LITMIR.BIZ

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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 immediately.

      "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. Sviderski5 was a great soldier.

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