Владимир Короткевич - King Stach's Wild Hunt

They grinned and it was as if they were apparitions from the graves, they kissed her hand (it seemed to me that they were sucking the blood out of her) and noiselessly floated on. She was so pure in her low-necked dress, but her back reddened when some newly-arriven Don Juan in close-fitting trousers showed too great an ardour as he pressed her hand. These kisses, it seemed to me, smeared her hand with something sticky and filthy.

And only now did I realize how solitary she was, not only in her own house, but also in the midst of this crowd.

“What does this remind me of?” I thought. “Aha, Pushkin's Tatyana among the monsters in the hut. Closed round her, poor girl, as round a doe during a hunt.”

Almost no pure looks to be seen here, but to make up for it what names! It seemed as if I were sitting in an archive and was reading ancient documents of some Court of Acts and Pleas.

“Mr. Sava Matfiejevič Stachoŭski and sons,” the lackey announced.

“Mrs. Ahata Jurjeŭna Falendyš-Chobaleva with her husband and friends.”

“Mr. Jakub Barbare-Haraburda.”

“Mr. Maciej Mustafavič Asanovič.”

“Mrs. Hanna Aŭramovič-Basiackaja and daughter.”

And Bierman, standing behind me, was passing remarks.

For the first time in these days I liked him, so much malice was there in his utterances, with what blazing eyes he met each newly arrived guest, and especially the young ones.

But then there was a flash in his eyes that I couldn't understand. I involuntarily looked in that direction, and my eyes nearly popped out of my head, such a strange sight did I see. Down the steps into the hall a person came rolling, that's right, “rolling”, no other word for it. The man was over two metres in height, approximately like myself, but three Andrej Biełareckis would have fitted into his clothes. A tremendous abdomen, the lower legs like the thighs, as if they were hams, an incredibly broad chest, palms like tubs. Few such giants had ever come my way. Though this was not the most surprising thing. The clothes he was wearing can be seen today only in a museum: red, high-heeled horseshoed boots (our ancestors called them “kabci”), tight-fitting trousers made of a thin cloth. The caftan made of cherrycoloured gold cloth ready to split on his chest and abdomen! This giant had pulled over it a “chuga”, an ancient Belarusian coat. The chuga hung loosely in pretty folds and the designs in it were green, gold and black, and a bright Turkish shawl was tied around it almost up to the man's arm-pits.

And on top of all this sat a surprisingly small head for such a body. His cheeks were puffed as if the man was about to burst out laughing. His long grey hair gave a roundness to his head, his grey eyes were very small, and his long dark whiskers — they had very few grey hairs in them, — reached down to his chest. The appearance of this man was a most peaceful one, but from his left hand hung a “karbač” — a thick, short lash with a silver wire at its end.

In a word, a provincial bear, a merry fellow and a drunkard — this was immediately apparent.

While yet at the door he began to laugh, in such a robust, merry bass voice, that I involuntarily smiled. He walked, and people stepped aside to make way for him, answering him with smiles, such smiles that could have appeared on the sour faces of these people of caste only because they, evidently, loved him. “At last, at least one representative of the good old century,” I thought. “Not a degenerate, not a madman who could as well commit a crime as a heroic deed. And how rich his Belarusian is and how beautifully he speaks it!”

Don't let this last thought surprise you. Although Belarusian was spoken among the petty gentry at this time, the gentry of that stratum of society that this gentleman apparently belonged to did not know the language: among the guests no more than a dozen spoke the language of Marcinkievič and Karatynski, the language of the rest was a mixture of Polish, Russian and Belarusian.

But out of the mouth of this one, while he was walking from the door to the hall on the upper floor, poured apt little words, jokes, and sayings as out of the mouth of any village match-maker. I must confess that he captured me at first sight. Such a colourful person he was that I did not immediately notice his companion, although he also deserved attention. Imagine for yourself a young man, tall, very well-built, and what was rare in this remote corner, dressed in the latest fashion. He would have been handsome were it not for his excessive paleness, sunken cheeks, and an inexplicable expression of animosity that lay on his compressed lips. In his face it was his large eyes with their watery lustre that deserved the greatest attention. Set in a handsome though bilious face they were so lifeless that it made me shiver. Lazarus, when he was risen from the dead, probably had just such eyes.

In the meantime the giant had come up to an old lackey, a man somewhat blind and deaf, and suddenly jerked him by the shoulder.

The lackey had been napping on his feet, but he immediately pulled himself together, and taking in who the new guests were, smiled broadly and shouted:

“The most honourable gentleman, Hryń Dubatoŭk! Mr. Aleś Varona!”

“A very good evening to you, gentlemen,” Dubatoŭk roared. “Why so sad, like mice under a hat? No matter, we'll make you merry in a jiffy. Varona, what little ladies! I was born too early. Oh! What beauties-cuties!”

He walked through the crowd (Varona had stopped near a young lady), and he approached Nadzieja Janoŭskaja. His eyes narrowed and began to sparkle with laughter.

“A good day to you and good evening, my dear!” And gave her a smacking kiss on her forehead. Then he stepped back. “And how slender, how graceful and beautiful you've become! All Belarus will lie at your feet! And may Lucifer carry tar on my back in the next world, if I, an old sinner, won't be drinking a toast to you from the little slipper in a month from now at your wedding. Only your little eyes are somewhat sad. But no matter, I'll make you merry right away.”

And with the fascinating grace of a bear, he turned round on his heels.

“Anton, you devil! Hryška and Piatruś! Has the cholera got you, or what?”

And there appeared Anton, Hryška and Piatruś, bending under the weight of some enormous bundles.

“Well, you louts and lubbards, place everything at the feet of the mistress. Unroll it! You rascals! Your hands, where do they grow from? Not your back? Take it, daughter!”

On the floor in front of Janoŭskaja lay an enormous fluffy carpet.

“Keep it, my dear. It was your grandfather's, but it hasn't been used at all. You'll put it in your bedroom. The wind comes in there, and the feet of all the Janoŭskis are weak ones. It was a mistake, Nadzeyka, not to have come to live with me two years ago. I begged you to, but you wouldn't argee. Well, be that as it may, too late now, you have grown up. And now things will be easier for me. To the devil with this guardianship.”

“Forgive me, dear uncle,” Janoŭskaja said quietly, touched by her guardian's attention. “You know that I wanted to be where my father...”

“Well — well — well,” Dubatoŭk said, embarrassed. “Let it be. I myself hardly ever came to see you, knowing that you would be upset. We were friends with Raman. But no matter, my dear, we are, of course, worldly people. We suffer from overeating and too much drinking; however, God must look into people's souls. And if he does, then Raman, although he was wont to pass the church by but not the tavern, has already long been listening to the angels in heaven, and is looking into the eyes of his poor wife, my cousin. God — He's nobody's fool. The main thing is one's conscience, whereas that hole in one's mouth that asks for a glass of vodka is a vile thing. And they look at you from heaven and your mother does not regret that she gave life to you at the price of her own: such a queen have you become. And you'll soon be getting married. From the hands of your guardian into the fond and strong hands of a husband. Well, what do you think?”