King Stakh's Wild Hunt

“Just a moment,” I said, “is there any such law that liberals are outcasts and must be outlawed? A villain can murder them and bear no responsibility?”

“Don't magnify things, my dear Mr. Biełarecki,” the dandy said, drawing out his words, “you are prone to magnifying life's horrors.”

This ridiculous grumbler (I can't think of any other word, most certainly considered the death of a person only a “magnifying of life's horrors.”

“And I think,” I said vehemently, “that it is necessary to hand this case over to the court, that a legal investigation must be instigated. Here we have to deal with malicious intent. Here people are driven mad, of course with a definite aim in view. This gang holds the entire neighbourhood in terror, terrifies and murders people.”

“Now do-on't, sir, no good going on like that, sir. This makes the people become more moderate. According to rumour, the murdered one was a follower of Bacchus, given to drinking and merrymaking. And it is dangerous to manifest obvious sympathy for such fellows. A political suspect, disloyal, not trustworthy and obviously, a separatist, taking the part of the mužyks, how should I put it?… bewailing his younger brother.”

I was furious, but for the time being held myself in check.To quarrel with the police would be the last straw.

“You don't wish to intervene in the case concerning the murder of Śvieciłovič?”

“God forbid, God forbid!” he interrupted. “It's that we simply doubt whether we can unravel this case, and we cannot compel our investigator to do everything in his power to solve the case of a man whose ideas were directed in quite an opposite direction to those of all honest, loyal sons of our country.”

And with a charming smile he waved his hand in the air.

“Alright. If the Imperial Russian Court does not wish to force the investigator to establish the truth in the case of the murder of Śvieciłovič, an aristocrat, then perhaps it will wish to force the investigator to unravel the case concerning the attempt to deprive Nadzieja Janoŭskaja, the owner of Marsh Firs, of her sanity and her life?”

Comprehensively he looked at me, turned pink at some pleasant thought, and smacked his lips several times, lips fat and moist, and asked:

“But why are you taking such pains for her sake? You've decided, most certainly to make use of her yourself, haven't you? And why not? I approve of that: in bed she is, most probably, not bad.”

The blood rushed to my face. The insult to my unfortunate friend, the insult to a beloved one, whom even in my thoughts I could not call mine, became united into one. I don't remember how a whip came to be in my hand. I choked with fury.

“You… you… skunk!”

And with all my might I dealt him a blow on his dark-pink face.

I thought he would take out his revolver and kill me. But this strong fellow only groaned. Once again I struck him across his face and threw the whip away in disgust.

Like a bullet he flew out of the room into the yard in great haste and only about half a kilometre away did he cry: “Help!”

When Ryhor learned about everything, he didn't approve of what I had done. He said that I had spoiled everything, that I'd most certainly be called out to the district on the following day, and would be imprisoned for a week or banished from the region. But I had to be here, for the darkest nights had set in. I had however, no regrets. I had put all my hatred into that blow. And even if the district officials didn't lift a finger to help me, still, now I knew well who was my friend and who my enemy.

Other events of this and the following day vaguely imprinted themselves on my memory: good old Dubatoŭk, bitter tears choking him as he cried over the dead youth, and still hardly able to move after the “treat” I had given him; Miss Nadzieja standing at the coffin, wrapped in a black mantilla, so beautiful, so pure in her mourning.

As if in a dream I afterwards recalled the funeral procession. I was leading Janoŭskaja, holding her by the arm, and against the background of the grey autumn sky people walking with heads bared, the twisted birches throwing their dead, yellow leaves at the feet of the people. The face of the murdered man floating overhead.

Peasant women, mužyks, children, old men following behind the coffin, and a quiet sobbing sounding in the air. In front of us Ryhor carrying on his back a large cross made of oak.

And louder and louder still, soaring upward over the entire mourning procession, over the wet earth, the bewailing voices of the women.