipes, something resembling tambourines, an old whistle, and violins. Among the violinists were a gypsy and a Jew, the latter's violin trying all the time to play something very sad instead of the well-known melodies, but when it fell into a merry vein it played something resembling “Seven on a Violin”. And dances that had long gone out of fashion: “Chaqu'un”, “pas-de-deux”, even the Belarusian mannered parody on “Minuet” — “Labiedzik”. And luckily I could dance all of these, for I liked national dances.

“Miss Nadzieja, may I invite you for the waltz?”

She hesitated a moment, shyly raising her fluffy eyebrows.

“I was taught it some time ago, and have probably forgotten.”

She put her hand, put it somewhat awkwardly, under my shoulder. At first I thought we would be a laughing-stock for everybody in the ball-room, but was soon set at ease. I had never met such a light dancer as this girl. She did not dance, she flew about in the air, and I almost carried her along on the floor. And that was easy to do, since she was as light as a feather. Approximately in the middle of the dance I noticed her face that had been concentrated and uncertain, becoming suddenly simple and very sweet. Her eyes sparkled, her lower lip somewhat protruding.

Then we danced some more. She became surprisingly lively, her cheeks became rosy, and in this intoxication such youth sparkled in her face, that a warmth filled my heart.

“This is me,” her soul seemed to be saying in her eyes, in her big, black and shining eyes, “this is me. You thought me far away, but I am here, here I am. In this one short evening I have shown you myself, and you are surprised. You didn't consider me a living being, found me pale and bloodless, as the sprout of a dahlia in a dungeon, but you have taken me out into the world. I'm so grateful to you, you are so kind. You see live verdure has appeared in my stem, and soon if the sun warms me, I'll show the world my wonderful scarlet flower. But there's one thing that you must not do, you mustn't carry me back into the cellar.”

It was strange to see in her eyes a reflection of the joy that she felt on sensing her own full value. I, too, was carried away by this, and my eyes, probably, began to shine. My surroundings I saw only out of the corner of my eyes.

And suddenly the squirrel whisked back into its hollow, the joy disappeared from the eyes, and the former horror settled behind her eyelashes: Varona was giving orders to lackeys who were hanging the portrait of Raman the Elder above the fireplace.

The music stopped. Dubatoŭk came up to us, red in the face and merry.

“Nadzieja, my beauty. Allow an old fool your little paw.”

He lowered himself heavily on a knee and, laughing, kissed her hand.

In a minute he spoke in an altogether different tone:

“According to the law a guardian must make his report immediately upon his ward's reaching the age of 18.”

He withdrew from his pocket an enormous bulbous enamelled silver watch and, becoming official, declared:

“It is seven o'clock. We are going to make known our report: I shall speak; then, for the second guardian, Mr. Kałateča-Kazłoŭski, — who lives in town and due to illness could not come, — an arrangement has been made that Sava Stachoŭski and Mr. Aleś Varona will speak in his stead. And an independent witness is necessary.” His eyes rested on me searchingly. “You're just the man. You are a young man yet, and will live long yet: you will be able then to bear witness to the fact that everything was carried out here according to the old customs and to the dictates of conscience. Miss Janoŭskaja, please come together with us.”

Our conference did not last long. At first an inventory of the property was read — the real estate and the personal property — that was left, according to the last will and testament of her father. It turned out that it consisted mainly of the castle and the park, the entailed estate, from which not a single thing might vanish and which had to be kept up in such a way as to maintain the greatness of the family and its honour.

“A fine honour!” I thought. “The honour of dying of hunger in a wealthy house.”

Dubatoŭk proved that the real estate property had been well looked after and retained intact.

Next was the question of profits. Dubatoŭk announced that the money invested by Raman Janoŭski — 24,000 roubles — in two banking offices, at 8 % without the right to touch the basic capital, returned from 150 to 170 roubles monthly. This profit, due to the efforts of the guardian, even increased. Moreover, the basic capital had increased by a sum which, if it were so wished, could be added to the dowry of the heiress. All the people there shook their heads. The profits were scanty, especially if the necessity of running the house and keeping it in order were taken into consideration.

“And how are the servants paid?” I asked.

“A part of the inheritance is allotted for that in the will, as they are an inseparable part of the entailed estate.”

“I would ask Mr. Dubatoŭk to explain to me how things stand with the leased land belonging to the Marsh Firs estate,” said Sava Stachoŭski, a small thin man with such sharp knees it seemed they were on the point of cutting through his little trousers. He evidently always exchanged caustic remarks with Dubatoŭk and now asked him this venomous question. Dubatoŭk, however, wasn't taken aback, he pulled out large silver spectacles, a kerchief which he spread out on his knees, then a key and only after that a scrap of paper. His spectacles, however, he did not put on, and began to read:

“Miss Janoŭskaja's great-grandfather had 10,000 dziesiacinas[4] of good arable land, without including the forest. Miss Janoŭskaja, as you probably know, most respected Mr. Stachoŭski, has 50 dziesiacinas of arable land, considerably impoverished. She has also the park which doesn't give any returns, and the virgin forest, which is also effectively an entailed estate, as it is a Forest Reservation. Frankly speaking, this rule could be waived. However, firstly, access for the wood-cutter to the virgin forest is impossible because of the quagmire. And secondly, would it be wise? Nadzieja may have children. What could they do with 50 dziesiacinas of poor land? Then the family will come to a complete downfall. Of course, the young lady is now grown-up, she can decide for herself…”

“I quite agree with you, Uncle,” Janoŭskaja said, blushing and almost in tears. “Let the virgin forest stand. I'm glad that one can get to it only by small paths, and at that only in dry weather. A pity to destroy such a dense forest. Virgin forests are God's gardens.”

“That's right,” continued her guardian, “besides, almost the entire Janoŭski region is but a quagmire, a peat-bog and waste land on which nothing besides heather can grow. No one has ever lived on this land, as long as man can remember. And that means that we take only the 50 dziesiacinas which are rented out for half the crop. The land isn't fertilized, only rye is planted on it, and it gives 330, at the most 40 puds[5] per dziesiacina, which means that a dziesiacina gives an income of 10 roubles a year, and thus, from all the land, 500 roubles annually. And that is all. This money is not withheld, you can believe me, Mr. Stachoŭski.”

I shook my head. The landlady of a large estate had a monthly income of a little over 200 roubles. While an average official received 125 roubles. Janoŭskaja had a place to live in and food to eat, nevertheless it was undisguised need, a need without a ray of hope. I, a learned man and a journalist, the author of four books, received 400 roubles monthly. And I didn't have to put it all into this hole — the castle, to make presents to the servants, to keep the park in relative order. I was Croesus in comparison with her.

I felt sorry for her, this child, on whose shoulders had fallen such an overwhelming load.

“You are rather poor,” Dubatoŭk said sadly. “As a matter of fact, after all the necessary expenses, you have only kopecks left on hand.”

And he glanced in my direction very expressively and meaningfully, but my face, I dare say, expressed nothing. Indeed, how could it concern me in any way?

The papers were handed over to the new owner. Dubatoŭk promised to give his personal orders to Bierman, then he kissed Janoŭskaja on her forehead, and left the room. The rest of us also returned to the dancing-hall where the people had had time enough to tire of dancing. Dubatoŭk again called forth an outburst of merriment.

There was some kind of a local dance that I did not know, and therefore Varona immediately carried off Nadzieja. Then she disappeared somewhere. I was watching the dancing, when suddenly I felt someone looking at me. Not far from rne stood a thin, but evidently strong young man, with a frank face, modestly dressed, although the accentuated stress laid on its.tidiness was quite apparent.

I had not seen him appear, but I liked him at first sight. I even liked the soft ascetism of his large mouth and clever brown hazel eyes. I smiled at him and he, as if that was what he had been waiting for, stepping lightly, walked over in my direction with outstretched hand.

“I beg your pardon for this informality, Andrej Śvieciłovič. It's been an old wish of mine to make your acquaintance. I'm a former student of the Kiev University. I was expelled for my participation in student disturbances.”

I, too, introduced myself. He smiled a broad Belarusian smile, such a kind and frank smile that his face immediately became beautiful.

“You know, I've read your collections. Don't consider it a compliment. I'm in general not fond of that, but after reading them I felt inexplicably drawn to you. You are doing something useful and necessary, and you understand your tasks. I judge that from your prefaces.”

A conversation between us got under way and we walked over to a window in a far corner of the room. I asked him how he happened to be in Marsh Firs. He began to laugh:

“I'm a distant relative of Nadzieja Janoŭskaja. A very distant one. As a matter of fact, we two, she and I, are the only ones left now, and I am from a female line of the family. It seems that some drop of blood of the former Deinowsky princes still flows in the veins of Haraburda, but his kinship, as well as that of the Hryckievičes, not a single expert in heraldry could prove. It is simply a family tradition. In any case Nadzieja is the only real Janoŭskaja.”

His face softened, became thoughtful.

“And anyway, this is all foolishness. All these heraldic entanglements, the small princes, the entailed estates of magnates. Were it up to me I would empty my veins of all this magnate blood. It only causes my conscience to suffer deeply. I think Nadzieja feels the same.”

“But I was told that Miss Nadzieja is the only one of the Janoŭskis.”

“That's really so, yes. I am a very distant relative, and also, I was thought to be dead. It's five years since I've visited Marsh Firs, and now I'm 23. My father sent me away because at the age of 18 I was dying of love for a thirteen-year old girl. As a matter of fact that was unimportant, we'd have had to wait only two years, but my father believed in the power of the ancient curse.”

“Well, did the banishment help you?” I asked.

“Not a bit. Moreover, two meetings were sufficient for me to understand that the former adoration had grown into love.”

“And how does Nadzieja Janoŭskaja feel?” I asked.

He blushed so that tears even welled up in his eyes.

“Oh!.. You've guessed! I beg you to keep silent about that. The thing is that I don't know yet what she thinks about it. And that is not so important. Believe me… It's simply that I feel so well in her presence, and even should she be indifferent — believe me — life would still be a good and happy thing: she will still be living on this land, won't she? She is an unusual person. She is an extraordinary being. She is surrounded by such a dirty world of pigs, by such undisguised slavery, while she is so pure and kind.”

This youth with his clear and kind face awakened such an unexpected tender emotion within me that I smiled, but he, apparently, took my smile for a sneer.

“So you, too, are laughing at me as did my deceased father, as did Uncle Dubatoŭk…”

“I don't think they were laughing at you, Andrej. On the contrary, it is pleasant for me to hear these words from you. You are a decent and kind person. Only perhaps you shouldn't tell anybody else about this. Now you've mentioned the name of Dubatoŭk…”

“I am grateful to you for your kind words. However, you didn't really think, did you, that I could've spoken about it with anybody else? You guessed it yourself. And Uncle Dubatoŭk — he too, did, though I don't know why.”

“It's well that it was Dubatoŭk who guessed it, not Aleś Varona,” I said. “It would otherwise have ended badly for one of you. Dubatoŭk is the guardian, interested in Nadzieja's finding a good husband. And it seems to me that he will not tell anybody else, and neither will I. But, in general, you should not mention it to anybody.”

“That's true,” he answered guiltily. “I hadn't thought that even the slightest hint might harm Miss Nadzieja. And you are right — what a good man Dubatoŭk is and how sincere! People like him. A fine swordsman, simple and patriarchal! And so frank and merry! How he loves people and doesn't interfere with anybody's life And his language! When I first heard it, it was as if a warm hand were stroking my heart.”

His eyes even became moist, so well did he love Dubatoŭk.

“Now you know, Mr. Biełarecki, but no one else will. And I will never compromise her. I shall be dumb. Look, you have been dancing with her, and it makes me happy. She is talking with someone — it makes me happy, if only it makes her happy. But to tell you the truth, to be frank with you…” His voice became stronger, his face like the young David's coming out to fight Goliath. “Were I at the other end of the world and my heart felt that someone intended to hurt her, I'd come flying over, and were it God Himself, I would break His head for Him, I would bite Him, would fight to my last breath, and then I would crawl up to her feet and breathe my last. Believe me. And even when I am far away I am always with her.”

Looking at his face, I understood why the powers that be fear such slender, pure and honest young men. They have, of course, wide eyes, a childish smile, a youngster's weak hands, a proud and shapely neck as if made of marble, as if it were especially created for the hangman's pole-axe, but in addition to all this, they are uncompromising, conscientious even unto trifles: they are unable to accept the superiority of crude strength, and their faith in the truth is fanatic. They are inexperienced in life, are trusting children right into their old age, in serving the truth they are bitter, ironic, faithful to the end, wise and unbending. Mean people fear them even when they haven't yet begun to act, and governed by their inherent instincts, always poison them. This base trash knows that they, these young men, are the greatest threat to their existence.

I understood that were a gun put into the hands of such a man, he would with that sincere smile of white teeth, come up to the tyrant, put a bullet into him and then calmly say to death: “Come here!” He will undergo the greatest suffering and if he doesn't die in prison of his thirst for freedom, he will come up calmly to the scaffold.

So boundless was the faith which this man called forth in me, that our hands met in a strong handshake and my smile was a friendly one.

“Why were you expelled?”

“Oh, some nonsense. It began when we decided to honour the memory of Shevchenko. We were threatened that the police would be brought into the university.” He even began to blush. “Well, we rebelled. And I shouted that if they only dared to do that with our sacred walls, we would wash that shame off them with our blood, and the first bullet would strike the man who had given that order. Then it became noisy and I was grabbed. And in the police-station, when I was asked my nationality, I answered: “Write — Ukrainian.”

“Well said.”

“I know it was very imprudent for those who had taken up the struggle.”

“No, that was good for them, too. One such answer is worth dozens of bullets. And it signifies that everybody is fighting a common enemy. There is no difference between the Belarusian and the Ukrainian if the lash is held over them.”

We looked at the dancers silently until Śvieciłovič winced.

“Dancing. The devil knows what it's like. A waxworks show of some kind… antedeluvian pangolins. In profile not faces but ugly mugs. Brains the size of a thimble, and paws like a dinosaur's with 700 teeth. And their dresses with trains. And the frightening faces of these curs… We are after all an unfortunate people, Mr. Biełarecki.”

“Why?”

“We have never had any really great thinkers among us.”

“Perhaps it's better so,” I said.

“And nevertheless we are a people without a land to settle on. This infamous trade of one's country over a period of seven centuries. In the beginning it was sold to Lithuania[6], then, before the people had hardly become assimilated, to the Poles, to everybody and anybody, regardless of honour and conscience.”

The dancers began to cast glances at us.

“You see, they are looking at us. When a person's soul is screaming, they don't like it. They all belong to one gang here. They trample on the little ones, they repudiate honour, sell their young daughters to old men. You see that one over there — Sava Stachoŭski? — I would not put a horse into the same stable with him, for the horse's morals would be endangered. And this Chobaleva, a provincial Messalina. And this one, Asanovič, drove a serf's daughter into her grave. Now he can't do that, hasn't got the right to, but all the same he continues to lead a dissolute life. Unfortunate Belarus! A kind, complaisant, romantic people in the hands of rascals. And so it will always be while this nation allows itself to be made a fool of. It gives up its heroes to the rack and itself sits in a cage over a bowl of potatoes or turnips, looking blank, and understanding nothing. Much would I pay the man who at last shook off from his people's neck this decaying gentry, these stupid parvenues, these conceited upstarts and corrupt journalists, and made the people become masters of their own fate. For that I would give all my blood.”

Apparently my senses had become very sharp: all the time I felt somebody's look on my back. When Śvieciłovič had finished, I turned around and was stupified. Standing behind us was Nadzieja Janoŭskaja, and she had heard everything. But it was not she, it was a dream, a forest sprite, a being out of a fairy-tale. Her dress was like that worn by women in the Middle Ages: no less than 50 lengths of Vorša golden satin had gone into its making. And this dress had over it another, a white one, with free designs in blue that seemed as if of silver as the colours played in the numerous cuts hanging from the sleeves and the hem of the dress. Her tightly tied waist was bound by a thin golden cord falling almost to the floor in two tassels. On her shoulders was a thin “robok” made of a white and silver tinted cloth. Her hair was gathered in a net, an ancient head-dress reminding one somehow of a little ship woven from silver threads. From both hornlets of this little ship a thin white veil hung down to the very floor.

This was a Swan-Queen, the mistress of an amber palace, in a word, the devil alone knows what, but only not the previous ugly duckling. I saw Dubatoŭk's eyes popping out of his head, his jaws sagging: he, too, had evidently not expected such an effect. The violin screamed. Silence fell.

This attire was quite uncomfortable and it usually fetters the movement of a woman unaccustomed to it, makes her heavy and baggy, but this girl was like a queen in it, as if she had all her life worn only such clothing: her head proudly thrown back, she floated dignified and womanly. From under her veil her large eyes smiled archly and proudly, stirred by a feeling of her own beauty.

Dubatoŭk grunted even, so surprised was he, and he came up to her with quickening steps. With an incomprehensible expression of pain in his eyes, he took her face in the palms of his hands and kissed her on the forehead, muttering something like “such beauty”.

And then his lips again broke out into a smile.

“A Queen! My Beauty! I have lived to see this, holy martyrs! Janoŭskaja to her very finger-tips!!! Allow me, dear daughter, your little foot.”

And this enormous bear, grunting, spread himself out on the floor and put his lips to the tip of her tiny slipper. Then he arose and began to laugh:

“Well, my little daughter, with such capital you should sit as quiet as a mouse, otherwise somebody will steal you.”

And he suddenly winked:

“And why not recall the old days, the clays of your childhood when we used to dance together? Give this old beaver one dance, and then let death come.”

The white queen held out her hand to him.

“Come on, my swans, my beauties!” Dubatoŭk shouted to the invalids. “In the beginning give us our ‘Light Breeze’ — two circles, and then from my place — you know which one, don't you? — change to a mazurka!”

And in a whisper he turned to me:

“Our dances are good in all respects, but there just isn't such a fiery one as the Polish mazurka. Only ‘Lavonicha’ might dispute it, but to dance that there must be several pairs, and can these hags and snivellers dance it? For this you need ballet legs, like mine here.”

And he burst out laughing. But I looked in fright at his legs that were like hams and thought: “What he will make of this good dance!”

In the meantime everybody moved aside to clear the space for them. I heard a voice:

“He, Dubatoŭk… will dance!”

I did not leave this profanation, because I wished to see this forgotten dance about which I had heard more than once, and which, people said, had been widespread some 80 years ago.

The enormous bulk that was Dubatoŭk straightened up, and took Janoŭskaja by the limpid transparent wrist of her left hand.

From the first notes of “Light Breeze” he kicked his heels, made a three-step with the right, ant. then with the left foot. This huge man moved with unexpected ease, at first kicking his heels after every three steps, and then simply on the tips of his toes. And at his side she floated, simply floated in the air, a golden, white and blue being, as if she were a bird-of-paradise, her veil soaring in the air.

Then they whirled, floated, sometimes drawing together, sometimes drawing apart, sometimes crossing each other's path. No, this was not a profanation, just as the dance of an old man, once a great dancer, but now grown heavy, is not a profanation. It was in the full sense of a light breeze changing gradually into a storm, and the veil was circling in the air, the feet flashing by… And suddenly the musicians started a mazurka. As a matter of fact it was not a mazurka but some kind of an ancient local variation of its theme, including in itself elements of the “Light Breeze”.

And here the huge bulk rushed ahead, thundered with his heels, then began rising smoothly into the air, striking one foot against the other. And at his side she floated, light, and smiling and sublimely majestic.

This was indeed a real miracle: two people dressed as in olden times, creating a fairy-tale before our very eyes.

Having circled about, Dubatoŭk led Janoŭskaja up to me. He was red as a lobster.

“She has tired me out…”

“But, Uncle, you are like a young man.”

“Young, young! No, words won't help… The horse's riding days are over. Soon I'll be sent off to drink my beer with our forefather Abraham. For you, young ones, life's ahead! Sing your songs and dance your dances! Dance, young fellow!”

The dancing was resumed. Śvieciłovič did not like to dance. Varona sulked and he, too, did not come over, and I was left to dance with Janoŭskaja till supper-time. How she danced! Involuntarily I became lost in contemplation of this childish face, which had suddenly become so alive and pleasantly cunning. We danced and danced, and it was all not enough, we whirled about the hall, the walls circled in front of us, and it was impossible to see anything on them. She probably felt as I did, but my feeling can be compared only with the dreams which sometimes come to us in our youth: in your dream you are dancing and a mysterious happiness envelops your heart. I could see only her pink face and her head thrown back, as it lightly turned about in time with the music.

We went to have supper. While leading her into the dining-room, it seemed to me I heard some hissing in a corner of the hall. I looked there and in the semi-darkness saw someone's eyes — some old ladies were sitting there — and I walked on. And I distinctly heard somebody's dry voice squeaking:

“Making merry as if death were facing them! They have sinned, have angered God and can yet make merry… A cursed family… It does not matter, soon the Wild Hunt will come… Just look at her, shameless one, all evening with this stranger, this atheist. She has found herself a friend, she has. Never mind! I swear that King Stach will rise against her, too. The dark nights are beginning.”

These vile, icy words filled me with alarm. Now that I came to think of it, I would leave and perhaps deprive the girl of the possibility of getting married. Why am I spending the entire evening with her? What am I doing? I am not at all in love with her, and never will be, because I know my own heart. And I firmly decided not to dance with her any more or sit beside her at table. And anyway, I had to leave that place. Enough of the idyll of an aristocratic gentleman. Must be off as soon as possible to common people, back to work. I seated her and stood aside, intending to find Śvieciłovič and seat him with her. However, all my intentions went up in smoke. On entering the hall, Śvieciłovič immediately took a seat at the end of the table. And Dubatoŭk sat down beside the mistress at the right and growled at me:

“Why are you standing? Sit down, my boy.”

“A fine Polish gentleman you would have made some hundred years ago. Strong hands, eyes like steel. A handsome fellow. But I'm curious to know whether you are a serious person. Not a featherbrain, are you?”

I had to sit next to the mistress, look after her, touching her hand with mine, at times touching her knee with mine. And it was a good feeling, but also I was very angry with Dubatoŭk. Sitting there gloomy as a dragon, looking at me searchingly, inquisitively. Could he be measuring me as the future husband of his ward? Very soon everybody became merry. The people ate a lot and drank even more. Their faces became red, witty jokes came thick and fast.

And Dubatoŭk drank and ate more than anybody else, cracking jokes that made everybody hold themselves by their bellies.

And gradually my anger passed. I was even grateful to Dubatoŭk that he had detained me here.

Then there was dancing again, and only at about 5 o'clock in the morning did the guests begin to leave. Dubatoŭk was one of the last to leave. Passing by us, he came up closer and said in a hoarse voice:

“Look here, young man, I invite you to come the day after tomorrow to a bachelor's party. And how about you, daughter? Perhaps you, too, will come to us and spend some time with my step-daughter?”

“No, thank you, Uncle dear. I'll remain at home.”

Her guardian sighed:

“You're ruining yourself, daughter. Well, all right.”

And turning towards me, he continued:

“I shall be waiting for you. Look at my hut. I don't have any of these outlandish foreign things, your visit should be interesting for you.”

We took leave of him, and I parted heartily with Śvieciłovič.

The house became empty, the steps quieted down, again everything there became silent, probably for the next 18 years. The servants walked about putting out the candles. The mistress disappeared, but when I entered the hall I saw her in her fairy-tale attire at the blazing fireplace. The corners of the hall were again in darkness, though music and laughter still seemed to be resounding there. The house was again living its usual life, a dark, dismal and depressing one.

I came up closer to her and suddenly saw a pale face in which the last traces of joy had died out. The wind was howling in the chimney.

“Mr. Biełarecki,” she said. “How quiet it is. I've lost the habit for all this. Come, let's have one more waltz, before forever…”

Her voice broke off. I put my hand on her waist, and we floated along the floor in time with the music that was still ringing in our ears. The shuffling of our feet sounded hollow beneath the ceiling. For some reason or other I felt terrible, as if I were present at a funeral, but she was experiencing all over again the events of the entire evening. Her veil flew round and about, the flames of the blazing fireplace falling on us were reflected in her dress, its colour changing to sky-blue when we moved away from the fireplace. This attire of olden times, this veil touching my face from time to time, this waist in my hand and these thoughtful eyes, I shall probably never forget.

And suddenly, for one instant, her forehead touched my shoulder.

“That's all. I cannot continue, not anymore. Enough! Thank you… for everything!”

And that was really all. She went to her room, and I stood watching the little figure in its attire of olden times walking down the hall, becoming lost in the darkness, her ancestors looking down from the walls.

I forgot that night to put out the candle on the little table at the window; as I lay in bed, a bed as large as a field, and was almost asleep, footsteps along the corridor broke into my drowsiness. Knowing that were I to look out, I should again see nobody, I lay calmly. I felt drowsy again, but suddenly started.

Through the window-pane the face of a human being was looking at me. He was very small (I could see him almost down to his belt, dressed in a caftan with a waist girdle round it, and with a wide collar). It was a man, but there was in him something inhuman. His little head was compressed at the sides and unnaturally drawn out in length, his hair was long and thinned and was hanging down. But the most surprising thing about this Little Man was his face. It was as green as his clothes, his mouth big and toothless, his nose small, while the lower eyelids were excessively large, like a frog's. I compared him to a monkey, but he looked more like a real frog. And his eyes, wide and dark, looked at me in stupid anger. Then an unnaturally long green hand appeared. The being groaned a hollow groan, and that saved me from freezing with fear. I rushed to the window, stared through the window, but there was no Little Man there. He had disappeared.

I thrust the window open noisily — the cold air rushed into the room. I put my head out and looked from all sides — nobody anywhere. As if he had evaporated into space. He could not have jumped down, in this place there was yet a third storey (the house stood partly on a slope), the windows to the right and left were shut, and the ledge was such a narrow one that even a mouse could not have run along it. I shut the window and fell to thinking, for the first time doubting whether I was in my right mind.

What could it have been? I believe neither in God nor in ghosts, however, this creature could not have been a living being. And moreover, from where could it have appeared, where had it disappeared to? Where could it exist? There was something mysterious in this house. But what? Is it possible that it really was a ghost? My entire upbringing rebelled against that. But perhaps I was drunk? No, I had drunk almost nothing. But where had the steps come from, those steps that are even now sounding in the corridor? Did they sound then or didn't they when I saw the face of that monster in the window?

My curiosity reached the limits of feasibility. No, I would not leave this place the next day, as I had thought. I had to unravel all this. The girl who had today given me yet another fine memory to keep, will go mad with fright, something not in accordance with the laws of nature was going on there and I wouldn't leave. But who would help me in my search? Who? And I recalled Śvieciłovič's words: “I would crawl up to her feet and breathe my last.” Yes, it was with him that I had to meet. We would catch this abominable thing, and if not — I would begin to believe in the existence of green ghosts and God's angels.