Moskowski hastened to communicate this joyful intelligence to the Rev.
Mr. Klausner, who, in the mean time, had again become the daily guest of the Starosta's.
Still greater satisfaction did it afford Moskowski when he read all about the St. Petersburg rising in the newspapers and those implicated therein; and at the same time he frequently met Governor Eskimov, who continued to treat him most affably, and never once inquired about his son or ever alluded to the conspiracy at St. Petersburg, treating it as an affair which did not concern either of them the least bit in the world. Naturally, Moskowski himself took good care to let the matter alone.
After a very short delay a letter arrived for the Starosta from the Prince von Sonnenburg, in which he informed his dear friend that his only daughter Ingola had that very day before the altar been united by the insoluble bonds of holy matrimony to Squire Casimir, the Starosta's son. Simultaneously, Heinrich sent a letter to his father, circumstantially describing the pomp and splendour of the wedding, after which the happy pair had retired to the ancestral Castle of Sonnenburg.
Thence they were to proceed to Italy for the honeymoon, and they proposed to take him, as doctor, along with them.
On hearing this joyful intelligence, old Moskowski attended a plain Mass from mere thankfulness.
Another year had elapsed, when Squire Casimir himself informed his father by letter of a joyful family event. A little son had been born to him, and both mother and child were doing excellently well. He was to be named Maximilian, after his maternal grandfather.
"There you are," cried old Moskowski in triumph to the Rev. Mr.
Klausner, "a grandson with the name of Maximilian, a grandson of an Austrian prince! _He_ never _can_ become a boor. Was there ever a Maximilian in the world who came down to that? Never! A fig for all your Jewish prophesies!"
After that there arrived frequent letters from the bride, letters written in a fine, elegant hand, with a soft flowing pen. And in these letters the highly cultured _grand dame_ drew, without end, idyllic pictures of the bliss she shared with her Casimir.
Presently there came an agreeable communication subscribed by the Chancellor of the Imperial Court officially informing the Starosta that his son Casimir had been promoted to the rank of major in the First Imperial Uhlan regiment.
A year later a second joyful family event was announced. "A second, eh?"
His name was Stanislaus. To him, at any rate, they gave a good old Polish name.
"Ah, how I should like to see them all!" sighed the old Starosta.
But his old bones did not like the idea of a long carriage journey. The City of Vienna is, alas! a terrible distance from Bialystok.
Never mind, what one cannot see face to face can be presented fairly well in a picture; and the loving daughter-in-law painted the two little descendants in the act of embracing each other, with their two little curly polls all mixed up together. The tears regularly flowed from the eyes of the old Starosta as he gazed upon this pretty picture.
"These never can become serfs; no, never!"
And fresh presents arrived.
They sent from Vienna the twofold family tree of the Moskowskis and the Sonnenburgs, blended together in a harmonious whole. It was wrought in copper-plate with masterly engravings. Not a fault could be found in it.
Then the old Starosta wrote a letter with his own hand to his children, to his son and daughter-in-law. He called them "my children" expressly in this letter. He assured them he was longing for the time when he should see them all in the ancient Castle of Bialystok. The Tsar would certainly grant an amnesty to those who had been compromised in the rising of 1824, and had taken refuge abroad. He trusted the Almighty would permit him to see that time. He also thanked Heinrich for cleaving so faithfully to Casimir. He was a worthy young man, who deserved all respect.
And a worthy young man he was indeed. He wrote his father a letter every week, and every now and then he sent a little money home, although his earnings were very small.
And once more the Starosta received an official letter from Vienna, in which the Lord High Steward informed him, in the most obliging manner, that his Majesty, the Emperor and King, had advanced Casimir Moskowski to the rank of lieutenant-colonel, and at the same time decorated him with the golden key of a Kammerherr.
"What, my son a lieutenant-colonel!--in the mighty Imperial army! Ah, how I should like to see him in his fur-bedizened red uniform! And I wonder where he'll hang his Kammerherr key--on his breast or in his girdle? If only I could see his face! My dear pastor, do write once more to Heinrich, and urge him to say to my son, 'Have your portrait painted for your father's sake, at full length, life size, sitting on horseback, commanding your regiment, and send it on to him. It would be the very best Christmas gift you could give him.'"
So the Rev. Gottlieb Klausner wrote to his son, declaring the wish of the affectionate father, and duly got an answer from him.
But this answer greatly angered the two old gentlemen.
"Casimir will not let himself be painted; he is tormented by the suspicion that those who are painted in their youth will die young."
"Did ever any one hear such rubbish?" growled the Starosta. "_My_ son superstitious! And a superstition, too, the like of which I never heard of! What was the good, then, of his learning philosophy, metaphysics, and chemistry? _I_ never took my degree at Utrecht, yet even I don't believe such nonsense. That comes of settling down in Vienna, you see.
He's got mumpish and stupid."
"I'll soon find a remedy for all that," said Gottlieb Klausner. "I know a famous painter at Vienna who has a peculiar talent. If once he has had a good look at any one, he can go home and paint that person's portrait to the life without the person so painted knowing anything about it. I can certainly trust him with this commission."
"Do it for me, by all means. I'll send him a thousand dollars in advance on account, and if when the picture arrives I recognize my son, I'll give the painter whatever he likes to ask for it."
A few months afterwards Klausner got his answer from the painter. The picture was already on its way, well packed up, frame and all. A four-horse waggon would bring it from Vienna to Bialystok. Let them only keep an eye on the frontier custom-house officers, lest they injured it.
The bringing of the picture to the house was a veritable triumphal progress. It was packed in a gigantic case, and it required four master carpenters to open it and disentangle it from all its swathing bands and wrappings.
On the same day on which the picture arrived, the Governor intimated to the Starosta that he was inviting himself to dinner at the latter's house.
"So much the better," said the Starosta. "I should like him to be present when they bring in the picture. Don't tell him anything about it. Let it be a great surprise for him. How the chinovnik will stare when he sees Casimir in the imperial uniform! I wonder if the painter has painted his golden key?"
"He cannot paint that," said Klausner, "because these Kammerherr gentlemen wear it behind their backs."
"What, wear a mark of distinction behind! Who ever heard of such a thing?"
Mr. Eskimov arrived punctually to dinner. There were only three at table--the Starosta, the clergyman, and the Governor--and they very pleasantly drank a few glasses of Tokai together. When the pipes were produced, by way of winding up the repast, the Governor observed--
"Well, my good sir, we can now talk together about a very serious business. I didn't want to put you out in any way during the meal. I want to speak to you about your _poor_ son."
"Oh, that won't put me out in the least; though I don't know why you should call him _poor_. I, for one, don't consider my son's fate at all a sorry one."
"Come, now, that's very noble of you to be so content with the Tsar's exalted measures, and not consider your son's fate so terrible, especially as I may at once give you the assurance that his fate has now come to an end; the Tsar has just issued a general amnesty for the leaders of the rebellion of 1824."
Moskowski shrugged his shoulders. "My son held no leading part in that rebellion."
"Come, come, my dear Starosta, don't tell me that. I am acquainted with all the details of the process. I know exactly what part Casimir took in it. I took a lot of trouble to get the capital sentence commuted to lifelong transportation to Siberia."
"My son in Siberia?"
"Yes. The Tsar's clemency delivered him from it not so very long ago."
"My friend, that little drop of Tokai has got into your head. You shouldn't play with your glass; take bigger gulps, and cure yourself that way. My son was never in Siberia."
"Indeed! Why, I sent him there myself. I have about me my letter on the subject to the Governor of Tobolsk, which I sent to him seven years ago."
"And I have a letter of congratulation from the Lord High Steward of the Imperial Court, in which he informs me of the promotion of my son to the rank of a major of Lancers."
"Your son a major of Lancers! Why, he's a raskolnik."
"A raskolnik? They would not be likely, I think, to give a Princess of Sonnenburg in marriage to a raskolnik."
"A Princess of Sonnenburg to your son! You're mad! Why, I seized him myself when he was attempting to escape across the border. He could not deny that he had taken part in the rebellion, for we found on his person full powers from the revolutionary committee. It was a good job for him that he also had about him his academic diploma, which certified that he understood chemistry and mining. Those delinquents who understand the science of mining are treated with particular favour: they do not get the knout, and are not put in chains. But, on the other hand, they are obliged to utilize their knowledge in the gold mines of the Urals."
"My son in the gold mines of the Urals! You are beside yourself, comrade."
"On the contrary, I am a good deal in advance of you. This was in the beginning of 1825."