“For God’s sake, have a care!”
“Who is her father, if not the prince? Who is her mother, if not you, gracious lady?”
And Danuśka answered, “My gracious little mother!”
“It is true that I have been and am a mother to her,” said the duchess, “and it was from my hand that Jurand received a wife. True, and if the marriage were once performed, then it is done. Jurand might be angry, but after all, he owes obedience to the prince as his lord. Besides, we need not tell him at once—only if he wanted to give the girl to another, or make a nun of her…”
“But if he has made some vow, then it will not be his fault. No one can withstand the will of God… By the living God, perhaps this is the will of God!”
“It cannot be otherwise!” cried Zbyszko.
But the duchess, still deeply moved, said, “Wait, let me collect myself. If the prince were here, I would go to him at once and ask: shall I give Danuśka or not? But without him I am afraid… It has quite taken my breath away, and there is no time to lose, for the girl must leave tomorrow. O dear Jesus, if only she could leave as a married woman, there would be peace. Only I cannot collect my thoughts, and I am afraid of something. Are you not afraid, Danuśka? Speak!”
“I shall die without this!” Zbyszko broke in.
And Danuśka rose from the duchess’s knees, and since she was indeed not only permitted such familiarity by her good mistress but even petted, she threw her arms around her neck and began to hug her with all her might.
But the duchess said, “Without Father Wyszoniek I will tell you nothing. Run and fetch him as quickly as you can!”
Danuśka ran for Father Wyszoniek, while Zbyszko turned his pale face to the duchess and said, “Whatever Lord Jesus has ordained for me, so it shall be, but for this need, may God reward you, gracious lady.”
“Do not bless me yet,” replied the duchess, “for who knows what will happen. And you must also swear on your honor that if the marriage takes place, you will not forbid the girl to go to her father at once, so that—God forbid—you do not bring his curse upon yourself and upon her.”
“On my honor,” said Zbyszko.
“Then remember it! And the girl must say nothing to Jurand at first. Better that the news should not burn him like fire. We will send for him from Ciechanów, so that he comes with Danuśka, and then I will tell him myself, or I will beg the prince to do so. When he sees there is no help for it, he will consent. He has never done you wrong, has he?”
“No,” said Zbyszko, “he has never done me wrong, so perhaps he will even be glad in his heart that Danuśka will be mine. For if he made a vow, it will not be his fault if he cannot keep it.”
The entrance of Father Wyszoniek with Danuśka interrupted the further conversation. The duchess summoned him at once to counsel and with great fervor began to tell him of Zbyszko’s intentions. But he had scarcely heard what was at stake when he crossed himself in amazement and said, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost! How can I do this? It is Advent!”
“For God’s sake! True!” cried the duchess.
And silence fell, only their distressed faces showed what a blow Father Wyszoniek’s words were to them all.
After a moment he said, “If there were a dispensation, I would not oppose it, for I pity you. I would not necessarily ask Jurand’s permission, for since the gracious lady permits it and guarantees the consent of our lord the prince—well, then, they are father and mother to all Masovia. But without the bishop’s dispensation, I cannot. Bah! If only Bishop Jakób of Kurdwanów were among us, perhaps he would not refuse the dispensation—though he is a stern priest, not like his predecessor, Bishop Mamphiolus, who answered everything with ‘bene! bene!’”
“Bishop Jakób of Kurdwanów greatly loves both the prince and me,” put in the lady.
“That is just why I say he would not refuse the dispensation, especially since there are reasons for it. The girl must leave, and the young man is ailing and may die. Hm! In articulo mortis… But without a dispensation, there is no way…”
“I would beg Bishop Jakób for the dispensation afterward, and however stern he may be, he will not refuse me this grace. I assure you, he will not refuse.”
At this Father Wyszoniek, who was a good and gentle man, said, “The word of the Lord’s anointed is a great word. I fear the bishop, but that is a great word! The young man might also promise something to the cathedral in Plock… I do not know. Still, until the dispensation comes, it will be a sin—and not someone else’s, but mine. Hm! Lord Jesus is truly merciful, and if someone sins not for his own gain but out of compassion for human misery, He forgives all the more easily. But it will be a sin, and if the bishop balks, who will give me absolution?”
“The bishop will not balk!” cried Princess Anna.
Father Wyszoniek thought that in the worst case he might face church penance, so he turned to the duchess and said, “I am a priest, but I am also the prince’s servant. What do you command, gracious lady?”
“I do not wish to command, I prefer to ask,” answered the lady.
“It is only the bishop I am concerned about. He holds stern synods with the canons there in Plock.”
“Do not fear the bishop. I have heard that he forbade priests swords, crossbows, and various licentiousness, but he did not forbid doing good.”
Father Wyszoniek raised his eyes and hands on high. “Then let it be done according to your will.”
At these words joy seized their hearts. Zbyszko sat down again on the pillows, and the duchess, Danuśka, and Father Wyszoniek sat by the bed and began to deliberate how the matter should be done. They resolved to keep the secret so that not a living soul in the house should know of it. They also resolved that Jurand should know nothing until the lady herself informed him of everything at Ciechanów. Father Wyszoniek was to write a letter from the duchess to Jurand, asking him to come at once to Ciechanów, where better remedies for his maiming might be found and where loneliness would trouble him less.
Finally they resolved that both Zbyszko and Danuśka would go to confession, and the marriage would take place at night, when everyone had gone to bed.
It occurred to Zbyszko to take the Czech squire as a witness to the marriage, but he abandoned that plan when he remembered that he had him from Jagienka. For a moment she stood in his memory as if alive, so that he seemed to see her rosy face, her tear-filled eyes, and to hear her voice pleading: “Do not do this to me! Do not repay me with evil for good and misery for love!” And suddenly great pity for her seized him, for he felt that a heavy wrong would be done to her, one from which she would find no consolation under the Zgorzelice roof, nor in the depths of the forest, nor in the field, nor in the abbot’s gifts, nor in the courtship of Cztan and Wilk. So he said to her in his spirit, “May God give you all the best, girl, but even if I wished to bend heaven for you, I cannot help it.” And indeed, the conviction that it was not in his power soon brought him relief and restored his peace, so that he immediately began to think only of Danuśka and the marriage.
He could not, however, manage without the Czech’s help, so although he had resolved to say nothing to him of what was to happen, he had him summoned and said, “I will go to confession today and to the Lord’s Table, so dress me as neatly as possible, as if I were going to the royal chambers.”
The Czech was somewhat alarmed and began to search his face. Understanding this, Zbyszko said, “Do not fear, people do not confess only before death, and all the more since the holy days are coming, when Father Wyszoniek will leave with the duchess for Ciechanów, and there will be no priest nearer than Przasnysz.”
“And will your lordship not go?” asked the squire.
“If I recover, I will go, but that is in God’s hands.”
So the Czech was reassured, and springing to the packs, he brought out that white doublet, captured as spoil, embroidered with gold, which the knight usually wore for great ceremonies, and also a fine little carpet to cover his legs and the bed. Then, lifting Zbyszko with the help of two Turks, he washed him, combed his long hair, and placed a scarlet band upon it. Finally he propped him thus adorned against the red pillows and, pleased with his own work, said, “If only your lordship could dance, we might even hold a wedding.”
“It would have to do without dancing,” replied Zbyszko with a laugh.
Meanwhile the duchess was also pondering in her chamber how to attire Danuśka, for to her womanly nature this was a matter of great importance, and she would not for anything consent that her dear foster child should stand at her marriage in everyday clothing. The serving maids, who had been told that the girl was also preparing for confession in the color of innocence, easily found a white dress in the chest, but there was trouble with adorning her head. At the thought of this, a strange sadness seized the lady, so that she began to lament.
“Where shall I find for you, little orphan,” she said, “a wreath—a rue wreath in this forest? There is no flower here, no leaf, unless moss greens somewhere under the snow.”
And Danuśka, standing with her hair already loose, grew worried too, for the wreath mattered to her as well. After a moment, however, she pointed to the bunches of everlastings hanging on the walls of the chamber and said, “Even if we weave one from these, since we will find nothing else, Zbyszko will take me even in such a wreath.”
The duchess did not want to agree to this at first, fearing an evil omen, but since in the manor, which was only visited for hunting, there were no flowers at all, it ended with the everlastings. Meanwhile Father Wyszoniek arrived, who had already heard Zbyszko’s confession, and he took the girl to confession. Then deep night fell. The servants, after supper, went to bed by the duchess’s order. Jurand’s envoys lay down, some in the servants’ hall, others by the horses in the stables.
Soon the fires in the servants’ rooms were covered with ash on the hearths and went out, until at last it became quite silent in the forest manor, and only the dogs barked from time to time at the wolves toward the forest.
Yet at the duchess’s, at Father Wyszoniek’s, and at Zbyszko’s, the windows did not cease to shine, casting red gleams on the snow covering the courtyard. They kept watch in silence, listening to the beating of their own hearts—uneasy and moved by the solemnity of the moment that was soon to come. And indeed, after midnight, the duchess took Danuśka by the hand and led her to Zbyszko’s chamber, where Father Wyszoniek was already waiting for them with the Lord God. A great fire burned in the hearth, and by its abundant but uneven light Zbyszko saw Danuśka, somewhat pale from sleeplessness, white, with a wreath of everlastings on her brow, dressed in a stiff gown that fell all the way to the ground. Her eyelids were half-closed with emotion, her little hands hung down along her dress—and she resembled some painting on glass. There was something so churchlike about her that Zbyszko was struck with wonder at the sight of her, for he thought that it was not an earthly girl but some heavenly little soul he was taking as his wife. He thought so even more when she knelt with folded hands for Communion, and tilting her head back, closed her eyes completely. She seemed to him then even like one dead, and fear seized his heart. But it did not last long, for hearing the priest say “Ecce Agnus Dei,” he himself collected his spirit, and his thoughts took flight toward God. Now only the solemn voice of Father Wyszoniek was heard in the chamber: “Domine, non sum dignus”—and with it the crackling of sparks in the hearth and crickets chirping stubbornly, and somehow mournfully, in the crevices of the chimney. Outside the windows the wind rose, roared in the snow-covered forest, but soon fell silent.
Zbyszko and Danuśka remained silent for a while, while Father Wyszoniek took the chalice and carried it to the manor chapel. After a moment he returned, but not alone—with Sir de Lorche. Seeing the astonishment on the faces of those present, he first laid a finger on his lips, as if to forestall some surprised outcry, and then said, “I thought it would be better to have two witnesses to the marriage, and for that reason I warned this knight beforehand, who has sworn to me on his honor and on the Aachen relics that he will keep the secret as long as necessary.”
And Sir de Lorche knelt first before the duchess, then before Danuśka, then rose and stood in silence, clad in ceremonial armor, red little lights flickering along its folds from the fire—tall, motionless, as if sunk in rapture, for to him too that white girl with the wreath of everlastings on her brow seemed like an angel seen on glass in a Gothic cathedral.
But the priest placed her by Zbyszko’s bed and, throwing the stole over their hands, began the usual rite. Tears flowed one after another down the duchess’s kind face, yet in her soul she felt no unease at that moment, for she believed she was doing right in joining these two beautiful and innocent children. Sir de Lorche knelt a second time, and propped with both hands on the hilt of his sword, looked exactly like a knight having a vision—while those two repeated in turn the priest’s words: “I… take… thee… to myself”—and to accompany those quiet and sweet words, the crickets again played in the crevices of the chimney and the fire crackled in the hearth. After the rite was finished, Danuśka fell at the duchess’s feet, who blessed them both, and when at last she commended them to the care of the heavenly powers, she said: