Chapter Three: Count Zarutzki

Children of the Street 
By: Janusz Korczak

Translation: courtesy of the Korczak educational institute of Israel

C. Count Zarutsky

The patron or purchaser of Antek and Mania was Count Zarutsky.

Count Stefan Zarutsky, the father, had a brother with whom he had severed all ties following their last conversation. No one knew what the conversation was about; according to rumor, it ended very stormily. Count Stefan Zarutsky moved shortly afterward to Zarutz with his wife and their two children, and was never seen again.

At the old, abandoned Zarutsky estate, Count Stefan led a reclusive life, traveling nowhere and spending his days walking alone in the garden or reading books and journals, which were delivered to him in large quantities by mail.

About two years later, the count’s wife passed away, and from that time on, he dedicated much of his life to educating the children. He didn’t hire a tutor, but instead personally took on their education and development, devoting many hours to it.

Lessons began at six in the morning, both in summer and winter. The children—a boy and a girl—had to rise at five. After receiving a glass of milk and a slice of rye bread, they went to the small chapel that had been set up in the late wife’s former bedroom.

After praying together, the three of them moved to the library, where two desks stood between shelves of books, maps, and globes—one desk for the boy, one for the girl.

Lessons continued until eleven o'clock, when they had a second breakfast—barley soup with bread or an omelet. Then came physical training and fencing in a designated room. Immediately afterward was a shared reading of journals. After lunch, the reading continued. Precisely at six, the estate manager would arrive, and the count would meet with him for an hour. During this meeting, all estate matters were discussed, improvement plans reviewed, and the count signed the accounts presented by the manager. The children were required to be present.

The count ran a dairy, bred fish in the lake, tended a fruit orchard, and raised bees. Because the estate was far from the train station, the income from the farm was limited.

At eight in the evening, the children went to bed, and the count would shut himself in the library to prepare, often until the early hours, the next day’s lessons.

On Sundays, the children went to church in the village under the supervision of the servant Grzegorz. The count spent the morning hours in the house’s prayer room.

Grzegorz was a curious figure in the count’s unusual household. The son of unknown parents, he had been born to a poor girl who arrived at the estate weak and feverish one winter evening. She gave birth there and died shortly after, never regaining consciousness. The boy grew up alongside Stefan, the count’s son, who was two months younger. Until age twelve, Stefan believed they were brothers. As often happens in life, someone inadvertently revealed the truth to Grzegorz, who then refused to continue living in the manor and moved to a side wing. All efforts to persuade him to return to his former status failed. Over time, Grzegorz became more withdrawn and, apart from brief responses, barely spoke. He became a faithful servant and asked for nothing for himself.

Eventually, he became the children's caretaker—a quiet but attentive one.

This was the state of things until the count’s son, the young Count Zarutsky, turned twenty. His sister was then twenty-three.

Around that time, the elderly count fell ill. Attempts were made to persuade him to summon a doctor. When asked whether he wished to reconcile with his brother, he refused. Only when it was hinted that he should call a priest did he agree. The priest was the first visitor to the estate in fifteen years—excluding the estate manager, of course.

The priest spoke with the sick man for a long time. Quietly, as he had come, he left the silent house.

The peasants' attitude toward the count was not ordinary. They respected him, imitated his agricultural innovations, but stayed away from the estate. They feared not only the count and the manor but also the old Grzegorz and the estate manager who came daily.

When news spread of the count’s illness, the villagers anticipated his death—more from curiosity and wonder than concern. It seemed strange to them that a count could die. A week passed, then two, but instead of news of death, word came that the count intended to surround the estate with a wall. Work began. The garden was separated from the buildings. Within the wall remained only the manor and courtyard. A large iron gate was brought from Warsaw and installed with the help of city laborers. Within a month, the work was done, and silence returned. But now, people stayed even farther from the red brick wall that encircled the estate. Wild grapevines were planted at its base and began to climb it.

Much was said in the villages about the changes, but as no further news came, the conversations faded.

From then on, even the estate manager no longer entered the manor. Once a week, old Grzegorz received reports and accounts from him.

According to rumor, the count had discovered a letter in his son’s possession—from his estranged brother, the boy’s uncle. The estate manager had delivered it. This, it is said, prompted the building of the wall and the manager’s banishment from the manor.

Inside remained the old count, his son and daughter, the loyal Grzegorz, and the cook—who was completely deaf and therefore “harmless.”

But two months later, unexpectedly, the iron gate of the estate opened, and the young count rode out alone on the estate manager’s horse, galloping to the train station.

Rumors spread again. It was said the son had refused to swear to his father that he would remain in Zarutz after the father's death and never reconcile with his uncle. This refusal enraged the old count, who allegedly ordered the son to leave immediately and never return.

The young Zarutsky went to his uncle—the same uncle who had tried several times to reconcile with his brother. He had written letters, all returned unopened. He had even sent a letter to Grzegorz—without reply. At last, he came in person—only to find the gate unopened.

After three fruitless weeks, it was accepted that the old count, Stefan, had suffered a mental breakdown from recent emotional turmoil and sought, in his suffering, to bring loss upon his children.

The uncle decided to “introduce his nephew to the world,” as they say. He expected this would take considerable effort. But to his surprise, he found that young Zarutsky was not only well-educated, multilingual, and well-versed in all sciences, but also had independent and well-formed opinions on subjects he could not have known while isolated in Zarutz. He was familiar with modern literature and deeply informed on cultural life in Warsaw and abroad—even in its smallest details.

His unusual childhood and adolescence, as well as the knowledge that he would inherit a great fortune from his childless uncle, added to his charm. He was received in the city as “the season’s star.” Everyone sought his company. He was admired by all, pointed to on the streets. The wealthy uncle-guardian was proud of his nephew and enjoyed honor and prestige as a result. He imposed no limits on the young man and allowed him full freedom.

And young Zarutsky fell—from the quiet, isolated prison cell of a life of austerity and near-Spartan simplicity—into a life of joy and amusement. He threw himself entirely into the whirlwind of his new life, armed with strong health, intelligence, and material means.

In less than a month, the young man absorbed everything around him, connected all he saw to what he already knew—and was overwhelmed by the sheer force of youthful energy.

He ran from the ballroom—where charming smiles and bare arms tempted him—to a craftsman’s workshop to observe his work; from a metalworks factory he rushed to a club; from the theater he went to visit a shelter for the poor. He dined at renowned restaurants and visited hospitals. Everything fascinated him equally.

He was everywhere. He was seen on the streets of Powiśle and at a tingel-tangel show. He was seen questioning a bank clerk about business relations, chatting with a courier about his daily earnings, or comforting a poor child who had lost the ten groszy his mother had given him to buy barley. He didn’t do any of this for fame or affection, but because he genuinely wanted to hear and see everything with his own eyes—to act, to do.

But his innocent, sensitive soul was not immune to the poisons in the city air. Letters from unknown women arrived in perfumed envelopes. Seductive glances, traps laid to ensnare his youth and wealth, the lavish lifestyle his uncle surrounded him with—the soft sheets, the scent of perfumes, the sweet drinks that seemed harmless but clouded the mind—all these took a toll. The result was that the pleasures of this new life damaged his character.

His behavior became extreme, erratic. One day he might donate a significant sum to a charity or help a carpenter pay his debts to a loan shark—and the next, lose three times as much at cards.

His uncle denied him nothing. He was an older man with frail health, always suffering from asthma attacks. Now, thanks to his nephew’s youth, he suddenly felt reborn. What did the old Count Zarutsky think when he read in the press about his son’s adventures?

Still, one incident forced the uncle to draw a line. Young Zarutsky fell in love with a girl he met in an attic during one of his wanderings and decided to marry her. The uncle pleaded in vain, trying to convince him it was not the right choice and should not be done. Left with no other option, he took the impulsive youth abroad—and so he did.

Once again, the wonders of nature, along with human skill and toil, inspired the admiration of young Zarutsky. The uncle was astonished when, at an art exhibition, his nephew identified the masterpieces that were meant to be there, and at an ancient temple, recounted its history. The uncle realized his brother had been an excellent teacher and true educator—who wasted no time and gave his children a wide education in the silence of seclusion.

The news of the old count’s death reached them while they were in Rome. The bitter news struck the son like lightning. Did he suffer guilt? Did he love his eccentric father? Had he come to believe that the frail, dignified, scholarly old man—so full of dreams—was meant to live forever? He fell into despair—quiet, inward, yet overwhelming. He sat the entire night with the fatal newspaper before him, his head resting on his arms, his eyes fixed on the black letters of the obituary.

The article about his father was brief and restrained. It included a note explaining that the announcement was delayed by a week, due to the count’s secluded lifestyle.

Young Zarutsky realized he had missed the funeral.

And indeed, when he arrived with his uncle in Zarutz, all he could do was go to the cemetery and visit the fresh grave.

Grzegorz took him there in the simple carriage he used daily to bring the newspapers. It was said that the count’s death became known to the locals only on the day of the burial.

There was no need to order a coffin—since the count had been sleeping in one for years…

Afterward, they knocked at the iron gate of the manor, but no one answered. They tried several times, but there was no reply. Young Zarutsky wrote a letter to his sister, pleading with her to leave that tomb-like house, not to obey their late father’s morbid oaths, not to fulfill them.

To no avail. The reply was short and clear:

“I remain loyal to Father’s memory. You go your way.
Irena.”

And they left the place.

Nothing further happened that could provide gossip for the villagers or neighbors. The red brick wall became overgrown with wild grapevine, and inside, deep silence reigned. Quietly, from mouth to ear, it was whispered that the old count rose at night from his grave and stood guard at the gate. Many claimed they had seen him there.

Every other day, Grzegorz rode to the post office in his carriage to collect reports and accounts from the estate manager. That was all that took place at the estate. Mothers frightened their children by reminding them of the estate’s wall. Shepherds avoided bringing their flocks to the meadow near the palace gardens.

Young Zarutsky went abroad again—but this time, he did not seek out society. He settled in a pleasant seaside town with his uncle, and they made their home there.

After his father’s death, young Count Zarutsky changed completely. After the initial shock, there was a retreat. The ceaseless study in the silent atmosphere of childhood, the simple life, followed by sudden tumult and the whirlwind of intense social life after a long stillness—a flood of impressions after endless monotony—could not help but affect the young man and strain his nerves.

Now he was calmer and sought peace.

But now, something strange and unexpected happened:
Young Zarutsky fell in love with the beautiful wife of a Hungarian nobleman.
The love ignited already during their first meeting, and the long conversation that followed. And it must be said: the young count was already a subject of great interest, as rumors about his reclusive father and himself had spread even here. Perhaps the nobleman's wife was truly interested in him, or perhaps she was simply seeking amusement in her husband's absence, or maybe she merely wanted to impress her lady friends by being the first to lure the count out of hiding, where he had retreated following his father's death.

In any case, the young man fell deeply in love. It was a powerful love, the love of someone who had never known this feeling before. His brief affair with the simple girl in the attic could not be compared. For the first time, a woman appeared before him who exuded an otherworldly charm, a seductress.

Zarutsky had not yet acquired the art of deception often learned through social interactions. He did not know how to hide his emotions. He was in love—and so he clung to her. He went with her to the theater, concerts, and balls. The charming temptress taught him to dance in her elegant salon, amid bursts of joyful laughter. And the student was extraordinarily gifted.

Zarutsky didn’t understand that he should conceal his love for a married woman. She reveled in it: her triumph amused her greatly.

Once again, his uncle tried to restrain the emotions of his nephew, but when he realized what was happening, it was already too late.

Meanwhile, the affair became public, and the husband of the beautiful Hungarian woman appeared.

Zarutsky was as naive as a child; the Hungarian nobleman was cunning and calculating. Zarutsky sincerely and warmly shook the husband’s hand.

The nobleman returned the handshake—but was ready for any treachery.

They arranged to meet at a card club. The Hungarian kept losing, hand after hand. He was pale and restless. Zarutsky, sensitive like many high-strung people, sensed the looming danger. He felt anxious and uneasy.

Finally, Zarutsky decided to speak directly with his rival.

The two distanced themselves slightly from the gaming tables and sat at a small table under the shade of palm trees. After Zarutsky drank a few glasses of champagne, he gathered his courage and spoke first.

— "You know, sir, that I’ve fallen in love with your wife."
— "I know. But why are you telling me this?" the Hungarian asked indifferently.
— "Because your wife loves me too."
— "That I did not know." The Hungarian’s eyes flashed. He tried to maintain his composure. "Are you sure of this, sir?"
— "Yes, I am sure."
— "Did she tell you explicitly?"
— "No, but these things can be felt."
— "You don’t know enough about women yet to say such things," the Hungarian said loudly.
— "Sir, you’re speaking very strangely."
— "I think you are the one speaking strangely."
— "Why?"
— "You’re telling a husband that you’re having an affair with his wife."
— "Excuse me, I’m not having an affair."
— "Then what?"
— "We’re in love."
— "Let me ask you once again: how do you know my wife loves you?"
— "She kissed me on the lips."
— "That proves nothing," said the Hungarian with a smile.
— "What do you mean? Are you joking?"
— "You’re ridiculous."
— "Fine. If you were convinced that she loves me, would you agree, sir, to..."
— "Hand her over to you?"
— "Well, yes..."
— "And what if I love her too?"
— "No, you don’t love her."
— "Enough of this nonsense," the Hungarian cut him off. "Let’s get back to the game."

The Hungarian laughed and joked. When it was Zarutsky’s turn to deal the cards, the Hungarian suddenly fell silent, grabbed Zarutsky’s arm, and shouted:
— "Sir, you’re a cheater!"

The duel was scheduled for the next morning, to prevent anyone from interfering. Witnesses were chosen, weapons selected, and the terms were set: swords first, for no more than five minutes. Then firearms. Rumor had it both men were skilled with weapons.

The young count did not sleep all night. His restlessness was not due to fear, but because of the thoughts that raced and tormented him: thoughts of his father and sister, of bustling Warsaw, of art galleries, of the iron gate in Zarutsk, of luxurious hotels, of her, the wondrous beloved, and of him—the Hungarian nobleman, her husband. And also of the insult, the vile accusation.

The young count arrived at the dueling site pale and unwell.

Casually, he gripped the sword, and casually, he deflected the Hungarian's furious attacks without moving from his spot. It was clear he wasn't attacking, hardly even defending, merely responding with mechanical movements as if his thoughts were elsewhere. It was evident he was repeating well-practiced motions (his father must have been an excellent teacher). The Hungarian flew into a rage. Zarutsky began to grow bored. His hand movements became smaller and more restrained. The witnesses couldn't recall a duel like it. It seemed as if Zarutsky was about to drop his weapon at any moment.
— “End it!” the command was breathed.
The Hungarian made one final swing with his sword. The clash of steel was heard one last time.

The count swayed and suddenly collapsed.
— “Is he injured?”
— “No, just fainted.”

The count was taken to the hotel. A doctor was summoned. The uncle spared no effort to preserve the dignity of his beloved nephew.

The young man lay gravely ill for a long time. He was plagued by nightmares and tormented by ghosts. He tried to get out of bed, spoke aloud, cried and pleaded with his father, begged forgiveness, or called out to some girl he had heartlessly abandoned—or, in his imagination, kissed the lips of the beautiful Hungarian woman. Over and over, he tried to rise, swinging his arms as if still dueling.

After a few weeks, the fever broke, and he shook off the hallucinations—but his eyes were dim, full of uncertainty.

The newspapers reported that Count Zarutsky, the romantic hero who had captivated the world, had lost his mind.

Was it madness? Hard to say. At the very least, it was an extraordinary state. At times, the count would be gripped by fury, smashing and yelling—but he remained fully aware of his actions and words. Then he would sink into deep apathy and sorrow.

— “I should never have left my grave,” he said. “Only from within the walls can one wisely observe this tragicomedy called life. To take part in this cheap play, to invest your heart in it—it's not worth it.”

At times, he was seized by a frenzy of action:
“We must not withdraw from life. We must not turn people’s suffering and tears into farce. We must go out among them, suffer, and work, suffer and wipe away their tears.”

In such moods, he would take a handful of silver coins, head into town with his doctor, and hand out alms.

Then again, he would fall into apathy:
“No—alms, gold—that's not action. If you think that’s your duty, you understand nothing. You must give away all your wealth immediately, and then labor in poverty for a slice of bread. Only then can you truly do good.”

And above all, one feeling dominated him: longing for his sister.

— “Uncle, you must reconcile me with Irena. I must see her again, or I’ll go mad. We were buried in the same grave for twenty years—I can’t, I just can’t go on without seeing her again.”

During his illness, Zarutsky became close to a young Polish doctor. The count’s soul became tied to the young man's, and he made the doctor promise never to leave him.

When Zarutsky recovered, his old uncle suffered a third epileptic seizure and passed away a few hours later, leaving his nephew a massive fortune.

Once again, the young count was overwhelmed by his old fears. His doctor did not leave his side.

— “Everywhere I turn—only graves, graves, graves!” shouted the count, trembling with fear. “No wonder—I was raised in a grave, and I carry death inside me, a plague. Kill me—burn me—and bury my ashes deep so I don’t spread the infection.”

In moments of sorrow, he would whisper helplessly:
— “I want to see my sister. I miss her.”

And once again, the small world of Zarutsk was shaken to its core.

“The madman is returning,” spread the rumor—first among the peasants, then throughout the region. “The countess agreed to receive him.” It was said that their father had appeared to her in a dream and told her that her brother’s sanity would return if he came back to live in Zarutsk.

Every rumor, however ridiculous, carries a grain of truth. And indeed, the count and his doctor appeared before the palace gates in a wagon they had rented from one of the peasants. After they dismounted, the young driver whipped the horses and fled in terror. Later, he claimed he had felt a strange chill and even saw the old count’s shadow—despite it being a bright morning, and the deceased was only supposed to rise from his grave at night.

— “He must’ve come to meet his son.”

Once again, silence settled over the palace, and people avoided the ivy-covered brick wall even more than before. One time, a cow wandered too close and later gave bloody milk. Another time, a woman claimed to hear moans from the palace.

True, the cow had been sick for some time, and the woman—known for her drinking—had insisted on “another round” before spilling her tale. And every time it seemed she had no more to add, she’d say:
— “If you pour me just one more arak, I’ll tell you the most interesting part.”

And though people pretended not to believe the drunkard’s stories—they poured her another.

Time passed. One day, the young count left with his doctor and Grzegorz. A few days later, the doctor returned with workers from Warsaw. They worked for several days near the gate and never once entered the village. Then they left with the doctor (or “whoever he really is,” as the villagers whispered) back to the train station.

The doctor returned to the palace, and three days later, the count and Grzegorz returned—bringing with them two children.

The news struck the world of Zarutsk like thunder on a clear day.
— “Who are these children? From where? How? What will be done with them?”

Though Antek and Mania knew nothing about their new home or guardians, their hearts pounded as they passed through the heavy oak doors into the dark corridor.