CHAPTER IV. THE next morning, at sunrise, Pavel was retracing the road over the Gallician frontier in company with his cousin. The latter probably thought some explanation necessary, for, as he entered his native territory, he said : "Now, Pavel, that you are old enough fully to understand your position, it is but fair you should be put on your guard as to the dangers that will surround you on your return to the estate of your master. But first, tell me how much do you recollect of the past ?" "I recollect that a beggar woman attempted to frighten me into the belief that I was her son." "You mean poor old Jakubska? I swear to you she is your mother, as you will find by the parish register. Who should know that better than myself, who am your father's cousin? That you ever were wrongfully palmed upon the count, was the fault of my poor deceased sister, who would have gone through fire rather than see the Countess Vanda weep. She devised and conducted the whole affair. However, they all meant it for the best; and, had the countess not been seized with remorse at the last, it would have answered very well." Pavel listened with an incredulous smile. "Well, you will find it all true, to your cost," said the cousin, " for your name is down in the steward's book among the other serfs, and you will, by and by, be reminded of your real condition, I promise you." "I suppose I can run away," said Pavel, sullenly, " if I don't like it?" "For that you will want a few things not easily come at. Who is to get you a passport? Besides, I know it for sure, that the bailiff has already asked after you, most likely by his master's orders, and certainly without the slightest notion of your having ever borne another name. Doubtless, he will keep a sharp look-out." "But if I do not choose to remain?" persisted Pavel. "Ay, but the law binds you. Say, however, you get off-you can't apply to the count-what would you do to live? Go into service? You are as well here. You have no money that I know of to set up anything for yourself. Besides, I must tell you that your mother has been greatly tried during the last few years. All your brothers are dead. She has been bed-ridden, and, but for the pension secured to her by the count, must have starved. Now, indeed, she is better, and can hobble about the room; but she'll never be able to do much for herself-so it is your duty to stay at home and work for her. She has given out that you have been with distant relations since your birth, which makes your long absence and present return seem natural enough. If you keep quiet, all may go well; and the count may in time remember you with less bitterness. You must not spoil your own chances. After all, remember you are a born vassal, and have no right whatever to anything better than your present lot." And now, for the first time since their separation, the young man obtained some information about the General, and his habits of life, subsequent to the Countess Vanda's death. With the exception of occasional visits to his mines, he had not been seen on the estate, and had never approached the chateau. Having, a year after his bereavement, married again, he had, in right of his wife, acquired another domain, on which he chiefly resided, leaving to the care of his bailiffs his lands of Stanoiki, nor did anything seem to indicate his intention of ever again dwelling upon them. "And the servants who accompanied him on the day of his departure-the coachman-the jager?" demanded Pavel. "They have never been heard of since," said the cousin. "The peasants were duly informed of Count Leon's death, said to have taken place on a tour through Russia. You may be sure the count has procured all the papers necessary to prove his version of the story; so every precaution, you see, has been taken; and after all he has done to blot out every trace of your existence, I leave you to judge if he is likely to leave unpunished any blabbing of yours. See what it will bring upon you, that's all. It is easy to silence you in such a way that you will never be tempted to meddle with his affairs again. So be prudent, and keep your own counsel." The man knew not what to hope or what to fear from the boy's obstinate silence. He continued to preach him into patience and discretion until they arrived at Jakubska's cottage, an abode so wretched and comfortless, that his late home might well seem worth regretting-not but, as Pavel's cousin explained, it might have been very different, considering the pension she enjoyed, had she not ruined herself by drinking. "Every farthing of it goes for brandy," said he, " or she might have paid for you at the Jew's these last two years, and kept her hut in better trim too. However, she is your mother-you must not quarrel with her little weaknesses, especially now that she has no other child left but you." The hut stood somewhat apart from the village. Like all such tenements, it was put together of lime, sand, and wood, materials at no time very solid, but which, from the owner's neglect, showed a tendency to ruin on all sides. The solitary chimney seemed about to fall. The thatch had been blown from the roof, through which patches of sky were visible. The cottage had all the appearance of having been shaken by a recent earthquake. Pavel paused an instant before crossing the threshold. "Is it not lucky," said his cousin, "that you were prepared for this by your long sojourn at Noah's? I don't think you would have liked it fresh from the castle." Pavel smiled, but did not give utterance to the thought that rose in his mind at that moment; namely, that to be Jakubska's son and a serf, was a fate which, to him, no externals could either aggravate or soften; and he resolutely entered the | hut. Jakubska lay huddled up on the bench by the stove, her person more ragged and shrunken than ever, but her eyes glittering with the same painful, piercing look that had affected him when a boy. "Well, gossip," she said, addressing her cousin, may the Virgin repay you your trouble and kindness-you have brought me home at length my last, my only one; they are all dead and gone, my good boys, who loved me and whom I loved there remains but this ungrateful one, who would not come when he knew me at death's door; but still my own Pavel, the only one left me." She put forth her arms as if to embrace him, but Pavel made no motion towards her. The woman crossed herself rapidly, muttering as she did so-" I have been a great sinner, and this will be my punishment." "Well," said the cousin, "I'll leave you for a time to make acquaintance, whilst I go and refresh myself hard by." The moment the door closed upon him, Pavel approached the old woman, threw himself at her feet, and clasping his hands, as if prostrate before a saint, exclaimed: "By all that is holy, I conjure you tell me the truth-you are not my mother-the count pays you to deceive me, as well as every one else?” "Pavel, Pavel! why will you come back upon that after so many long years? There is no oath so sacred but I am ready to take, to convince you that you are my own legitimate child. I will swear it on the graves of your father and brothers. Is there, then, no voice in nature to tell you so?" "How changed! how changed!" mumbled the old woman, in a rambling way to herself. "No one will take him for a count now, with that dark brow, sulky look, and loutish bearing; and yet my own handsome Pavel, I'll be bound, if I could but see his face;" but Pavel resolutely kept his face averted. "I have been very sick," she continued, " and could not go to see you, and then God deprived me of the use of my limbs; but you never missed me, and I had then good sons to take care of me; but I-I never forgot my last-born; and though I have been pinched at times, and sorely tempted, 1 never parted, or dreamt of parting, with the only gift of my own flesh and blood, all count as he then was." She rose, and, with feeble steps, tottered over to her bed, which was surrounded with color prints of the family's patron saints; a rude crucifix of wood and a benitier standing at its head and foot, and sundry branches of consecrated box, embowering a flaring image of the virgin over the crucifix. From some hidden nook behind the bed, the old woman brought out a broken cup, in which Pavel recognized the small gold buttons, a gift from the count, which he had brought on one occasion from Lemberg, the child having expressed a caprice for the then new fashion. These trinkets were the only objects that had floated across his way from the wreck of his fortunes. He snatched the cup from Jakubska's hand, and, holding it to the light, he gazed intently at the jewels. Each button was a small ruby, surrounded with filigree work. Light as that tracery had then been his thoughtshis hopes bright as those rubies-and, now! Pavel looked earnestly into her eyes. The "These buttons are mine!" he said, with im woman returned his gaze with one as steady. He had encouraged the belief that Jakubska would reveal all at his urgent solicitation; he now felt like a drowning man, between whom and the deep the last plank has given way, and, rising from his knees, he said coldly : "Well, I shall work for you." Jakubska made no reply. Vile as was her spirit, deeply as it was steeped in insensibility, her son had inflicted pain on her; and she felt that one dark shadow more had fallen on her cheerless life. Though in his heart he did not, would not, credit petuosity. "So they are," answered the old woman; "take them back, Pavel, if you like." "I will find means to give you the equivalent," said he, grasping the treasure. "Though why you should like to remember those people," she continued, " is more than I can understand. It is true I don't know much about fine writing, but it seems to me that there never was anything more touching than the petition got up by the Jew in your favor. I had it read out to me by a priest, without telling him for whom it the tale of her relationship to himself, still the was intended, and by whom addressed. Well, I sincerity and solemnity of her manner had raised presented it. It was one day when I knew the doubts in his mind, and somewhat startled his con- count had gone up to his mines-he sometimes science; for Noah's house was a school where visits them, though he never comes near the castle age. filial duty was enforced above all others. He could not, he would not, love that woman, or acknowledge her as his parent; but yet he felt it incumbent upon him to provide for her in her old He would not have her curse on his headin case she were his mother. He would take upon himself the cultivation of the bit of land that had fallen to his father's lot, and see what he could make of it. As these ideas flitted through his mind, he stood, with folded arms, gazing through the solitary windows upon the bleak prospect with out. -the moment he saw me, he looked as black as thunder, and asked me what I wanted with himwere you dead? I thought he looked as if he wished it." Pavel clenched his hand. "He took the paper, cast a hasty glance at it, then throwing it in my face, rode off with a curse." Pavel's head fell on his breast. He had cherished a secret hope that this petition had never reached the count, or that some show of tenderness had accompanied its reception. But no; spurned like a hound-how he hated that man! His emotion was too deep for utterance. "He'll get no more petitions from me to spurn," he mentally | Whenever wagon-loads of stone or wood had to be resolved, and resolved it in the bitterness of a transported over heavy country by-roads, Pavel's wounded heart. At Noah's, Pavel had heard a great deal of oppression, but never suffered from it; young as he was, he had now to feel it. The count's steward was by nature a grinding, harsh-tempered man, who had the double task to perform of presenting correct accounts to a master who was not easy to blind, and feathering his own nest. These two achievements demanded the greatest nicety of proceeding, and the sufferers were, of course, the serfs. If the terms of a peasant's tenure exacted two days' work in the week, then as surely would the steward require a third to be devoted to his own bit of land; and whatever advantages devolved on the peasants by right, he curtailed it by half. If a cottage required repair, or a case of peculiar distress occurred, it was noted down in his books, and set forth at a most extravagant rate; but the roof was not thatched, the relief was not afforded. Of those tithes that are paid in kind, a large portion found its way into his own yard and granary. His system was this:- If a man's tithe comprised two fowls at a certain season, it was an understood thing that he must deliver three, that the steward might have his share. Should the peasant neglect this precaution, he might make sure that the work allotted to him and his horses would try both man and cattle in such a manner, that the unlucky serf might consider himself fortunate if he could purchase forgiveness by the payment of an extra fowl, with, perhaps, the addition of a basket of eggs, or a measure of wheat and rye. If the peasant happened to keep on his own land one cow or horse more than was, by regulation, allotted to that piece of ground, the animal must either be given up, or the steward duly softened. It was not long before Pavel became acquainted with this man. His independent bearing was evidently displeasing from the first; and the steward was not slow in manifesting symptoms of hostility. He was confirmed in this course by the count's having ordered him to keep a sharp look-out after the Jakubskas, which he interpreted into a token of dislike, and, therefore, set down the lone widow and her youthful son as legitimate objects of his malignity; and he showed it in a series of galling annoyances. Thus, free pasture on the castle lands for the widow's cattle being among the privileges granted by the late countess, Pavel one day permitted a favorite goat to stray into one of these paddocks. He was immediately summoned before the count's court of justice, and punished-slightly, indeed, for no extent of ill-will could construe this into a crime. On paying his periodical visits to the steward's house with his mother's tithes, he was invariably accused of having brought light weights, and forced to add greatly to what was really due; when it was his turn to work on his lords's lands, he never worked sufficiently-he had never done his task properly; and more was exacted from him than from any one else, though all were overtoiled, and knew themselves to be so. horses were sure to be put in requisition; but if, as happened once or twice, an animal died in consequence of being over-labored, Pavel had no redress, nor could he get his beast replaced. On such occasions, however, he lamented the loss less than he was enraged at witnessing the sufferings of the poor animals, for which he ever had the greatest sympathy, and seeing them expire beneath a brutality which he could neither avert nor revenge; and when his over-burthened horses looked at him with the reproachful glances of human beings, and he was yet compelled to flog then on, his heart hardened towards mankind-no amount of human suffering could move him after that. "Man, at least," thought he, "might complain, might resist; but I-serf that I am-can I complain? can I resist? am I not as much in the thrall as these poor victims?" and he grew more insensible with injustice, his temper became fiercer, his thoughts darker. There was nothing in his home to soften these impressions. Jakubska, discontented, often beside herself with drink, always irritable, incapable of attending to her womanly duties, yielded him no comfort; but, by her loathsome presence and habits, added a sting to his wretchedness. She played her mean tricks even upon him. Often did he find his pockets rifled in the night of the very few pence they contained. Often when he had, by dint of the severest exertion and self-denial, laid by the tithe due to church or lord, would she dispose of the treasured-up debt in his absence, and leave him to settle it with the exacting steward and the count's justice as best he might. At first Pavel remonstrated threatened to abandon her; but she laughed his threats to scorn. Thus there was not in the whole village a man more sober or hardworking, yet more frequently fined and punished, than Pavel. For now Pavel was a man. long years had passed in this perpetual hopeless struggle with his destiny; still neither Jakubska's vices, nor the steward's persecutions diminished, nor did any change of feeling occur to turn the current of his afflictions. They settled down ever more gloomily on his spirit, and left at the bottom of his nature but one element, that of sullen despair. Ten It is not, however, to be supposed that discontent was restricted to Pavel. The whole estate, for fifteen years under the steward's rule, complained grievously; and forgetting altogether how often they had, under similar circumstances, complained of the count, they now longed for his presence among them. At last, one morning in spring, the great event was announced-he was about to return. To say that the people rejoiced at the prospect of seeing him for his own sake, would be saying too much; affection so vivid as to inspire a sentiment of this kind towards their lords is not generally known to the Gallician peasantry; but there was a hope, a vague feeling, that now their rights, such as they THE MODERN VASSAL. were, would be respected, and their situation some- | ters of the most affluent inhabitants of the villages, what bettered. They hailed the event, in short, drew near to offer nosegays to the countess; but as one likely to be productive of good. To Pavel, it was raught with a nameless, indescribable interest. He could not have shaped his confused hopes and sensations into form; but he had a presentiment as of some impending change. At any rate, he would be roused from the footmen took the flowers from their hands, and the torpor in which his whole being was petrify- the veil that half hid the countess' face was not ing. Soon, indeed, wagons, laden with furniture, made their appearance slowly nearing the chateau; and, a few days later, the count followed alone, to prepare everything for the reception of his family. Now, for the first time since her death, the apartments of the late countess were thrown open. These the general determined to appropriate to his own use, and gave directions that another part of the mansion should be fitted up for his present wife. About a week after his arrival, an elegant travelling carriage, preceding several others, was seen entering the estate, and rolling at great speed along the road leading to the mansion. The count's orders had been given that a village fete should be got up to celebrate the arrival of the mistress of Stanoiki. The peasants of the two chief villages, in the nearest of which Pavel resided, were, accordingly, decked out in their best attire, and with rifles, from which to send forth triumphant salutes; accompanied by little village maidens with baskets full of flowers and early violets, to strew upon the countess' path. They now stood drawn up to receive her on the lawn before the chatean, singing some old native song, in which the words maminka and papinka gos podino and gos podina (mother, father, lord and lady) figured ad infinitum. There was, however, something like a blight upon the scene. The idea of alighting never seemed to occur to the countess; and her carriage, hermetically closed, looked, together with those that immediately followed it, like so many hearses drawn up in the midst of the rejoicing peasantry. The violets and primroses fell at the horses' feet, and were soon trampled beneath their hoofs. The weather was damp, and the rifles flashed in the pan; and the rich pure voices peculiar to the Sclavonic race were accompanied by the croaking of frogs from the marshy banks of the river, where they were rejoicing in the first warmth of the year. Whilst the physiognomy of the Slavonic peasant is distinguished by the peculiar type of the slave, extreme depression, and an apathy which borders on stolidity, the noble of those countries unites, with an undeniable grace and peculiarly aristocratic form, a harshness of aspect, and a hauteur which, coupled with the brutalized appearance of the lower orders, gives a key to the existence of the latter. The General Count Stanoiki, as he rode up to the carriage in which his wife sat, and took his stand beside it, had a look so cold, so abstracted from the scene, so unapproachable, that the peasants felt a chill at their hearts that increased the natural mournfulness of their voices. The chorus of welcome being finished, a few young girls, daugh removed. The thin lace could not, however, con- The carriage then rolled into the castle-yard, and the peasantry were sent home till the evening, when their presence would be required for the framework of a rural fete. The guests were shown their several apartments. The servants, all huddled together in the common room, immediately fell to upon what eatables they could find; and soon the so long silent house reëchoed to the unwonted sounds of animation. The count, his wife, and child, repaired to the room where first we saw Leon. Here nothing had been altered. The chamber was as naked and faded as of yore; the persons who occupied it alone were changed. The count was no longer in his prime as when last he stood there; the few years that had since elapsed seemed to have weighed him down. His tall figure was, indeed, erect as ever; but his head was bald, and the thin locks yet clinging to the temples were fast merging from gray into the silver tints. His bushy eyebrows and fierce mustachios were thickly grizzled; and his aquiline features had assumed an austere expression that repulsed all advances. The heart naturally closed before that aspect of utter abstraction. His lady, though nearly thirty, scarcely seemed past twenty, so juvenile was her style of beauty. Of middle height and slender form, with eyes, hair, and skin, of the palest possible tints, with features which, though not strictly regular, were the most delicate imaginable, with lips well nigh as colorless as her cheek, the countess was one of those women for whom the words ethereal and sylph-like seem expressly invented, or who, more properly, may be said to have inspired them. She understood well the peculiarity of her style, and how to make the most of it; her hair surrounded her face in fleecy clouds, and her dress was ever of the lightest, most transparent materials. I know not if Lavater has illustrated the truth of the following remark; it is generally in this sort of nebula phantom that the hardest kernel may be found. A warm heart, and a lively fancy, like rich soils, develop a more abundant and highly colored vegetation; but beneath these spotless snows one may be pretty sure to discover, in the long run, a good, solid foundation of ice, and hard, sterile ground. Those who had no systems, and drew no foregone conclusions, might be divided, with respect to the countess, into two distinct classes: her inferiors, who, even at the first glance, felt an unutterable repulsion from her, and her equals, who strongly suspected her mind to be of the same unearthly nature answer; but as his wife remained silent, he said as her person. This difference was easy to un- in a milder tone derstand. To the former, her half-closed eyes, which, it seemed, she could not take the trouble to open to their full extent to gaze on their worthlessness, the sneer of her curling lip, the impatience of her slightly-elevated eyebrows, conveyed an impression of such ineffable insolence, that more perfect features than hers would have been obscured by it. Among her equals her disdainful "It is necessary that my son should be known on his principal estate-that from which he will one day draw a considerable part of his fortune; and as you will never let him go anywhere without you" "I know my duty as a mother and a wife," interrupted the countess, drawing herself up primly. "If you go where I do not like to be, still I must estate when you are at another." indolence vanished; her frigid grace was deemed follow-I am yet too young and too good-looking purity, and her angel wings were clearly discern- to spend my summers alone at a bath, or on one ible. In téte à téte with her husband, her countenance had a third and no less marked expression; it was that of irrepressible ennui, which the difference in their age might explain, but could not justify. Near the fauteuil on which his mother lay reclining, stood her son, now twelve years of age, with the same gray eyes, flaxen curls, and pallor, that distinguished his mother, but with features more irregular, and which want of strength and expression rendered utterly insignificant. It was a puny, sickly child, on whose faded, old-looking countenance might be traced the baneful effects of late hours and the atmosphere of crowded rooms. The child had remained the solitary fruit of their union, and was the heir of Stanoiki. Certainly the group bore little resemblance to that which had preceded it fifteen years before, yet there was one thing that was not changed-the heir of Stanoiki was as spoiled and as wilful as ever Leon had been. "It is all very well," said the countess, languidly, endeavoring to suppress a yawn, " to visit this place en passant, but it is too much out of the way of my friends to spend here any length of time." "It is my intention," said the general, "to devote the few next summers to my estate; I have too long neglected it." "I always hated the place!" said the countess. "How could you hate, my dearest Sophie, what you did not know?" "Oh, because that is the great drawback to marrying a widower-there is always a portion of his past life which does not belong to one. Now this place is so connected with your first wife and child, that I fancy their shadows are haunting every spot." The words conjured up the image of a soft, pale female, and a hearty boy, which was as instantly repressed by the strength of the count's will, but his brow clouded over. "But I shall like to be here," said the boy"I think there will be more pleasure in boating and riding, on the lake and about these grounds, than anywhere I have yet been." "Well, Casimir, if you like it," said the mother, " it will be a comfort at least; but I can't fancy with what I shall amuse my guests!-drive them to the mines-boat down the river-et puis après?" "Oh, you'll have scandal and cards here, as everywhere else,” said the general. The countess was about to cast on her husband one of her most vindictive glances, but one of the guests happening to enter the chamber at the moment, she exchanged it for one of welcome. The general left the room, followed by Casimir. "Where are the stables, papa? where is my pony? where is the boat you promised me ?" The count passed his hand over his brow as these accents, tinged with an infantine acridity, that reminded him but too well of the maternal ones, reached his ear. Similar requests, made in a franker, more joyous tone, still dwelt on his memory, and the figure of a bold, dark boy, shooting along the river alone in his boat, or scouring the grounds on his pony, flitted across his mind. But that child of his love was no more, though the child of the slave still existed. Recollections here crowded from all sides upon him. For fifteen years he had not had the courage to face them, and he felt it would yet be the work of time to disconnect the images of the past from that abode. He had known but little of happiness since Vanda's death. Childless and wealthy, when his proposals had been accepted by a young creature who might have been his daughter, and whose brilliant advantages of person and fortune entitled her to make her own selection, he thought he had every reason to congratulate himself; nor had the warnings of a few, faithful old friends, as to the danger of wedding one so much his junior, been in any way justified by the sequel. The countess' behavior, as a wife, was beyond the breath of scandal. Not only virtue, but prudence and discretion had guided her every step. But if the count knew none of those heart-burning jealousies that are generally the lot of elderly husbands of young wives, yet his self-love gained but little on that score; for the countess made him feel, as well as the rest of the world, how admirable was her be |
