Pan Michael

not at all, like that “he.” There were no cavalcades either, nor playing of lutes, nor tournaments, nor the knot on the armor, nor bustle, nor games, nor any of all that which rouses curiosity like a May dream, or a wonderful tale in the evening, which intoxicates like the odor of flowers, which allures as bait does a bird; from which the face flushes, the heart throbs, the body trembles. There was nothing but a small house outside the city; in the house Pan Michael; then intimacy grew up, and the rest of the vision disappeared as the moon disappears in the sky when clouds come and hide it. If that Pan Michael had appeared at the end of the story, he would be the desired one. More than once, when thinking of his fame, of his worth, of his valor, which made him the glory of the Commonwealth and the terror of its enemies, Krysia felt that, in spite of all, she loved him greatly; only it seemed to her that something had missed her, that a certain injustice had met her, a little through him, or rather through haste. That haste, therefore, had fallen into the hearts of both like a grain of sand; and since both were farther and farther from each other, that grain began to pain them somewhat. It happens frequently that something insignificant as a little thorn pricks the feelings of people, and in time either heals or festers more and more, and brings bitterness and pain, even to the greatest love. But in this case it was still far to pain and bitterness. For Pan Michael, the thought of Krysia was especially agreeable and soothing; and the thought of her followed him as his shadow follows a man. He thought too that the farther he went, the dearer she would become to him, and the more he would sigh and yearn for her. The time passed more heavily for her; for no one visited Ketling’s house since the departure of the little knight, and day followed day in monotony and weariness.

Pani Makovetski counted the days before the election, waited for her husband, and talked only of him; Basia had put on a very long face. Zagloba reproached her, saying that she had rejected Pan Adam and was then wishing for him. In fact, she would have been glad if even he had come; but Novoveski said to himself, “There is nothing for me there,” and soon he followed Pan Michael. Zagloba too was preparing to return to Pan Yan’s, saying that he wished to see his boys. Still, being heavy, he put off his journey day after day; he explained to Basia that she was the cause of his delay, that he was in love with her and intended to seek her hand. Meanwhile he kept company with Krysia when Pan Michael’s sister went with Basia to visit the wife of the chamberlain of Lvoff. Krysia never accompanied them in those visits; for the lady, notwithstanding her worthiness, could not endure Krysia. Frequently and often too Zagloba went to Warsaw, where he met pleasant company and returned more than once tipsy on the following day; and then Krysia was entirely alone, passing the dreary hours in thinking a little of Pan Michael, a little of what might happen if that latch had not fallen once and forever, and often, what did that unknown rival of Pan Michael look like⁠—the King’s son in the fairy tale?

Once Krysia was sitting by the window and looking in thoughtfulness at the door of the room, on which a very bright gleam of the setting sun was falling, when suddenly a sleigh-bell was heard on the other side of the house. It ran through Krysia’s head that Pani Makovetski and Basia must have returned; but that did not bring her out of meditation, and she did not even withdraw her eyes from the door. Meanwhile the door opened; and on the background of the dark depth beyond appeared to the eyes of the maiden some unknown man.

At the first moment it seemed to Krysia that she saw a picture, or that she had fallen asleep and was dreaming, such a wonderful vision stood before her. The unknown was young, dressed in black foreign costume, with a white lace collar coming to his shoulders. Once in childhood Krysia had seen Pan Artsishevski, general of the artillery of the kingdom, dressed in such a costume; by reason of the dress, as well as of his unusual beauty, the general had remained long in her memory. Now, that young man before her was dressed in like fashion; but in beauty he surpassed Pan Artsishevski and all men walking the earth. His hair, cut evenly over his forehead, fell in bright curls on both sides of his face, just marvellously. He had dark brows, definitely outlined on a forehead white as marble; eyes mild and melancholy; a yellow mustache and a yellow, pointed beard. It was an incomparable head, in which nobility was united to manfulness⁠—the head at once of an angel and a warrior. Krysia’s breath was stopped in her breast, for looking, she did not believe her own eyes, nor could she decide whether she had before her an illusion or a real man. He stood awhile motionless, astonished, or through politeness feigning astonishment at Krysia; at last he moved from the door, and waving his hat downward began to sweep the floor with its plumes. Krysia rose, but her feet trembled under her; and now blushing, now growing pale, she closed her eyes.

Meanwhile his voice sounded low and soft, “I am Ketling of Elgin⁠—the friend and companion-at-arms of Pan Volodyovski. The servant has told me already that I have the unspeakable happiness and honor to receive as guests under my roof the sister and relatives of my Pallas; but pardon, worthy lady, my confusion, for the servant told me nothing of what my eyes see, and my eyes