King Stakh's Wild Hunt

“Choose your expressions carefully,” Varona said in a strained voice.

“Why? And most importantly, for whom? A well-bred man knows that in the company of polite people one should be polite, while in the company of rude fellows, the greatest degree of politeness is to repay in the same coin.”

Varona was apparently unaccustomed to being repulsed. I knew such arrogant turkey-cocks. He was surprised, but then glanced at the hostess, turned towards me again, and a turbid fury flashed in his eyes.

“But do you know with whom you are talking?”

“With whom? Not with God Himself?”

I saw Dubatoŭk appear at the side of the hostess. His face showed that he had become interested. Varona began to boil.

“You are speaking with me, with a man who is in the habit of pulling parvenues by the ear.”

“But hasn't it occurred to you that some parvenues are themselves capable of pulling your ears? And don't come up closer, otherwise, I warn you, not a single gentleman will receive such an insult, as you from me.”

“A caddish fist fight!” he exploded.

“Can't be helped!” I said coldly. “I have met noblemen on whom nothing else had any effect. They weren't cads, their ancestors were long-serving hound-keepers, whippers-in, ladies' men for the widows of magnates.”

I intercepted his hand and held it as with a nipper.

“Well…”

“Damn you!” he hissed.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, calm yourselves,” Janoŭskaja exclaimed, alarmed beyond expression. “Mr. Biełarecki, don't, don't! Mr. Varona, for shame!”

Evidently, Dubatoŭk also understood it was time to interfere. He came up, stood between us, and put a heavy hand on Varona's shoulder. His face was red.

“You pup!” he shouted. “And this is a Belarusian, an aristocrat? To insult a guest in such a way! A disgrace to my grey hair. Don't you see whom you are picking a fight with? He is not one of our chicken-hearted fools. This is not a chick, this is a man. And he will quickly tear off your moustache for you. You are a nobleman, sir?”

“A nobleman.”

“So you see, the gentleman is an aristocrat. If you must have a talk together you can find a common language. This man is an aristocrat and a good one, too; his forefathers and ours may have been friends. Do not compare him to the modern snivellers. Ask your hostess to forgive you. You hear me?”

Varona was as if a changed man. He muttered some words and walked aside with Dubatoŭk. I remained with Janoŭskaja.

“My God, Mr. Andrej, I was so frightened for you. You're too good a person to have anything to do with him.”

I raised my eyes. Dubatoŭk stood nearby and curiously looked at me and then at Miss Janoŭskaja.

“Miss Nadzieja,” I said with a warmth I hadn't myself expected. “I am very grateful to you, you are a kind and sincere person, and your concern for me, your goodwill, I shall long remember. It can't be helped, but my pride — the only thing I have, — I never allow anybody to tread on.”

“So you see,” she lowered her eyes. “You are not at all like them. Many of these highborn people would have given in. Evidently, you are the real gentleman here, while they only pretend to be gentlemen… But remember, I have great fear for you. This man is dangerous, he's a man with a dreadful reputation.”

“I know that,” I answered jokingly. “The local ‘aurochs’…”

“Don't joke about it. He is a well-known brawler among us and a rabid duellist. He has killed seven men in duels. And it is perhaps worse for you that I am standing beside you. You understand me?”

I did not at all like this feminine dwarf with her large sad eyes. Her relations with Varona held no interest for me whatsoever, whether he was a sweetheart or a rejected admirer. However, one good deed deserves another. So sweet was she in her care for me, that I took her hand and carried it to my lips.

“My thanks, mademoiselle.” She did not remove her hand, and her transparent gentle little fingers slightly trembled under my lips. In a word, all this sounds too much like a sentimental and somewhat cheap novel about life in high society.

The orchestra of invalids began to play the waltz “Mignon” and the illusion of “high society” immediately disappeared. In conformity with the orchestra were the clothes, in conformity with the clothes were the dances. Cymbals, pipes, something resembling tambourines, an old whistle, and violins. Among the violinists were a gypsy and a Jew, the latter's violin trying all the time to play something very sad instead of the well-known melodies, but when it fell into a merry vein it played something resembling “Seven on a Violin”. And dances that had long gone out of fashion: “Chaqu'un”, “pas-de-deux”, even the Belarusian mannered parody on “Minuet” — “Labiedzik”. And luckily I could dance all of these, for I liked national dances.

“Miss Nadzieja, may I invite you for the waltz?”

She hesitated a moment, shyly raising her fluffy eyebrows.

“I was taught it some time ago, and have probably forgotten.”