Immediately after the first interchange of greetings the court tailor took the two youths beneath his protection. It was his duty to give them new clothes corresponding to their rank, they had ceased to belong to the category of students. Heinrich got a brand-new black velvet jacket with puff sleeves, a starched ruff, black atlas knee-breeches, with stockings, and shoes with silver buckles—the whole get-up was completed by a sword-belt, a broad silver chain wound round the breast with a large medallion hanging to it, and a black flowered taffety mantle fastened to the shoulder and reaching to the heels. When he had taken a good all-round look at himself in the mirror, he was quite proud of his costume. He fancied that it was a great distinction.
But it was not a distinction, but only a difference.
When he entered the great hall, its pomp and grandeur almost blinded him. The walls of the room were embellished by the portraits of the Lords of Bialystok. There were armorial shields everywhere, and in the corners stood the figures of men in armour. The lofty pointed windows perpetuated, in masterpieces of coloured glass, all manner of ancient Polish legends. The long table was crowded with artistic plate and drinking vessels of chased gold and silver, with confect-holders mimicing the figures of giraffes and elephants. In the midst was a large fountain, at the foot of which enamelled dolphins cast lavender-water high up in the air; and the enchanting spectacle was but enhanced by the costumes of a whole army of guests and the splendour of their weapons. Heinrich hardly recognized his dear friend Casimir. He was resplendent in such splendid raiment as the Polish magnates are only in the habit of wearing at coronations or similar ceremonies. In the midst of so much fur and velvet, Heinrich, in his simple black medical suit, felt almost like the inhabitant of another and much humbler planet. While the army of guests crowded round Casimir, so that every one might have a chance of embracing him at least once, Heinrich was simply thrust aside by an elbow or trodden on by one foot after another, and nobody even troubled to say: "Wymow mie Pán!"[18]
[18] "Your pardon, sir!"
Great was the crushing and pushing to get into the banqueting-hall, where every guest immediately sought out his proper place. This was quite an easy matter. Every guest who had ever dined at the Palace of Bialystok had his own beaker on which his name was engraved. As often as he returned thither so often was his particular beaker produced from the plate-chest. As for the spoons, knives, and forks, every guest brought his own with him. Aristocratic pride laid down this rule: "From the beaker out of which I drink none else may drink; the knife, fork, and spoon which touches my mouth none else may swallow—neither may I serve others so."
Heinrich would also have very much liked to know where he was to sit.
As a poor man he naturally began to look for his seat at the lowest end of the table.
At the head of the table a large armchair, carved with armorial bearings, had been placed, this was obviously the seat of the Starosta. On each side of it stood two smaller armchairs. All the other chairs were armless. The arm of a chair is rather in the way when a man has to drain his beaker to the very dregs. At the head of the opposite end of the long table was the seat of "the little master." His beaker was a christening gift, a crystal goblet upon a golden base.
Heinrich fancied that he would find his seat by the side of his comrade's. But there he found a beaker with another name upon it.
He had to seek higher. He went searching from chair to chair for a silver beaker marked with his name. On the right-hand side of the table there was no trace of it. Perhaps it was on the left-hand side? Of course, it must be there.