King Stakh's Wild Hunt (12 page)

I had to sit next to the mistress, look after her, touching her hand with mine, at times touching her knee with mine. And it was a good feeling, but also I was very angry with Dubatowk. He was sitting there, as gloomy as a dragon, looking at me searchingly, inquisitively. Could he be measuring me as the future husband of his ward? Very soon everybody became quite merry. The people ate a lot and drank even more. Their faces became red, witty jokes came thick and fast.

And Dubatowk drank and ate more than anybody else, cracking jokes that made everybody hold themselves by their bellies.

Gradually my anger subsided. I was even grateful to Dubatowk that he had detained me here.

Then there was dancing again, and only at about five o’clock in the morning did the guests begin to leave. Dubatowk was one of the last to leave. Passing by us, he came up closer and said in a hoarse voice:

“Look here, young man, I invite you to come the day after tomorrow to a bachelor’s party. And how about you, daughter? Perhaps you, too, will come to us and spend some time with my step daughter?”

“No, thank you, Uncle dear. I’ll remain at home.”

Her guardian sighed:

“You’re ruining yourself, daughter. Well, all right.”

And turning towards me, he continued:

“I shall be waiting for you. Look at my hut. I don’t have any of these outlandish foreign things, your visit should be interesting for you.”

He left, and I parted heartily with Svetsilovich.

The house became empty, the steps quieted down, again everything there became silent, probably for the next eighteen years. The servants walked about putting out the candles. The mistress disappeared, but when I entered the hall I saw her in her fairy tale attire at the blazing fireplace. The corners of the hall were again in darkness, though music and laughter still seemed to be resounding there. The house was again living its usual life, a dark, dismal and depressing one.

I came up closer to her and suddenly saw a pale face in which the last traces of joy had died out. The wind was howling in the chimney.

“Mr. Belaretsky,” she said. “How quiet it is. I’ve lost the habit for all this. Come, let’s have one more waltz, before forever...”

Her voice broke off. I put my hand on her waist, and we floated along the floor in time with the music that was still ringing in our ears. The shuffling of our feet sounded hollow beneath the ceiling. For some reason or other I felt terrible, as if I were present at a funeral, but she was experiencing all over again the events of the entire evening. Her veil flew round and about, the flames of the blazing fireplace falling on us were reflected in her dress, its colour changing to the sky blue when we moved away from the fireplace. This attire of olden times, this veil touching my face from time to time, this waist in my hand and these thoughtful eyes, I shall probably never forget.

And suddenly, for one instant, her forehead touched my shoulder.

“That’s all. I cannot continue, not anymore. Enough! Thank you... for everything!”

And that was really all. She went to her room, and I stood watching the little figure in its attire of olden times walking down the hall, becoming lost in the darkness, her ancestors looking down from the walls.

I forgot that night to put out the candle on the little table at the window; as I lay in bed, a bed as large as a field, and was almost asleep, footsteps along the hall broke into my drowsiness. Knowing that were I to look out, I should again see nobody, I lay calmly. I felt drowsy again, but suddenly started.

Through the window pane the face of a human being was looking at me. He was very small. I could see him almost down to his belt, dressed in a caftan with a waist girdle round it, and with a wide collar. It was a man, but something inhuman was about him. His little head was compressed at the sides and unnaturally drawn out in length, his hair was long and thinned and was hanging down. But the most surprising thing about this Little Man was his face. It was as green as his clothes, his mouth big and toothless, his nose small, while the lower eyelids were excessively large, like a frog’s. I compared him to a monkey, but he looked more like a real frog. And his eyes, wide and dark, looked at me in stupid anger. Then an unnaturally long green hand appeared. The being groaned a hollow groan, and that saved me from freezing with fear. I rushed to the window, stared through the window, but there was no Little Man there. He had disappeared.

I thrust the window open noisily – the cold air flew into the room. I put my head out and looked from all sides – not a soul in sight. As if he had evaporated into space. He could not have jumped down, in this place there was yet a third storey, the house stood partly on a slope, the windows to the right and left were shut, and the ledge was such a narrow one that even a mouse could not have run along it. I shut the window and fell to thinking, for the first time doubting whether I was in my right mind.

What could it have been? I believe neither in God nor in ghosts. However, this creature could not have been a living being. And moreover, from where could it have appeared, where had it disappeared to? Where could it exist? There was something mysterious in this house. But what? Is it possible that it really was a ghost? My entire upbringing rebelled against that. But perhaps I was drunk? No, I had drunk almost nothing. But where had the steps come from, those steps that are even now echoing down the hall? Did they sound then or didn’t they when I saw the face of that monster in the window?

My curiosity reached the limits of feasibility. No, I would not leave this place the next day, as I had thought. I had to unravel all this. The girl, who had today given me yet another fine memory to keep, will go mad with fright. Something not in accordance with the laws of nature was going on there and I wouldn’t leave till this is resolved. But who would help me in my search? Who? And I recalled Svetsilovich’s words: “I would crawl up to her feet and breathe my last.” Yes, it was with him that I had to meet. We would catch this abominable thing, and if not – I would begin to believe in the existence of green ghosts and God’s angels.

Two days later I was approaching Dubatowk’s house. I did not want to go there, but my hostess had said: “You must go! It’s my order. I won’t be afraid here.”

I was to follow a grass covered lane in a south-west direction from the house. A park stood along both sides of this path, as gloomy as a forest. The lane led to a fence where at one place an iron rod was missing and I could creep through it - this was Yanovsky’s secret which she had confided to me. Therefore I didn’t have to go north along the lane I had arrived on and walk around the whole territory to reach the road that led to Dubatowk’s house. I crept through the hole and came out onto level land. To the left and straight ahead of me there was boundless heather waste land with sparse groups of trees. To the right some undergrowth, and behind it a full little river like an eye, then a swampy forest, and farther on, again hopeless quagmire. Somewhere very far from the heather waste land, trees of probably Dubatowk’s estate could be seen.

I walked slowly through the waste land, only from time to time guessing where my path lay. The autumn field was gloomy and uninviting, but even though an enormous raven twice flew overhead, after Marsh Firs the field was rather pleasant. Everything around me was familiar. The moss on the marsh mounds among the dry heather, a tiny mouse dragging white down from a tall thistle to the nest it was preparing for winter.

I reached Dubatowk’s estate only towards dusk, when the windows of his house were already brightly lit. It was a most ordinary house, the usual thing among the gentry. An old low building with small windows, it was shingle-roofed, freshly whitewashed, had a porch with four columns. The provincial architect had very likely been unaware of the well-known secret and therefore the columns seemed to bulge in the middle and looked like little barrels. The house with a large orchard behind it was surrounded by old, enormous, almost leafless lindens that separated the mansion from a vast piece of ploughed land.

I was late, apparently, for noisy voices were already thundering throughout the house. I was met warmly, even ardently.

“Goodness gracious! Holy Martyrs!” Dubatowk shouted. “You’ve come after all, the prodigal son has come! Come to the table! Antos, you lout, where are you? Have you got two left paws, or what? A welcoming drink for my guest! Missed meeting him, you devils, didn’t salute him, didn’t give him a drink at the door! Oh! You blockheads!”

About ten people were sitting at the table, all men. Among them I knew only Svetsilovich, Ales Varona and Stakhowsky. Almost all of them were already quite drunk, but for some reason they examined me with increased interest. The table was bursting with viands: Dubatowk was, evidently, of the well-to-do local gentry. His wealth, however, was relative. Of food and drink there was plenty, yet the rooms through which I went showed no such splendour. The walls were whitewashed, the shutters were covered with fretwork and brightly painted, the furniture was not very beautiful, but as if to make up for that, very heavy. Filled with the persistent spirit of antiquity, strangely enough the dining room had nothing else to boast with but a wide oak table, stools covered with a green, silky linen, two Dantzig armchairs covered with golden Morocca, and a triple mirror in a brown frame, depicting a city with church domes. The gaudily dressed guests examined me with curiosity.

“Why are you staring?” Dubatowk shouted. “Have you never seen a man from the capital city, you bears? Move, make the guest at home, share with him whatever food you fancy.”

The hairy jaws began to smile, the paws indeed began to move. Soon an enormous goose landed on my plate, accompanied by cranberry jam and the leg of a turkey served with apples, pickled mushrooms and a dozen kuldoons. From all sides came:

“And here are doughnuts and mushrooms with garlic... here is a piece of ham from a wild boar, strongly peppered, burns like fire. I swear to it by the memory of my mother... take it. Try this, this is wonderful. And this here is something exceptional...”

“This is how we, Belarusians, treat our guests,” the host exclaimed at seeing my confusion and laughed boisterously.

Food was piled high in front of me. I tried to protest, but that called forth such an outburst of indignation, and one of the guests even began to shed tears. Truth be told, he was in a blue haze, and I yielded.

The lout Antos brought me a glass of vodka on a tray, for a start. I am not intimidated by intoxicating liquors, but seeing it I got scared. There was no less than a bottle of some yellow transparent liquid in the glass.

“I couldn’t!”

“What do you mean you couldn’t? Only a virgin wench can’t, but even she quickly agrees.”

“It’s too much, Mr. Dubatowk.”

“When there are three wives in a hut, that’s too much, though even that may not be so for everyone... Oh! Boys, we aren’t respected. Ask the dear guest to...”

“Don’t offend us... drink...” The guests roared like bears. I was forced to drink. The liquid burned my insides, fiery circles swam before my eyes, but I kept steady, didn’t even make a wry face.

“Now that’s my man!” Dubatowk praised me.

“What was that?” I asked referring to the drink as I swallowed down a big piece of ham.

“Oho! You know Starka, the old Polish vodka, you know the Ukrainian vodka Spatykach, but our Tris Deviniris you do not know? In Lithuanian, brother, it is “Thrice Nine”, vodka infused with extracts of twenty seven herbs. This secret we wormed out of the Lithuanians hundreds of years ago. Now the Lithuanians themselves have forgotten it, but we still remember. Drink to your heart’s content, then I’ll treat you to some mead.”

“And what’s this?” I wanted to know, sticking my fork into something suspiciously dark on my plate.

“My dearly beloved, these are moose’s lips in sweetened vinegar. Eat, brother, refill yourself. This is food for giants. Our forefathers, may they rest in peace, were no fools. Eat, don’t procrastinate, just eat!”

And within a minute, having forgotten that he had recommended me the lips, he shouted:

“No, brother, you won’t leave me without having tasted cold pasties stuffed with ‘foie gras’. Antos!...”

Antos came over with the pasties. I tried to refuse.

“Go down on your knees at the feet of our guest. Beat your foolish head against the floor, beg him, because as a guest he is offending us.”

Soon I, too, reached everyone’s condition. While other guests were cheering and singing, I continued investigating the food. Dubatowk was hanging on to my shoulder, mumbling something, but I paid no attention. The room was beginning to swing.

“Let’s have a drink, then another,” someone howled. And suddenly I recalled that house far away in the fir park, the trees under a thick layer of moss, the fireplace, the melancholic figure near it. “I’m a drunken swine,” feeling sick at heart, I kept beating myself up, “Indulging like that when someone else is in trouble...” So deep was my pity for her that I found myself on the verge of breaking into tears... and that immediately sobered me up.

The guests were beginning to leave the table.

“Gentlemen,” Dubatowk said, “Take a little walk, the table has to be refreshed.”

Good Lord, this was only the beginning! And everyone was already as wasted as wasted could be given the amount of liquor they took in. It was eight o’clock in the evening. Exact time was of little importance, it was still early. I was certain, after having instantly become sober, that I wouldn’t get drunk again tonight. Still, I decided to drink with caution to avoid getting stuck in the quagmire which in itself would be hell to pay.

We rested, talked. Dubatowk showed us a fine collection of weapons. He praised an old sabre very highly; the one he had begged Roman Yanovsky to give him. He said that the Russian damask steel sword could cut through a plate, the Polish “Zygmuntowka” through quite a thick nail, but this one, ours, was a secret that the Tartars had brought with them in the time of Vitawt. The sabre was filled with mercury, providing for the blow of such a strength that it could cleave not only a thin copper plate, but a thick block. Nobody believed Dubatowk and he ordered Antos to bring a block. Antos brought in a short block, the thickness of three human necks, and placed it on the floor.