They sat down. Pan Michael’s sister occupied the first place; next to her, on the right, sat Zagloba, and beyond him Panna Basia. Pan Michael sat on the left side near Panna Krysia. And now for the first time the little knight was able to have a good look at the ladies. Both were comely, but each in her own style. Krysia had hair as black as the wings of a raven, brows of the same color, deep-blue eyes; she was a pale brunette, but of complexion so delicate that the blue veins on her temples were visible. A barely discernible dark down covered her upper lip, showing a mouth sweet and attractive, as if put slightly forward for a kiss. She was in mourning, for she had lost her father not long before, and the color of her garments, with the delicacy of her complexion and her dark hair, lent her a certain appearance of pensiveness and severity. At the first glance she seemed older than her companion; but when he had looked at her more closely, Pan Michael saw that the blood of first youth was flowing under that transparent skin. The more he looked, the more he admired the distinction of her posture, the swanlike neck, and those proportions so full of maiden charms.
“She is a great lady,” thought he, “who must have a great soul; but the other is a regular tomboy.”
In fact, the comparison was just. Basia was much smaller than her companion, and generally minute, though not meagre; she was ruddy as a bunch of roses, and light-haired. Her hair had been cut, apparently after illness, and she wore it gathered in a golden net. But the hair would not sit quietly on her restless head; the ends of it were peeping out through every mesh of the net, and over her forehead formed an unordered yellow tuft which fell to her brows like the tuft of a Cossack, which, with her quick, restless eyes and challenging mien, made that rosy face like the face of a student who is only watching to embroil someone and go unpunished himself. Still, she was so shapely and fresh that it was difficult to take one’s eyes from her; she had a slender nose, somewhat in the air, with nostrils dilating and active; she had dimples in her cheeks and a dimple in her chin, indicating a joyous disposition. But now she was sitting with dignity and eating heartily, only shooting glances every little while, now at Pan Zagloba, now at Volodyovski, and looking at them with almost childlike curiosity, as if at some special wonder.
Pan Michael was silent; for though he felt it his duty to entertain Panna Krysia, he did not know how to begin. In general, the little knight was not happy in conversation with ladies; but now he was the more gloomy, since these maidens brought vividly to his mind the dear dead one.
Pan Zagloba entertained Pani Makovetski, detailing to her the deeds of Pan Michael and himself. In the middle of the supper he fell to relating how once they had escaped with Princess Kurtsevich and Jendzian, four of them, through a whole chambul, and how, finally, to save the princess and stop the pursuit, they two had hurled themselves on the chambul.
Basia stopped eating, and resting her chin on her hand, listened carefully, shaking her forelock, at moments blinking, and snapping her fingers in the most interesting places, and repeating, “Ah, ah! Well, what next?” But when they came to the place where Kushel’s dragoons rushed up with aid unexpectedly, sat on the necks of the Tartars, and rode on, slashing them, for three miles, she could contain herself no longer, but clapping her hands with all her might, cried, “Ah, I should like to be there, God knows I should!”
“Basia!” cried the plump little Pani Makovetski, with a strong Russian accent, “you have come among polite people; put away your ‘God knows.’ O Thou Great God! this alone is lacking, Basia, that you should cry, ‘May the bullets strike me!’ ”
The maiden burst out into fresh laughter, resonant as silver, and cried, “Well, then, auntie, may the bullets strike me!”
“O my God, the ears are withering on me! Beg pardon of the whole company!” cried the lady.
Then Basia, wishing to begin with her aunt, sprang up from her place, but at the same time dropped the knife and the spoons under the table, and then dived down after them herself.
The plump little lady could restrain her laughter no longer; and she had a wonderful laugh, for first she began to shake and tremble, and then to squeak in a thin voice. All had grown joyous. Zagloba was in raptures. “You see what a time I have with this maiden,” said Pani Makovetski.
“She is a pure delight, as God is dear to me!” exclaimed Zagloba.
Meanwhile Basia had crept out from under the table; she had found the spoons and the knife, but had lost her net, for her hair was falling into her eyes altogether. She straightened herself, and said, her nostrils quivering meanwhile, “Aha, lords and ladies, you are laughing at my confusion. Very well!”
“No one is laughing,” said Zagloba, in a tone of conviction, “no one is laughing—no one is laughing! We are only rejoicing that the Lord God has given us delight in the person of your ladyship.”
After supper they passed into the drawing-room. There Panna Krysia, seeing a lute on the wall, took it down and began to run over the strings. Pan Michael begged her to sing.
“I am ready, if I can drive sadness from your soul.”
“I thank you,” answered the little knight, raising his eyes to her in gratitude.
After a while this song was heard:—
“O knights, believe me,
Useless is armor;
Shields give no service;
Cupid’s keen arrows,
Through steel and iron,
Go to all
