Author: Henryk Sienkiewicz
Category: Nonfiction
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“Strike, whoever believes in God! — Ai! here, my men!” shouted Chaplinski, grasping after his sword-hilt.
But he did not succeed in drawing his sword. The young lieutenant turned him around, caught him by the nape of the neck with one hand, and with the other by the trousers below the belt raised him, squirming like a salmon, and going to the door between the benches called out, —
“Brothers, clear the road for big horns; he’ll hook!”
Saying this, he went to the threshold, struck and opened the door with Chaplinski, and hurled the under-starosta out into the street. Then he resumed his seat quietly at the side of Zatsvilikhovski.
In a moment there was silence in the room. The argument used by Pan Yan made a great impression on the assembled nobles. After a little while, however, the whole place shook with laughter.
“Hurrah for Vislinyevetski’s man!” cried some.
“He has fainted! he has fainted, and is covered with blood!” cried others, who had looked through the door, curious to know what Chaplinski would do. “His servants are carrying him off!”
The partisans of the under-starosta, but few in number, were silent, and not having the courage to take his part, looked sullenly at Skshetuski.
“Spoken truth touches that hound to the quick,” said Zatsvilikhovski.
“He is a cur, not a hound,” said, while drawing near, a bulky nobleman who had a cataract on one eye and a hole in his forehead the size of a thaler, through which the naked skull appeared,— “He is a cur, not a hound! Permit me,” continued he, turning to Pan Yan, “to offer you my respects. I am Yan Zagloba; my escutcheon ‘In the Forehead,’ as every one may easily know by this hole which the bullet of a robber made in my forehead when I was on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land in penance for the sins of my youth.”
“But leave us in peace,” said Zatsvilikhovski; “you said yourself that that was knocked out of you with a tankard in Radom.”
“As I live, the bullet of a robber! That was another affair in Radom.”
“You made a vow to go to the Holy Land, perhaps; but that you have never been there is certain.”
“I have not been there, for in Galáts I received the palm of martyrdom; and if I lie, I am a supreme dog and not a nobleman.”
“Ah, you never stop your stories!”
“Well, I am a rogue without hearing. To you, Lieutenant!”
In the mean while others came up to make the acquaintance of Skshetuski and express their regard for him. In general Chaplinski was not popular, and they were glad that disgrace had met him. It is strange and difficult to understand at this day that all the nobility in the neighborhood of Chigirin, and the smaller owners of villages, landed proprietors, and agriculturists, even though serving the Konyetspolskis, all knowing in neighbor fashion the dispute of Chaplinski with Hmelnitski, were on the side of the latter. Hmelnitski had indeed the reputation of a famous soldier who had rendered no mean services in various wars. It was known, also, that the king himself had had communication with him and valued his opinion highly. The whole affair was regarded as an ordinary squabble of one noble with another; such squabbles were counted by thousands, especially in the Russian lands. The part of the man was taken who knew how to incline to his side the majority, who did not foresee what terrible results were to come from this affair. Later on it was that hearts flamed up with hatred against Hmelnitski, — the hearts of nobility and clergy of both churches in equal degree.
Presently men came up to Skshetuski with liquor by the quart, saying, —
“Drink, brother!”
“Have a drink with me too!”
“Long life to Vishnyevetski’s men!”
“So young, and already a lieutenant with Vishnyevetski!”
“Long life to Yeremi, hetman of hetmans! With him we will go to the ends of the earth!”
“Against Turks and Tartars!”
“To Stamboul!”
“Long life to Vladislav, our king!”
Loudest of all shouted Pan Zagloba, who was ready all alone to out-drink and out-talk a whole regiment.
“Gentlemen!” shouted he, till the window-panes rattled, “I have summoned the Sultan for the assault on me which he permitted in Galáts.”
“If you don’t stop talking, you may wear the skin off your mouth.”
“How so, my dear sir? Quatuor articuli judicii castrensis: stuprum, incendium, latrocinium et vis armata alienis ædibus illata. Was not that specifically vis armata?”
“You are a noisy woodcock, my friend.”
“I’ll go even to the highest court.”
“But won’t you keep quiet?”
“I will get a decision, proclaim him an outlaw, and then war to the knife.”
“Health to you, gentlemen!”
Some broke out in laughter, and with them Skshetuski, for his head buzzed a trifle now; but Zagloba babbled on just like a woodcock, charmed with his own voice. Happily his discourse was interrupted by another noble, who, stepping up, pulled him by the sleeve and said in singing Lithuanian tones, —
“Introduce me, friend Zagloba, to Lieutenant Skshetuski, — introduce me, please!”
“Of course, of course. Most worthy lieutenant, this is Pan Povsinoga.”
“Podbipienta,” said the other, correcting him.
“No matter; but his arms are Zervipludry—”
“Zervikaptur,” corrected the stranger.
“All right. From Psikishki—”
“From Myshikishki,” corrected the stranger.
“It’s all the same. I don’t remember whether I said mouse or dog entrails. But one thing is certain: I should not like to live in either place, for it is not easy to get there, and to depart is unseemly. Most gracious sir,” said he, turning to Skshetuski, “I have now for a week been drinking wine at the expense of this gentleman, who has a sword at his belt as heavy as his purse, and his purse is as heavy as his wit. But if ever I have drunk wine at the cost of such an original, then may I call myself as big a fool as the man who buys wine for me.”
“Well, he has given him a description!”
But the Lithuanian was not angry; he only waved his hand, smiled kindly, and said: “You might give us a little peace; it is terrible to listen to you!”
Pan Yan looked with curiosity at the new figure, which in truth deserved to be called original. First of all, it was the figure of a man of such stature that his head was as high as a wall, and his extreme leanness made him appear taller still. His broad shoulders and sinewy neck indicated uncommon strength, but he was merely skin and bone. His stomach had so fallen in from his chest that he might have been taken for a man dying of hunger. He was well dressed in a gray closely fitting coat of sveboda cloth with narrow arms, and high Swedish boots, then coming into use in Lithuania. A broad and well-filled elk-skin girdle with nothing to support it had slipped down to his hips; to this girdle was attached a Crusader’s sword, which was so long that it reached quite to the shoulder of this gigantic man.
But whoever should be alarmed at the sword would be reassured in a moment by a glance at the face of its owner. The face, lean like the whole person, was adorned with hanging brows and a pair of drooping, hemp-colored mustaches, but was as honest and sincere as the face of a child. The hanging mustaches and brows gave him an expression at once anxious, thoughtful, and ridiculous. He looked like a man whom people elbow aside; but he pleased Skshetuski from the first glance because of the sincerity of his face and his perfect soldierly self-control.
“Lieutenant,” said he, “you are in the service of Prince Vishnyevetski?”
“I am.”
The Lithuanian placed his hands together as if in prayer, and raised his eyes.
“Ah, what a mighty warrior, what a hero, what a leader!”
“God grant the Commonwealth as many such as possible!”
“But could I not enter his service?”
“He will be glad to have you.”
At this point Zagloba interrupte
d the conversation.
“The prince will have two spits for his kitchen, — one in you, one in your sword, — or he will hire you as a cook, or he will order robbers to be hanged on you, or he will measure cloth with you to make uniforms! Tfu! why are you not ashamed as a man and a Catholic to be as long as a serpent or the lance of an infidel?”
“Oh, it’s disgusting to hear you,” said the Lithuanian, patiently.
“What is your title?” asked Skshetuski; “for when you were speaking Pan Zagloba interrupted so often that if you will pardon me—”
“Podbipienta.”
“Povsinoga,” added Zagloba.
“Zervikaptur of Myshikishki.”
“Here, old woman, is fun for you. I drink his wine, but I’m a fool if these are not outlandish titles.”
“Are you from Lithuania?” asked the lieutenant.
“Well, I’m two weeks now in Chigirin. Hearing from Pan Zatsvilikhovski that you were coming, I waited to present my request to the prince with his recommendation.”
“Tell me, please, — for I am curious, — why do you carry such an executioner’s sword under your arm?”
“It is not the sword of an executioner, Lieutenant, but of a Crusader, and I wear it because it is a trophy and has been long in my family. It served at Khoinitsi in Lithuanian hands, and that’s why I wear it.”
“But it’s a savage machine, and must be terribly heavy. It’s for two hands, I suppose?”
“Oh, it can be used in two hands or one.”
“Let me have a look at it.”
The Lithuanian drew the sword and handed it to him; but Skshetuski’s arm dropped in a moment. He could neither point the weapon nor aim a blow freely. He tried with both hands; still it was heavy. Skshetuski was a little ashamed, and turning to those present, said, —
“Now, gentlemen, who can make a cross with it?”
“We have tried already,” answered several voices. “Pan Zatsvilikhovski is the only man who raises it, but he can’t make a cross with it.”
“Well, let us see you, sir,” said Skshetuski, turning to the Lithuanian.
Podbipienta raised the sword as if it were a cane, and whirled it several times with the greatest ease, till the air in the room whistled and a breeze was blowing on their faces.
“May God be your aid!” said Skshetuski. “You have sure service with the prince.”
“God knows that I am anxious, and my sword will not rust in it.”
“But what about your wits,” asked Zagloba, “since you don’t know how to use them?”
Zatsvilikhovski now rose, and with the lieutenant was preparing to go out, when a man with hair white as a dove entered, and seeing Zatsvilikhovski, said, —
“I have come here on purpose to see you, sir.”
This was Barabash, the Colonel of Cherkasi.
“Then come to my quarters,” replied Zatsvilikhovski. “There is such a smoke here that nothing can be seen.”
They went out together, Skshetuski with them. As soon as he had crossed the threshold, Barabash asked, —
“Are there news of Hmelnitski?”
“There are. He has fled to the Saitch. This officer met him yesterday in the steppe.”
“Then he has not gone by water? I hurried off a courier to Kudák to have him seized; but if what you say is true, ’tis useless.”
When he had said this, Barabash covered his eyes with his hands, and began to repeat, “Oh, Christ save us! Christ save us!”
“Why are you disturbed?”
“Don’t you know the treason he has wrought on me? Don’t you know what it means to publish such documents in the Saitch? Christ save us! Unless the king makes war on the Mussulman, this will be a spark upon powder.”
“You predict a rebellion?”
“I do not predict, I see it; and Hmelnitski is somewhat beyond Nalivaika and Loboda.”
“But who will follow him?”
“Who? Zaporojians, registered Cossacks, people of the towns, the mob, cottagers, and such as these out here.”
Barabash pointed to the market-square and to the people moving around upon it. The whole square was thronged with great gray oxen on the way to Korsún for the army; and with the oxen went a crowd of herdsmen (Chabani), who passed their whole lives in the steppe and Wilderness, — men perfectly wild, professing no religion, (“religionis nullius,” as the Voevoda Kisel said). Among them were forms more like robbers than herdsmen, — fierce, terrible, covered with remnants of various garments. The greater part of them were dressed in sheepskin doublets or in untanned skins with the wool outside, open in front and showing, even in winter, the naked breast embrowned by the winds of the steppe. All were armed, but with the greatest variety of weapons. Some had bows and quivers on their shoulders; some muskets or “squealers” (so called by the Cossacks); some had Tartar sabres, some scythes; and finally, there were those who had only sticks with horse-jaws fastened on the ends. Among them mingled the no less wild, though better armed men from the lower country, taking to the camp for sale dried fish, game, and mutton fat. Farther on were the Chumaki (ox-drivers) with salt, bee-keepers from the steppes and forest, wax-bleachers with honey, forest-dwellers with tar and pitch, peasants with wagons, registered Cossacks, Tartars from Bélgorod, and God knows what tramps and “vampires” from the ends of the earth. The whole town was full of drunken men. Chigirin was the place of lodging, and therefore of a frolic before bedtime. Fires were scattered over the market-square, while here and there an empty tar-barrel was burning. From every point were heard cries and bustle. The shrill squeak of Tartar pipes and the sound of drums was mingled with the bellowing of cattle and the softer note of the lyre, to which old men sang the favorite song of the time, —
“Oh, bright falcon,
My own brother,
Thou soarest high,
Thou seest far.”
And besides this went up the wild shouts “U-ha! u-ha!” of the Cossacks, smeared with tar and quite drunk, dancing the tropak on the square. All this was at once wild and frenzied. One glance was enough to convince Zatsvilikhovski that Barabash was right; that one breath was sufficient to let loose those chaotic elements, inclined to plunder and accustomed to violence, with which the whole Ukraine was filled. And behind these crowds stood the Saitch, the Zaporojie, recently bridled and put in curb after Masloff Stav, still gnawing the bit impatiently, remembering ancient privileges and hating commissioners, but forming an organized power. That power had also on its side the sympathy of a countless mass of peasants, less patient of control than in other parts of the Commonwealth, because near them was Chertomelik, and beyond lordlessness, booty, and freedom. The standard-bearer in view of this, though a Russian himself and a devoted adherent of Eastern orthodoxy, fell into gloomy thought.
Being an old man, he remembered well the times of Nalivaika, Loboda, and Krempski. He knew the robbers of the Ukraine better perhaps than any one in Russia; and knowing at the same time Hmelnitski, he knew that he was greater than twenty Lobodas and Nalivaikas. He understood, therefore, all the danger of his escape to the Saitch, especially with the letters of the king, which Barabash said were full of promises to the Cossacks and incitements to resistance.
“Most worthy colonel,” said Zatsvilikhovski to Barabash, “you should go to the Saitch and neutralize the influence of Hmelnitski; pacify them, pacify them.”
“Most worthy standard-bearer,” answered Barabash, “I will merely say that in consequence of the news of Hmelnitski’s flight with the papers of the king, one half of my men have followed him to the Saitch. My time has passed; not the baton awaits me, but the grave!”
Barabash was indeed a good soldier, but old and without influence.
Meanwhile they had come to the quarters of Zatsvilikhovski, who had regained somewhat the composure peculiar to his mild character; and when they sat down to half a gallon of mead, he said emphatically, —
“All this is nothing, if, as they say, war is on foot against the Mussulma
n; and it is likely that such is the case, for though the Commonwealth does not want war, and the diets have roused much bad blood in the king, still he may carry his point. All this fire may be turned against the Turk, and in every case we have time on our side. I will go myself to Pan Pototski, inform him, and ask that he, being nearest to us, should come with his army. I do not know whether I shall succeed, for though a brave man and a trained warrior, he is terribly confident in himself and his army. And you, Colonel of Cherkasi, keep the Cossacks in curb — and you, Lieutenant, the moment you arrive at Lubni warn the prince to keep his eyes on the Saitch. Even if they begin action, I repeat it, we have time. There are not many people at the Saitch now; they have scattered around, fishing and hunting, and are in villages throughout the whole Ukraine. Before they assemble, much water will flow down the Dnieper. Besides, the name of the prince is terrible, and if they know that he has his eye on Chertomelik, perhaps they will remain in peace.”
“I am ready,” said the lieutenant, “to start from Chigirin even in a couple of days.”
“That’s right. Two or three days are of no account. And do you, Colonel of Cherkasi, send couriers with an account of the affair to Konyetspolski and Prince Dominic. But you are asleep, as I see.”
Barabash had crossed his hands on his stomach and was in a deep slumber, snoring from time to time. The old colonel, when neither eating nor drinking, — and he loved both beyond measure, — was sleeping.
“Look!” said Zatsvilikhovski quietly to the lieutenant; “the statesmen at Warsaw think of holding the Cossacks in curb through such an old man as that. God be good to them! They put trust, too, even in Hmelnitski himself, with whom the chancellor entered into some negotiations or other; and Hmelnitski no doubt is fooling them terribly.”
The lieutenant sighed in token of sympathy. But Barabash snored more deeply, and then murmured in his sleep: “Christ save us! Christ save us!”
“When do you think of leaving Chigirin?” asked Zatsvilikhovski.
“I shall have to wait two days for Chaplinski, who will bring an action, beyond doubt, for what has happened to him.”
“He will not do that. He would prefer to send his servants against you if you didn’t wear the uniform of the prince; but it is ugly work to tackle the prince, even for the servants of the Konyetspolskis.”