My father bowed before the storm, and under my mother's influence he
never became mixed up with politics. Thus he lived on his estates at
Inkovano, and nursed them for my younger brother, Alexandrovitch, the
child of his old age. Alex would be nineteen now, had he lived. The
estates were large as these things go in Western Europe, but they were
but a garden as compared with the lands held by my great-grandfather,
Boris Sbeiliez.
My father had a dream, and he dreamed this dream from the day Alex was
born to the day they both died in each other's arms.
My father dreamt that one day the Tsars would soften their heart to
Poland, and raise her up from the dust to a place amongst the nations,
and my father dreamt that Alexandrovitch Sbeiliez would become a leader
of Poland, as his ancestors had been before him. And so my father
nursed his estates and pinched and saved, in preparation for the day
when his beautiful dream should come true.
[Illustration: "A trapdoor near her bows fell down, the White Ensign
was broken at the fore, and a 4-inch gun opened fire from the embrasure
that was revealed on her side."]
[ILLUSTRATION: "I sighted two convoys, but there were destroyers
there...."]
My poor idealistic father never realized, oh, my Karl, that when one
wants a thing one must fight--to the death. Alex was the apple of his
eye, but I was much loved by my mother; perhaps she dreamed a dream
about me--I know not, but she determined that I should have all that
was necessary.
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