King Stakh's Wild Hunt

We were sitting in the old, abandoned summer-house. Time had covered the stones with moss that after the rain was freshly green again. In the middle of the summer-house was a girl in marble with an ear missing, and a snail was creeping over her face. Miss Janoŭskaja looked at the statue and sadly smiled.

“There, and that's how it's with us. The abominable desolation of our lives. You said that you didn't quite believe it might have been a ghost. I don't agree with you. But even if it were so — what difference does it make? Isn't it all the same what you are suffering from, if suffer you must to atone for sins?”

“You have atoned for them these two years…” I began.

However she paid no attention.

“People fight as spiders do in a jar… The gentry is becoming extinct. We were, formerly, as strong as stone, whereas now… You know, were we to chop off a piece of stone from this old building, slugs would be found there. Who knows what it is they feed on there? Should you strike something against this stone it will fall to pieces. The same with us. Well, let them strike — the sooner the better.”

“And you will not regret the loss of such beauty?” I said pointing to the house and everything around.

“No. My only wish is that it should come the sooner. I've long been ready to disappear together with this hole. I'd have no regret, either for it or for myself. But I've begun to notice lately that I'm slightly worried about life, that I should regret its loss, it's probably not so bad as I had thought it. There may be some sense in believing in the sun, in friends, in the budding of the trees, in bravery, and in faithfulness.”

“It's a good thing that you have begun to think so.”

“No, it's very bad. It's a hundred times more difficult to die loving life than to die believing it to be what I had formerly supposed it was. Previously, my soul was habitually in a state of fright. Now it is changing into something that I have no name for, something that I have no wish for. And all because I have begun to believe a little in people. This belief is unnecessary. Unnecessary this hope. It was better and calmer the way things were previously.”

We kept silent for a while. She bent down to a branch half fallen down from a maple tree and ran a hand over it.

“People don't always lie. I'm very grateful to you, Mr. Biełarecki. You must forgive me for having listened to your conversation with Śvieciłovič. Such a kind and pure soul, the only real person in this district besides yourself, and yes, perhaps my dear uncle. I'm thankful that not everywhere do people have more nerve than brains.”

“By the way, about Dubatoŭk. What, in your opinion, must I do? Shall I tell him everything and then together we could begin to expose all the abominations?”

Her eyelashes quivered.

“No, don't! He is a very good man. He has a hundred times proved his devotion and faithfulness to our family. He didn't let Haraburda bring an action against us for a promissory note when my father was still alive, and the means he used were not quite proper: he called out Haraburda to fight a duel and said that all his relatives would call out Haraburda as long as he lived. And that's why I'd not wish to have Dubatoŭk interfere. He's too hot-tempered, this dear uncle of mine.”

Her eyes were thoughtful and sad, but suddenly brightened.

“Mr. Biełarecki, I've long wished to say this to you. After our talk last night, when you swore your oath, I realized there was no time to be lost. You must leave Marsh Firs, leave it today! At the latest — tomorrow, and return to the city. Enough's enough! The violins have played their song, the fineries have been put away. Death has its own laws. There is nothing you can do here. Leave us, leave this house that the centuries have been covering with filth, leave these despicable people and their crimes to what best fits them: the night and the rain. You are too much alive for all this. And you are a stranger.”

“Miss Nadzieja!” I exclaimed. “What are you saying? I've already been reproached here, have already been called an outsider. Could I have expected to hear this cruel word from you, too? What have I done to deserve it?”

“Nothing,” she answered dryly. “But it's too late. Everything comes too late in the world. You are too much alive. Go to your people, to those who are alive, who go hungry and can laugh. Go and conquer. And leave the graves to the dead…”

“But aren't you my people?” I exploded. “And these people, frightened and hungry, aren't they my people? And Śvieciłovič, whom I shall have to betray, isn't he of my people? And thest god-forsaken swamps where abominable things occur, aren't these swamps my land? And the children crying at night when they hear the hoofs of the Wild Hunt, trembling with fright all their lives, aren't they my brethren's children? How can you even dare suggest such a thing to me?”

She wrung her hands.