Suddenly she threw herself on the floor away from me and buried her head in a pile of some old rags.
“Away! Away with you! You are King Stach!”
The woman beat herself hysterically and shouted loudly. Horrified, I thought that such a fate probably awaited all the people in this region if the black wing of incomprehensible fear were to remain hanging over this land.
I was standing at a loss, when somebody's hand was laid on my shoulder and a man's rough voice said:
“Why are you here? Don't you see that she is a bit — not in her right mind? A wonder, isn't she?”
The fellow went to the ante-room, brought a portrait full of holes from there, and put it on the table. A middle-aged man was depicted in the portrait in a dress-coat and with a “Vladimir”[8] in a button-hole.
Then he dragged the woman out from among the rags, seated her in front of the portrait.
“Mrs. Kulša, this is not King Stach, not at all. Mr. Fieldmarshal has come to take a look at our well-known local beauty. And King Stach — this one here in the portrait — is dead and cannot kill anybody.”
The woman looked at the portrait. Fell silent. The man took out a piece of bread from his bosom, bread as black as earth. The old woman started laughing happily. She began to pinch off bits of bread and put them in her mouth, but kept her eyes on the portrait.
“King Stach! My dear husband. Why do you turn up your nose?”
She either scratched the portrait or happily whispered something to him, continuing to eat her bread. It was possible to examine the unknown man. He was about 30 years old, in a peasant's cloth coat and in leather sandals. Tall he was, well-built, his chest powerful and bulging. Whiskers made his face look severe and somewhat harsh. This impression was strengthened by two little wrinkles between the eyebrows and widely-set burning eyes. A white felt hat was lowered down on his forehead. Something about him breathed of freedom, of the forest.
“You are Ryhor, aren't you? Kulša's watchman?”
“Yes,” he answered, irony in his voice. “And you, apparently, are Miss Janoŭskaja's guest. I've heard of such a bird. You sing well.”
“And are you always like that with her?” I showed at the old woman who was spitting on the portrait with great concentration.
“Always. She's been this way for two years already.”
“But why don't you take her to the district centre for treatment?”
“I pity her. Guests would come when she was in good health, but now not a single dog. The gentry! Our young ladies, to the devil with them...”
“But isn't it difficult for you?”
“No, not at all. If I'm a-hunting, then Zosia looks after her. Nor does she often play pranks. And demands nothing. Only bread, a lot of bread. She wants nothing else.”
He took out an apple from his pocket and offered it to the old woman.
“Highly respected lady, take this.”
“Don't want it,” eating her bread with gusto. “Everywhere poison, bread alone is pure, godly.”
“You see,” Ryhor said gloomily. “Once a day we force her to eat something cooked. Sometimes she bites my fingers: when we give her food — she grabs it... But she wasn't bad when young. Even if she were bad, we couldn't leave her to herself.”
And he smiled such a guilty, childish smile that I was surprised.
“But why is she like that?”
“Got frightened after Raman's death. They all live in fear, and I can tell you, for most of them it's what they deserve.”
“But how about Janoŭskaja?”
“It would be evil to speak badly about her. A kind woman. I'm sorry for her.”
I became bolder now, for I understood — this was not a traitor.
“Listen, Ryhor, I came here to ask you about something.”
“Ask away,” he said.
“I have decided to unravel this Wild Hunt of King Stach's. You understand. I've never seen a ghost, want to feel it with my own hands.”
“Ghosts... spooks,” he grumbled. “Fine ghosts they are, if their horses leave very real excrement along the road! However, sir, why do you want to do that? What reasons have you?”
Now I did not like the way he addressed me.
“Don't call me ‘sir!’ I'm no more a ‘sir’ than you. While as to my reason why... well... it is interesting, that's all. And I feel sorry for the lady and many other people.”
“We understand such things. Like Zosia is for me... But why don't you say that you are angry with them, that you want to take revenge? You see, I know how you escaped from the Wild Hunt near the river.” I was astonished.
“You know about that, do you? How?”
“Every person has eyes, and every person leaves footprints in the earth. You ran away like a sensible man. What's bad is that I always lose their footprints. And they begin and end on the highway.”
I told him about everything from the very beginning. Ryhor listened, sitting motionless, his large rough hands on his knees.
“I've listened attentively,” he said, when I had finished. “I like you, sir. From the peasantry, aren't you? From mužyks, I think; yes, and if not from mužyks, you're not far from them. I, too, have long wanted to get at these spooks, crush them, and make their feathers fly, but I've had no comrade. If you're not joking, then let's get together. However, I see that this idea has only just now come to you: to turn to me. So why suddenly now? And what did you have in mind before?”
“I don't know, why I decided to. People speak well of you: when Janoŭskaja became an orphan, you took pity on her. She told me that you even wanted to come to Marsh Firs to work as watchman, but something interfered. Well, and then I like your being independent, and that you take care of the sick woman, and pity her. But previously I simply wanted to ask you how it had come about that Janoŭskaja was delayed at the Kulša's that evening when Raman was killed.”
“Why she was delayed I, myself, don't know. That day a number of girls had gathered from neighbouring estates at the house of my mistress. They were having a good time there. And why Janoŭskaja was invited — that, too, I don't know. She hadn't been there, you see, many years. And you see for yourself what this woman is like now, she won't tell...”
“Why won't she tell?” the old woman suddenly smiled almost quite sensibly. “I will tell. I'm not mad, it's simply more convenient this way and safer. It was Haraburda who asked that poor Nadzieja should be invited. And his niece was in my house then. You are such a knight, Mr. Fieldmarshal, that I shall tell you everything. Yes, yes, it was Haraburda who advised us then to take the child. Our people are all very kind. Mr. Dubatoŭk had our promissory notes — he didn't begin proceedings against us for their recovery. That's so to speak, a guarantee that you will come to visit me more often and drink wine. Now I can force you to drink even vodka.' Yes, everybody invited Nadzieja. Haraburda, and Fieldmarshal Kamienski, and Dubatoŭk, and Raman, and King Stach, this one here. But your poor little head, Nadzieja, and your golden braids, lie together with your father's bones!”
These lamentations for a living person were distasteful to me and made me wince.
“You see, you've learned something,” Ryhor said gloomily.
When we left, the old woman's wailing quieted down.
“Well then,” Ryhor said, “all right, let's look for them together. I want to see this suprising marvel. I'll try to find out something among the common people, while you'll look among papers and ask the gentry. And maybe we'll learn something...”
His eyes suddenly became bitter, the corners of his eyebrows meeting at the bridge of his
nose.