“ ‘A halter for a dog!’ She said to the chamberlain’s lady: ‘He has no mustache, and I have no sense; and it is not known which one will get what is lacking first.’ ”
“I knew that she would not lose her tongue; but who knows what her real thought is? Ah, woman’s wiles!”
“With Basia, what is on her heart is on her lips. Besides, I have told you already that she does not feel the will of God yet; Krysia does, in a higher degree.”
“Auntie!” said Krysia, suddenly.
Further conversation was interrupted by the servant, who announced that supper was on the table. All went then to the dining-room; but Basia was not there.
“Where is the young lady?” asked Pani Makovetski of the servant.
“The young lady is in the stable. I told the young lady that supper was ready; the young lady said, ‘Well,’ and went to the stable.”
“Has something unpleasant happened to her? She was so gay,” said Pani Makovetski, turning to Zagloba.
Then the little knight, who had an unquiet conscience, said, “I will go and bring her.” And he hurried out. He found her just inside the stable-door, sitting on a bundle of hay. She was so sunk in thought that she did not see him as he entered.
“Panna Basia,” said the little knight, bending over her.
Basia trembled as if roused from sleep, and raised her eyes, in which Pan Michael saw, to his utter astonishment, two tears as large as pearls. “For God’s sake! What is the matter? You are weeping.”
“I do not dream of it,” cried Basia, springing up; “I do not dream of it! That is from frost.” She laughed joyously, but the laughter was rather forced. Then, wishing to turn attention from herself, she pointed to the stall in which was the steed given Pan Michael by the hetman, and said with animation, “You say it is impossible to go to that horse? Now let us see!”
And before Pan Michael could restrain her, she had sprung into the stall. The fierce beast began to rear, to paw, and to put back his ears.
“For God’s sake! he will kill you!” cried Pan Michael, springing after her.
But Basia had begun already to stroke with her palm the shoulder of the horse, repeating, “Let him kill! let him kill!”
But the horse turned to her his steaming nostrils and gave a low neigh, as if rejoiced at the fondling.
XI
All the nights that Pan Michael had spent were nothing in comparison with the night after that adventure with Krysia. For, behold, he had betrayed the memory of his dead one, and he loved that memory. He had deceived the confidence of the living woman, had abused friendship, had contracted certain obligations, had acted like a man without conscience. Another soldier would have made nothing of such a kiss, or, what is more, would have twisted his mustache at thought of it; but Pan Michael was squeamish, especially since the death of Anusia, as is every man who has a soul in pain and a torn heart. What was left for him to do, then? How was he to act?
Only a few days remained until his departure; that departure would cut short everything. But was it proper to go without a word to Krysia, and leave her as he would leave any chambermaid from whom he might steal a kiss? The brave heart of Pan Michael trembled at the thought. Even in the struggle in which he was then, the thought of Krysia filled him with pleasure, and the remembrance of that kiss passed through him with a quiver of delight. Rage against his own head seized him; still he could not refrain from a feeling of sweetness. And he took the whole blame on himself.
“I brought Krysia to that,” repeated he, with bitterness and pain; “I brought her to it, therefore it is not just for me to go away without a word. What, then? Make a proposal, and go away Krysia’s betrothed?”
Here the form of Anusia stood before the knight, dressed in white, and pale herself as wax, just as he had laid her in the coffin. “This much is due me,” said the figure, “that you mourn and grieve for me. You wished at first to become a monk, to bewail me all your life; but now you are taking another before my poor soul could fly to the gates of heaven. Ah! wait, let me reach heaven first; let me cease looking at the earth.”
And it seemed to the knight that he was a species of perjurer before that bright soul whose memory he should honor and hold as sacred. Sorrow and immeasurable shame seized him, and self-contempt. He desired death.
“Anulya,”11 repeated he, on his knees, “I shall not cease to bewail thee till death; but what am I to do now?”
The white form gave no answer to that as it vanished like a light mist; and instead of it appeared in the imagination of the knight Krysia’s eyes and her lip covered with down, and with it temptations from which the knight wished to free himself. So his heart was wavering in uncertainty, suffering, and torment. At moments it came to his head to go and confess all to Zagloba, and take counsel of that man whose reason could settle all difficulties. And he had foreseen everything; he had told beforehand what it was to enter into “friendship” with fair heads. But just that view restrained the little knight. He recollected how sharply he had called to Pan Zagloba, “Do not offend Panna Krysia, sir!” And now, who had offended Panna Krysia? Who was the man who had thought, “Is it not best to leave her like a chambermaid and go away?”
“If it were not for that dear one up there, I would not hesitate a moment,” thought the knight, “I should not be tormented at all; on the contrary, I should be glad in soul that I
