Whirlpools: A Novel of Modern Poland

by Henryk Sienkiewicz

PART III

I

Krzycki left Miss Anney's with a sensation as if lightning had struck directly in front of him and suddenly stunned him. He could neither collect nor connect his thoughts; he was not even in a condition to realize his situation nor reflect upon it. The only impression, or rather feeling, which in the first moments remained was a feeling of illimitable amazement. On the way he repeated every little while, "Hanka Skibianka! Hanka Skibianka!" and seemed incapable of doing aught else. He did not find Gronski at home, as the latter had left immediately after the noon hour, telling the servant that he would return late at night. So he went to his room, locked himself in without knowing why; afterwards he flung himself into an armchair and sat abstractedly for over an hour. After the lapse of that time, he opened his trunk and began to pack things into it with excessive zeal, until finally he propounded to himself the question: "Why am I doing this?" Not being able to find an answer, he abandoned that work and only resumed it when he came to the unexpected conclusion that in any case he would have to move away from Gronski's.

Having finished, he put on his hat and left, without any well-defined object, for the city. For a while a desire rose in him to call upon his mother and Pani Otocka, but he stifled it at once. For what? It seemed to him that he had nothing to tell his mother about himself and his intentions; and that he could talk with her only about this unheard-of intelligence, the discussion of which would be for him, beyond all expression, afflicting. Unconsciously, he reached the Holy Cross Church and wanted to enter it, but the hour was late and the church was locked. The morning of that day and the joint prayer with her stood vividly before his eyes. Ah, how sincerely he prayed; how he loved her; how he loved her! And now he could not resist the impression that this light-haired, idolized lady, with whom he said in that chapel "Under Thy Protection," and Hanka Skibianka were two different beings. And he felt in his heart a kind of disenchantment with which he began to contend. For why was he nevertheless so acutely affected by it? Was it because Hanka was a peasant girl and he a nobleman? No! Miss Anney never represented herself as an English noblewoman, and a Polish peasant is no worse than an English commoner. He could not clearly perceive that the reason of it lay in this: that Miss Anney through her descent alone, foreign and distant, appeared to him a sort of princess, and Hanka was a near and domestic girl from Zarnow. She aroused less curiosity and therefore was less attractive. She was so much easier, therefore, cheaper to him. In vain he recalled and repeated that this Hanka is that same light-haired lady, charming as a dream, alluring, genteel, womanly, responding in sentiment to every thought and every word; the feeling of disenchantment was more powerful than those thoughts, and that charm of exoticism, which suddenly was lacking in the girl, minimized her worth in his eyes.

But, besides this, there was something else, in view of which the disenchantment and all unexpected impressions stood aside and became matters of secondary importance. This was, that he had once possessed that girl--body and soul. She was at that time almost a child--a flower not yet in full bloom which he plucked and carried for some time at his bosom. The memory of that could be a reproach only for him; no fault whatever weighed on her. He recollected those moonlight nights on which he stole to the mill; those whispers which were one quiet song of love and intoxication, interrupted only by kisses; he recalled how he clasped to his heart her girlish body, fragrant with the hay of the fields; how he drank the tears from her eyes and how he said to her that he would give up for her all the ladies of all the courts. The idyl passed, but now there wafted upon him from her the breath of the first youthful years, the first love, the first ecstasy, and the truly great poetry of life. Besides, there was truth in what he had confided to Gronski in Jastrzeb: that the girl loved him as no other woman in the world surely would love him. And at the thought of this, his heart began to melt. Together with the wave of recollection, Hanka returned and again engaged his thoughts.

Yes. But that was Hanka and she is Miss Anney. In Ladislaus, from the time he fell in love with her, his senses leaped wildly towards her like a pack of yelping hounds; but he held them in leash because at the same time he knelt before his beloved. She was to him an object of desire but at the same time a sacred relic; something so inaccessible, exalted, pure, and mysterious in its virginity that at the thought that the moment would arrive when he would be the master of those treasures and secrets appeared to him a delight beyond all measure of delight; all the more fathomless as it was, united, as it were, with a sacrilege. And now he had to say to himself that this sacrilege he had already committed; that the charm of something unknown was dispelled; that in this vestal there were for him no mysteries and that he had already drunk from that cup. And this again was one lure less; one disenchantment more. In this manner Miss Anney muddied his recollection of the field peasant-girl, Hanka,--Hanka depreciated the charm of Miss Anney. Both were so different, so unlike each other, that, being unable to merge them into one entity, he vainly intensified that jarring impression with a feeling of disquietude and pain.

In this vexation of spirit there occurred to him one wicked, low, and ugly thought. In what manner did the poor and simple Hanka change into the brilliant Miss Anney? In what manner could a gray sparrow from under a village thatched hut be transformed into a paradisiacal bird? Hanka was a betrayed girl; therefore the bridges had been burnt behind her. Amidst the wealth of a foreign land, beautiful but poor girls have before them only one road to the acquisition of affluence and even polish, and that was the road of shame. Hanka found one patron who took care of her in the appropriate manner; how many similar patrons and protectors could Miss Anney find? At the thought of this Krzycki's head swam. Conscience said to him, "You opened those gates before her," and at the same time he was seized by such anger at Miss Anney and himself that if the life or death of both rested in his hands, he would at that moment have selected death. Something within him was rent asunder; something crashed. It seemed to him that again, just above his head, pealed lightning, which stunned him and burnt, within him, to a crisp, the ability to think.

He wandered a long time over the city. He himself did not know in what manner he again found himself before Pani Otocka's home, but he did not enter for he once more felt that at that time he could not speak with his mother. He returned to his own house late at night. Gronski was already at home, and for an hour had been waiting for him with the tea.

"Good evening," he said, "I have returned from your mother's."

And Ladislaus asked him with blunt impetuosity, "Do you know who Miss Anney is?"

"I do. Pani Otocka told me."

A moment of silence followed.

"What do you say to this?"

"I could ask you that question."

Ladislaus sat heavily in the chair, drew his palm over his forehead and replied with bitter irony:

"Ah, I have time. I was given a week for consideration."

"That is not too much," answered Gronski, looking at him questioningly.

"Certainly. Does Mother also know?"

"Yes. Pani Otocka told her everything."

Again silence ensued.

"My dear Laudie," said Gronski, "I can understand that this must have shocked you, and for that reason I will not speak with you of it until you calm down and regain your equipoise. You must also become familiar with and well weigh the reasons why Miss Anney told only Pani Otocka who she was and why she came to Jastrzeb under her new name, to which, after all, she has a perfect right. Here is a letter from her. She requested me to deliver it to you to-morrow and that is why I did not hand it to you as soon as you appeared. At present I do not think that it would be proper to defer the matter. But do not open it at once nor in my presence. Put it away and read it when alone, when you can ponder over every word. Positively do this. That which has happened moved me to such an extent that for the time being I could not speak of it calmly. To-day I can only give you this advice: be a man and do not allow yourself to be swept away by the current of impressions. Row!"

To this Ladislaus, who sobered up a little under the influence of these words, said:

"I thank you, sir. I will read the letter in privacy. It is now so indispensable to me that I trust, sir, that you will not take it ill of me if I no longer abuse your hospitality. I am sincerely and cordially grateful to you for everything, but I must lock myself up. How long--I do not know. When I am myself again, I will come to you to discuss everything, God grant, more calmly. Now in reality, I see that I was justly given one week's time. But besides time, I feel the need of my own den. I cannot get rid of various thoughts, immensely bitter and even horrible. To-day they hold me by the head and it is necessary that I should hold them by the head--and for that reason I want to have my own den."

"You know how willing I am to please you," answered Gronski; "I understand you, and though in advance I decided not to torment you with any questions, nevertheless, do what is best for yourself. I must tell you also that your mother is moving to a hotel, as she is offended with Pani Otocka. She took umbrage because she did not tell her at once in Jastrzeb who Miss Anney was."

"I confess that I do not understand that--"

"Nevertheless, that would have been directly contrary to what those ladies desired. Pani Otocka's intentions were the noblest. Time will elucidate and equalize everything. Even Marynia did not know anything, not only because Pani Zosia was bound by her word, but also because she did not deem it proper to acquaint her with your former behavior and your relations with the Hanka of former days. With Hanka--Miss Anney! That was an unheard-of turn of affairs. Do you remember our conversation in Jastrzeb when we went hunting for woodcock? Do you remember?"

"I remember, but I cannot speak of it."

"Yes, better not speak of it at this time. Miss Anney's letter undoubtedly will clear up the dark sides of the affair and explain what is now unintelligible. If you desire to read it at once, I will go and leave you here."

"I am very curious about it and for just that reason I will take my leave of you."

"But you will pass this night with me?"

"I have packed my things and the hotels are always open."

"In such case good-by!--and remember what I told you. Row! Row!"

After a moment Gronski remained alone. He also was agitated, distressed, but curious to the highest degree. When after Ladislaus' confessions in Jastrzeb, he said to him that "the mills of the gods grind late," he spoke it in a way one utters, off-hand, any maxim to which one does not attach any real significance. In the meantime life verified it in a manner fabulous but nevertheless logical. For as a fable only appeared the transformation of Hanka into Miss Anney, but that Miss Anney desired to see the man, whom, as a child, she loved in her first transports of love and the place which bound her with so many memories, tender and sad, was a matter natural and intelligible. And, of course, she could not return to Jastrzeb and stay under the Krzycki roof-tree otherwise than under a changed name. And thus it happened; and the later events rolled on with their own force until they reached the moment when it was necessary to reveal the secret. Gronski knew already from Pani Otocka everything which she could tell him and absolved from all sin her as well as Miss Anney. Nevertheless, he understood that an unprecedented situation was created, and such a knot was twisted that the untangling of it was impossible to foresee. It could only be untwined by Krzycki, and even he stood not only in the presence of new difficulties but, as it were, in the presence of a new person.

II

The very next day after the escape from the police Pauly visited Laskowicz and afterwards called to see him as often as she could find leisure time, selecting, nevertheless, hours when Swidwicki was not at home. But this did not present great difficulties as Swidwicki usually rose about noon, after which he went away and did not return until late at night. The girl was not induced to make these frequent visits by any sentimentality nor exceptional benevolence for the young student. She even felt, particularly in the first moments, that she could despise him. But women love in general to look at close range at their good deeds and to behold, even daily, the people for whom they have become providential angels; and again Laskowicz, with every word, disclosed to her worlds of whose existence she heretofore had never guessed. About socialists thus far she knew almost nothing, except what a certain old female cook once told her, that "they do not believe in God and do not eat ducks"; and she only heard that they threw bombs and shot from revolvers. After the attack upon Krzycki howsoever much she, together with all the servants in Jastrzeb, was convinced that it was perpetrated by Rzeslewo men, nevertheless, the supposition that it might have been the socialists reached her ears, and then she was inflamed against them with a temporary ungovernable hatred. But now she was learning that they were people of an entirely different stamp. She did not yet understand what in general they wanted, but understood in particular that those people desired that she, Paulina Kielkowna, should be a kind of lady like Miss Anney or Pani Otocka. And as a bee sips juice from flowers, so she, from the words of the young fanatic, extracted nourishment for her envy, her pain, her feelings. Her heart began to draw her towards that "Party," which appeared to her as a Providence and as a power; and to this was joined the purely feminine curiosity of the awful secrets of that power. Laskowicz quickly observed that the seed fell upon fit soil; and when once, for uttering inadvertently a disparaging word against Krzycki, the girl almost scratched out his eyes, he surmised her secret and determined to exploit her, not only for the good of the cause but also for his own personal ends.

Although Pauly was not the servant of Pani Otocka but of Miss Anney, she nevertheless dwelt in the same house; so he could, through her, secure news of Marynia, which he craved with all his soul; he could quiet his fears as to Krzycki's intentions, could speak of her and hear her name; and finally could gain information as to when and where he could see her, though from a distance. And he questioned Panna Pauly about all this; at first cautiously and casually, afterwards more and more, and at last so incessantly that this began to surprise and anger her. Prone to extremes, and more capable of hatred than affection, she worshipped, by way of exception, Marynia, regarding her as a sort of supernal being, and this worship in her was as violent as was her hatred. On the other hand, on the ideal path, in the direction of universal equality and dislike of the higher classes she made in a brief time considerable progress. She could not however, cast off at once her former notions, and she frequently had sudden relapses to them. Hence at one time, when Laskowicz as usual began to hurl questions at her about Panna Marynia, she answered him testily:

"Why are you always talking about Panna Zbyltowska?"

"Perhaps I am in love with her," retorted the student, knitting his brow.

At this her eyes in a moment blazed with rage.

"What more yet?"

And he began to peer at her keenly and asked:

"Why does the little lady say 'what more yet'?"

"For you are as suited for her as I am--"

And she paused abruptly, but he finished:

"To Pan Krzycki, for instance."

Then she burst into a greater rage yet.

"Why do you meddle in matters that do not concern you?"

"I do not meddle in anything. I say only if the little lady fell in love with him and if I, hearing of it, said 'What more yet?' that would be disagreeable to the little lady? And it would be justly disagreeable. For if the priests prate that it is permissible to love even God, why not a human being? It is permissible for the little lady, it is permissible for me, it is permissible for everybody, for that is the law of nature and therefore our law."

The words seconded that which was hidden in the girl's heart too much for her anger to remain, so she only glanced at Laskowicz, as if in sorrow, and replied:

"Eh! Much good will come of that law!"

"It will come or not come, in time. After all, if we adjusted the world in our own way, no dog would bark at such things. Is not the little lady worthy of Krzycki? Why not? Is it because he is richer? That is just what we are trying to prevent. Then what? Education? Lady, spit upon it. That education you can teach to a monkey. It is he, if the little lady wanted him, who ought yet to kiss the little lady's feet."

But she again became impatient and replied:

"Idle talk."

"I also want only to say that in case I should fall in love with Panna Marynia and the little lady with Krzycki, our lot would be identical and the wrong the same."

"Wrong in what?"

"In the vile institutions of this world; in this, that such riff-raff as ourselves are permitted to love only to suffer, and we are not allowed to raise our eyes even upon the bourgeoisie, even though the hearts within should whine like dogs."

"True," answered the girl through set teeth. "But what of it?"

"This: that we ought to give to each other our hands, as brother and sister, and not be angry at each other, but assist one another. Who knows whether one may not be of service to the other?"

"Eh! In what way can we help each other?"

And he again began to gaze fixedly at her with his eyes set so closely to each other and said, uttering each word slowly:

"I do not know whether Krzycki is in love with Panna Marynia or with that Englishwoman whom the little lady serves; or perhaps with neither of them."

In one moment Pauly's face was covered with a pallor; afterwards a flame passed over it, which in turn gave way to pallor. In her soul there might have been dumb fears, but up to that time she had dared not put to herself any questions. Those ladies were entertained in Jastrzeb as guests. Pani Otocka and Panna Marynia were Krzycki's relatives; therefore there was nothing unusual in their relations. On the other hand, when the "Englishwoman" in Jastrzeb drove for the doctor and later nursed the wounded man, that was a time when the heart of the girl raged with jealousy and uneasiness. Afterwards she was placated by the thought that such a young nobleman would not wed a foreign "intruder," no matter how wealthy, but, at present, jealousy pierced her like a knife.

Laskowicz continued:

"The little lady asked in what way we can help one another, did she not?"

"Yes."

"At least in--revenge,"

After which, he changed the conversation.

"Let the little lady come to me and, if I sometimes inquire about anything, let her not get angry. If at times it is hard for her, it is not easy for me. One lot, one wrong. Let the little lady come. I do not want to live with Swidwicki any longer. He is a peculiar man. I know that he did not take me out of the goodness of his heart, but as he placed himself in peril on my account I must endure everything from him. In the meantime he so maligns our party that I feel an impulse to shoot him in the head or stab him with a knife."

"Why do you argue with that old goat?"

"Because he talks and I must listen. Often he goads me into a reply. Somebody else for lesser things would get a knife under the ribs."

"But I will not be able to hide you a second time, for I do not know where."

"No. I myself will find some sort of hole; I have already thought of that. Our people will help. I now have a passport and am bleached yellow on the head. Some of my associates could not recognize me. Even if I am caught they will not try me as Laskowicz but as Zaranczko of Bessarabia, unless some one should betray me, but such there is not among us."

"Only be careful, sir, and when you know where to hide, let me know. I will not betray."

"I know, I know; such do not betray."

After which he suddenly asked:

"Why does not the little lady want to agree that we should call each other 'associates'? Amongst us we all speak that way."

But she rebuffed him at once.

"I told you once I cannot endure that."

"Ah, if it is so, then it is hard."

Pauly began to prepare for home. Laskowicz on the leave-taking made a second departure from the customs governing his associates, for he kissed her hand. Previously he had noticed that this raised her in her own eyes; that it flattered her and brought her into a good humor. Although not by nature over-intelligent, he observed that the principles of the Party alone would not entirely hold her, and that he would have in that girl an aid capable of all extremes, but only so far as her own personality entered into the play. This lowered the opinion which he held of her and his gratitude to her. He nevertheless submitted to this despotism, remembering that he owed to her his life.

At present he had, besides, a favor to ask of her; so at the door he kissed her hand a second time and said:

"Panna Pauly--the same lot, the same wrong. Let the little lady answer yet one more question. Where can I see though from a distance--though from a distance--"

"Whom?" she asked, knitting her brows.

"Panna Marynia."

"If from a distance, then I will tell," she replied reluctantly. "The little lady is to play for the starving working people and at noon goes to the rehearsals."

"Alone?"

"No, with Pani Otocka or with my mistress; but sometimes with one of us servants."

"Thank you."

"But only from a distance--do you understand, sir,--for otherwise you will fare badly."

And after these words, which sounded like a menace, she left him. The next moment Laskowicz heard through the door Swidwicki's voice and laughter, after which something resembling a scuffle, a suppressed scream, and--the sound of hasty footsteps on the stairs; finally Swidwicki stumbled into the room, drunk.

"What were you doing here?" he asked.

"Nothing," answered Laskowicz.

And he began to scan the room, evidently desiring to satisfy himself whether he could not detect some signs of disorder, and repeated:

"Nothing!"

"I give you my word of honor," the student exclaimed with energy.

At this Swidwicki leered at him, fingering his disheveled beard and said:

"Then you are a fool!"

After which he flung himself upon the sofa, for he had partaken of a sumptuous breakfast and was sleepy.

III

Laskowicz's extreme fanaticism could not in reality harmonize with the extreme cynical scepticism of Swidwicki, who in addition took advantage of the situation not only beyond measure, but to the point of cruelty. He himself spoke of it and boasted about it to Gronski, when he met him in the restaurant, to which Gronski went after Krzycki's removal.

"I have enough of my revolutionary maggot," he said, "I have enough of him, especially since I have satisfied myself that personally he is honest and will not pilfer any money from my pocket-book. From that time he has bored me. As for harboring such a simpleton one might go to Siberia. I regarded it in the beginning as a species of sport. I thought I would have a permanent sensation of a certain anxiety and, in the meantime, I have not experienced anything of the kind. The only satisfaction which I have is to point out to him his own stupidity and that of his party. By that I drive him to rabidness."

"But that he cares to argue with you--"

"He does not want to but is unable to restrain himself. His temperament and fanaticism carry him away."

"At one time I met a similar individual," answered Gronski, "and not very long ago--out in the country, in Jastrzeb. He was a student, a tutor of Stas, whom Krzycki later discharged because he incited the field hands and was an agitator among peasants of the neighborhood."

"Ah," ejaculated, with a strange smile, Swidwicki, to whom it occurred that Pauly also was at Jastrzeb.

"What? Why do you smile?" asked Gronski.

"Oh, nothing. Speak further."

"I rode with him once to the city and on the way had quite a chat with him."

"According to your habit."

"According to my habit. Now among empty phrases, which only dull minds would accept as genuine coin, he said some interesting things. I learned a little about the angle from which they view the world."

"My maggot at times says interesting things. Yesterday I led him into the admission that socialists of the pure water regard as their greatest enemies the peasants and the radical members of the bourgeoisie. I began to pour oil on the fire and he unbosomed himself. An unsophisticated peasant aspires to ownership, and that aspiration the devil cannot eradicate, and as to the bourgeoisie he spoke thus: 'What harm,' he said, 'do these few nobles and priests who infest the world do to us? Our enemy is the bourgeois, rich or poor. Our enemy is the radical, who thinks that as soon as he shouts that he does not believe in God and priests that he buys us. Our enemy is that boaster, who speaks in the name of the common people and is ready to tickle us under the armpits, so that we should smile on him. He is the one who fawns on us, like a dog at a roll of butter, and preserves all the instincts of a bourgeois.' And he chattered further until I said: 'Hold on! Why, you are with the radicals "fratres Helenae!"' And he to this: 'That is not true! The radical, wealthy bourgeois, who from fear dyes in red and borrows the standard and methods from us, introduces confusion in minds and drabbles in the mud our idea; and the poor one, if he annually saves even the smallest amount, injures us for he offers to work at a lower price than the pure proletaire, who always is as poor as Job. We,' he said, 'will put the knife, above all things, to the throats of the bourgeois for latent treachery lurks in him.' Thus he chattered and I was willing to concede justice to him, if in general I believed in justice, but I did not concede it yet for another reason, and that is, he is too stupid to have reasoned out such things. It was evident that he repeated what others taught him. In fact I did not neglect to tell him so."

Further discussion was interrupted by the arrival of Dolhanski who, observing Gronski, approached him, although he disliked to meet Swidwicki.

"How are you?" he said, "My ladies took a trip to Czestochowo; so I am free. Will you permit me to be seated with you?"

"Certainly, certainly. Why, these are your last days."

"It would be worth while even for that reason to drink a little bottle," observed Swidwicki, "particularly as it is, besides, my birthday."

"If the calendar was a wine-cellar and the dates in it bottles, then your birthday would occur every day," answered Gronski.

"I swear to you upon everything at which I jeer, that, contrary to my habit and inclination, this time I speak the truth."

Saying this, he nodded to the waiter and ordered him to bring two bottles, calculating that afterwards more would be forthcoming. In the meantime Dolhanski said:

"I met Krzycki to-day. He looks poorly; somehow not himself, and he told me that he does not live with you but in a hotel. Did you by chance quarrel?"

"No. But he moved away from me and Pani Krzycki from Pani Otocka's."

"There is some kind of epidemic," exclaimed Swidwicki, "for my cutthroat is leaving me."

"Perhaps something has passed between Krzycki and Miss Anney," said Dolhanski. "I supposed that they were getting quite intimate. Did they part--or what?"

"A marchpane, that Englishwoman," interrupted Swidwicki; "but her maid has more electricity in her."

Gronski hesitated for a while; after which he said:

"No, they have not parted, but something has occurred. I do not know why I should make a secret of that which, sooner or later, you will find out. It has developed that Miss Anney is not the born, but adopted, child of the rich English manufacturer, lately deceased, Mr. Anney, and of his late wife."

"Well, if the adoption gives her all the rights, and particularly the right of inheritance, is it not all the same to Krzycki?"

"The adoption gives her all rights; nevertheless it is not entirely the same to Krzycki, for it appears that Miss Anney is the daughter of a blacksmith of Rzeslewo and is named Hanka Skibianka."

"Ha!" cried Swidwicki, "Perdita has been found but not the king's daughter. What does the pretty Florizel say to this?"

But Dolhanski began to stare at Gronski as if he saw him for the first time in his life.

"What are you saying?"

"The actual fact."

"Sapristi! But that is a nursery tale. Sapristi! You are joking."

"I give you my word it is so. She herself told that to Krzycki."

"I like that expression of astonishment on Dolhanski's face," exclaimed Swidwicki. "Man, come to yourself."

Dolhanski restrained himself, for he always proclaimed that a true gentleman never should be surprised.

"I remember now," he said, "that this is the Skibianka to whom Uncle Zarnowski bequeathed a few thousand roubles."

"The same."

"Therefore his daughter."

"Fancy to yourself otherwise. Skiba came from Galicia to Rzeslewo with a wife and a child a few years old."

"Therefore of pure peasant blood."

"A Piast's,[^[10]] a Piast's," cried Swidwicki.

"Absolutely pure," answered Gronski.

"And what does Laudie say?"

"He swallowed the tidings and is trying to digest them," again blurted out Swidwicki.

"That substantially is the case. He found himself in a new situation and locked himself up. It dumfounded him a little, and he desires to come to himself."

"He was enamoured to the point of ludicrousness but now he will probably break off."

"I do not admit that, but I repeat, that, in view of the changed situation, he has fallen into a certain internal strife, which he must first quell."

"I candidly confess that I would break off all relations unconditionally."

"But if Kaska or Hanka had a hundred thousand pounds?" asked Swidwicki.

"In such a case--I would have fallen into a strife," answered Dolhanski, phlegmatically.

After a while he continued:

"For it seems that it is nothing, but in life it may appear to be something. Omitting the various cousins, 'Mats' and 'Jacks,' who undoubtedly will be found; there also will be found dissimilar instincts, dissimilar dispositions, and dissimilar tastes. Why, the deuce! I would not want a wife who suddenly might be ruled by an unexpected passion for amber rosaries, for shelling peas, for swingling flax, for picking fruit, or for gathering mushrooms, not to say berries and nuts, and walking barefooted."

Here he turned to Gronski.

"Shrug your shoulders, but it is so."

"That would not shock me," said Swidwicki, "only, if I were to marry Miss Anney, I would just stipulate that she at times should go about barefooted. When I am in the country, nothing affects me so much as the sight of the bare feet of girls. It is true that they often have erysipelas about the ankles, which comes from the prickle of the stubblefields. But I assume that Miss Anney has not got erysipelas."

"One cannot talk with you in a dignified manner."

"Why?" replied Swidwicki. "Let Krzycki now clip coupons from his dignity but not we. Did you say that he belongs to the National Democrats?"

"No, not I. But what connection has that with Miss Anney?"

"Oh,--oh, a nobleman--a National Democrat--has found out that his flame has peasant blood in her veins and nevertheless his belly on that account has begun to ache; nevertheless, he is stung by that deminutio capitis."

"Who told you that? Besides, it should be permutatio, not deminutio."

"Yes! The English wares take on the appearance of a domestic product and fall in value. Justly, justly."

"Do you know who could with perfect independence enter into a marriage under such conditions?" asked Dolhanski. "A truly great gentlemen."

"But not Polish," exclaimed Swidwicki.

"There you are already beginning! Why not Polish?"

"Because a Polish gentleman has not sufficient faith in his own blood; he plainly has not sufficient pride to believe that he will elevate a woman to himself and not lower himself to her."

Gronski began to laugh:

"I did not expect that charge from your lips," he said.

"Why? I am an individualist, and in so far as I do not regard myself as a specimen of the basest race, so far do I regard myself as a specimen of the best. According to me one belongs to the aristocracy only through lucky chance; that is, when one brings into the world a suitable profile and corresponding brain. But Dolhanski, for instance, in so far as he has not purchased portraits of ancestors at an auction--and our other gentlemen--judge that blood constitutes that appurtenance. Now granting these premises, I contend that our tories do not know how to be proud of their blood."

"At home," said Gronski, "you vent your spleen upon the socialists, and here you wish to vent it upon the aristocracy."

"That does not diminish my merits. I have a few pretty remarks for the National Democracy."

"I know, I know. But how will you prove that which you said about the Polish tories?"

"How will I prove it? By the Socratic method--with the aid of questions. Did you ever observe when a Polish gentleman abroad becomes acquainted with a Frenchman or Englishman? I, while I had money, passed winters in Nice or in Cairo and saw a number of them. Now, every time I propounded to myself the question which now I put to you: why the devil it is not the Frenchman or Englishman who tries to please the Pole, but the Pole them? Why is it that only the Pole fawns, only the Pole coquets? Because he is almost ashamed of his descent; and if by chance a Frenchman tells him that from his accent he took him for a Frenchman, or an Englishman takes him for an Englishman, then he melts with joy, like butter in a frying-pan! Ah, I have seen such coquettes by the score--and it is an old story. Such coquetry, for instance, Stanislaus Augustus[^[11]] possessed. At home, the Polish gentleman at times knows how to hold his nose high. Before a foreigner he is on both paws. Is not that a lack of pride in his own race, in his own blood, in his own traditions? If you have the slightest grain of a sense of justice, even though no larger than the grain of caviar, you must admit the justice of my remarks. As to myself, I have been ashamed sometimes that I am a Pole."

"That means that you committed the same sin with which you charge others," replied Gronski. "If the tips of the wings of our eagle reached both seas, as at one time they did, perhaps Poles might be different. But at present--tell me--of what are they to be proud?"

"You are twisting things. I am speaking of racial pride only, not political," answered Swidwicki. "After all, may the devils take them. I prefer to drink."

"Say what you will," asserted Dolhanski, "but I will merely tell you this: if internal affairs were exclusively in their hands, some fooleries might take place, but we would not be fried in the sauce in which we are fried to-day."

Swidwicki turned to him with eyes glistening already a little abnormally.

"My dear sir," he said, "in order to govern a country it is necessary to have one of three things: either the greatest number, which the canaille has behind it--I beg pardon, I should have said the Democracy--or the greatest sound sense, which nobody amongst us possesses, or the most money, which the Jews have. And as I have demonstrated that our great gentlemen do not even have any sentiment of traditions, therefore what have they?"

"At least good manners, which you lack," retorted Dolhanski with aversion.

"No. I will tell you what they have--if not all of them, then the second or third one: but I will tell it to you in a whisper, so as not to shock Gronski's virgin ears."

And leaning over to Dolhanski, he whispered a word to him, after which he snorted, maliciously:

"I do not say that that is nothing, but it is not sufficient to govern the country with."

But Dolhanski frowned and said:

"If that is so, then you surely belong to the highest aristocracy."

"Of course! certainly! I have a diploma certified a few years ago in Aix-la-chapelle, the place of the coronation!"

Saying this, he again quaffed his wine and continued with a kind of feverish gayety:

"Ah, permit me to rail, permit me to scoff at men and things! I always do that internally but at times I must expectorate the gall. Permit me! For after all, I am a Pole, and for a Pole there perhaps cannot be a greater pleasure than defacing, belittling, pecking at, calumniating, spitting on, and pulling down statues from the pedestals. Republican tradition, is it not? In addition Providence so happily arranged it that a Pole loves that the most, and when he himself is concerned, he feels it most acutely. A delightful society!"

"You are mistaken," replied Gronski, "for in that respect we have changed prodigiously and in proof of it, I will cite one instance: When the painter Limiatycki received for his 'Golgotha' a grand medal in Paris, all the local little brushes at once fumed at him. So meeting him, I asked him whether he intended to retaliate, and he replied to me with the greatest serenity: 'I am serving my fatherland and art, but only stupidity cannot understand that, while only turpitude will not understand it.' And he was right, for whoever has any kind of wings at his shoulders and can raise himself a little in the air, need not pay attention to the mud of the streets."

"Tut, tut; mud is a purely native product, the same as other symptoms of your national culture, namely: filth, scandals, envy, folly, indolence, big words and little deeds, cheap politics, brawling, a relish for mass-meetings, banditism, revolvers, and bombs; if I wanted to mention everything I would not finish until late at night."

"Then I will throw in for you a few more things," said Gronski; "drunkenness, cynicism, a stupid pose of despair, thoughtless hypercriticism, scoffing at misfortune, fouling one's own nest, spitting at blood and suffering, undermining faith in the future, and blasphemy against the nation. Have you yet enough?"

"I have not enough of wine. Order some more, order some more!"

"I will not order any more wine, but I will tell yet more, that you err in claiming that these are native products. They are brought by a certain wind which evidently has fanned you."

But Swidwicki, who this time had no desire to quarrel but did have a desire to drink, evidently wishing to change the subject of the conversation, unexpectedly exclaimed:

"Apropos of winds, what a pity that such sensible people as the Prussians commit one gross blunder."

Gronski, who had already risen to bid him farewell, was overcome temporarily by curiosity.

"What blunder?" he asked.

"That they assume super-villeiny to be superhumanity."

"In this you are right."

"I feel a contempt for myself as often as I am right."

"Then we will leave you with your wine and your contempt."

Saying this, Gronski nodded to Dolhanski and they departed. Swidwicki's last words, however, caused him to reflect; so after a while he said:

"Now people's minds are haunted by the Prussians and they are reminded of them by the slightest cause. After all, Swidwicki's description of them was apposite."

"If you knew how little I am interested in Swidwicki's descriptions."

"Nevertheless, you vie with him and talk in a similar strain," answered Gronski.

After which, pursuing further the train of his thoughts, he said:

"Nietzsche also did not perceive that the susceptibility and appreciation of other people's woes becomes manifest only upon the culmination of the creative ..."

"Good, good, but at this moment I am more interested in what Krzycki is going to do about Miss Anney."

Dolhanski, who could not endure Swidwicki, would have been sorely afflicted, if he had suspected that the same question occurred to the latter's mind.

Remaining alone, Swidwicki recalled Gronski's recital and began to laugh, as the thought of such unusual complications amused him immensely. He imagined to himself what excitement must have prevailed at Krzycki's and at Pani Otocka's, and how far the affair would agitate the circles of their relatives and acquaintances. And suddenly he began to soliloquize in the following manner:

"And if I paid Miss Anney a visit? It even behooves me to leave her a card. That would be eminently proper. I may not find her in--that does not matter much, but if I should find her in, I will try to see whether her legs are not too bulky at the ankles. For culture, education, even polish may be acquired, but delicate ligaments of the legs and hands it is necessary to inherit through a whole series of generations. That furious Pauly, nevertheless, has a sufficiently thin ligature. The devil, however, knows who her father was, I will go. If I do not find one, I shall find the other."

And he went. He was admitted not by the man-servant but by Pauly; so he smiled at her in his most ingratiating manner and said:

"Good-day, pretty fennel-flower! Is Panna Hanka Skibianka at home?"

"What Hanka Skibianka?" she asked in surprise.

"Then, the little lady does not know the great tidings?"

"What great tidings? I do not know any."

"That the mistress of the little lady is not named Miss Anney?"

"Do not upset our heads."

"I give the little lady my word of honor. Ask Pan Gronski, or Pan Krzycki, who is chewing off his fingers from mortification. I give you my word of honor. I also could tell you more, but if the little lady is not curious I will go. Here is my card for Panna Ski-bian-ka."

The eyes of the girl sparkled with curiosity. She took the card mechanically.

"I do not say that you should go, but I do not believe," she said hurriedly.

"And I know yet more."

"What is it?"

"I will whisper it in your ear."

It did not occur to Pauly that there was no necessity for Swidwicki speaking in a whisper. She leaned towards him with a palpitating heart and, though he flooded her with his breath, saturated with the odor of wine, she did not withdraw her head.

"What is it?" she repeated.

"That Panna Skibianka is a peasant woman from Zarnow!"

"That is untrue!"

"As I love God."

And, saying this, he suddenly smacked her ear with a broad kiss.

IV

Miss Anney's letter bore the impress of extraordinary simplicity. At the beginning she said that from the moment when he proposed for her hand she was compelled to reveal her former name; while in the continuation it contained an equally simple account of herself and her family from the time of their departure from Rzeslewo. This sad course of events she related in the following words:

"My father came from Galicia and had in America relatives of whom he heard that through labor they had amassed fortunes. Learning of this, he decided to settle there also and seek his fortune beyond the ocean. We left Rzeslewo at a time when you were in Warsaw. I knew how to write as I was taught that in the manor-house, and would have informed you about this if I had known your address. We went, not saying anything to anybody, to Hamburg, and at that place there occurred what often happens to peasant emigrants. The agent tricked us, defrauded us of our money, and placed us on a vessel bound not for America but for England. Thrown upon the pavements of London, we soon fell into dire want. For the passage to America there now was no means. My mother died of typhoid fever in a hospital and father, from despair and nostalgia, declined rapidly in health. Under these circumstances we were found by Mr. Anney, one of the best and noblest men in the world, a friend and patron of the Poles, who gave us employment. But the succor came too late, and my father died in the course of a year. I remained in the factory and worked in it until the accident which changed my status entirely. The Anney family had only one child, a daughter, whom they loved beyond everything in the world and surrounded with a solicitude all the greater because she was threatened by a pulmonary ailment. Once it happened that Miss Anney, while visiting the factory, was almost carried away by the driving-wheel of the machinery. I rushed to her assistance, imperilling a little my own life, and from that time the gratitude of the Anney family for me had no bounds. They took me from the factory to themselves, and in this manner I became the companion and afterwards the bosom friend of their daughter. A Pole, an emigrant of the year '63, a friend of Mr. Anney and a man well educated, taught us both, and me, separately, in Polish. I endeavored to benefit, as much as lay in my power, from these lessons, and after two years was able to approach a little the intellectual plane of my friend and my environment. But Agnes--for such was the Christian name of Miss Anney--began to fail in her health. Then Mr. Anney sold his factory and we all, including our instructor, removed to Italy. There about three years were passed in a search for the best climate for our dearest patient. All efforts proved unavailing, however, as God took His angel unto Himself. After Agnes' death, the Anneys, remembering that I loved with my whole soul our dead one, adopted me as their own child and gave me not only their family name, but desiring to overcome their despair, suffering, and sorrow, even the Christian name of the deceased. Nevertheless, the sorrow could not be overcome, and though I tried with my whole heart to be to them some sort of comfort in life, in the course of two years both followed their greatest love.

"And this is the end of my history. And after that came those events which brought me nearer to you; therefore I desire to justify my conduct in your eyes. I have a right to the name which I bear, and my life from the time of the departure from Rzeslewo has been pure. Conscience reproaches me with only one new error. This was that I did not confess to the Anneys that I already was unworthy of their care. But for such a confession I lacked strength. I loved too much my Agnes and feared that they would separate me from her. Later I did not want to add to their affliction. I did not have the strength. At times, also, I think that now when they look upon me from heaven and see everything, they forgive me for keeping that secret. Beyond this I once more repeat and swear that my life has been pure. But in my memory I have only coffins and coffins, and of my Rzeslewo days there remains to me only the recollection of you. I could not forget either my sin or my happiness. Often during the life of my adopted sister, while gazing into her chaste eyes, I struggled with remorse, and at the same time I wept from intense longing. After that, being left alone in the world, I had nothing to cherish in my heart, and I began to yearn yet more. When, after the death of the Anneys, I became acquainted and grew intimate with Zosia Otocka in Brussels, I accidentally learned from a conversation that she was your relative. Then I related to her my entire life, not concealing anything, and she not only did not spurn me, but loved me yet more. Emboldened by her goodness, I confessed to her my longing for the old days and Rzeslewo. Perhaps it may be a new fault on my part that I confided to Zosia my insurmountable desire of seeing yet once more in my life, Jastrzeb, Rzeslewo, and--why should I not state the whole truth?--and you. Then Zosia said to me: 'I understand you; ride with me to Jastrzeb as Miss Anney, as you cannot do otherwise. Nobody will recognize you and you will take a reckoning with your own heart. Perhaps reality may extinguish the rainbow of recollections. If they are assuaged forever, so much the better for you; if he should fall in love with you, so much the worse for him; if your former echoes reawaken, then we will assume that this was predestination.' Such was Zosia's advice, and for that reason, when your mother invited her and Marynia, I also accompanied them to Jastrzeb. But I do not wish to pass for any better than I am. I confess that on the road I always had in mind Zosia's words: 'If he falls in love with you, so much the worse for him,' and I wished that to happen. I was certain that you had entirely forgotten me, and I thought that if now you fell in love with me without any requital, that it would be a sort of condign punishment for your forgetfulness and a kind of triumph for myself and--if not such a womanly revenge as books tell of,--at least a great solace to my self-love. But it happened otherwise, for I forgot to take into account that I had a heart, not of foreign books, but of a Polish village--simple and faithful. When I saw Rzeslewo, Jastrzeb, and you, I wanted only to weep and weep, as I wept at Pan Zarnowski's funeral, and I discovered within me that Hanka, who years before loved you with her first childish love and afterwards with such affection, did not love any one else. You know, sir, what happened further. If you do not return, I will not bear any resentment towards you, but do not harbor any ill-will against me. I, too, merely skirted along the rim of happiness."

The signature was "Hanka." Ladislaus' chin quivered from time to time while he was reading the letter and his eyes grew dim. He began to repeat the signature "Hanka, Hanka." He rose abruptly and paced over the room with big steps. His thoughts rolled into a ball in his head like clouds in the heavens; they collected and scattered in all directions like a startled stud of horses on the wild steppes of the Ukraine. He read the letter a second and third time, and under its influence there began to glide before his eyes pictures of the past as distinct as if all that which occurred some time ago had happened but yesterday. He recalled those bright moonlight nights when he stole away to the mill, and that village girl, fragrant with the hay, who, to the question of whether she loved him, whispered in reply, "Of course," and threw her yet half-childish arms around his neck and hugged him to her breast with such strength that no other love could make a sincerer avowal. He recollected that he nevertheless loved her at that time, and when he missed her, longed for her, and even inquired of the people about the blacksmith's family--but with reserve and faint-heartedly, as fear closed his lips.

Subsequently that girl was erased from his memory so completely that even the light pangs of conscience which he felt on her account vanished; nothing remained. It was well with him in the world and he sought new sensations, while she was seized by the whirlwind of life and was hurled like a wretched leaf upon a foreign land, where she suffered from sheer starvation. Nevertheless, neither at that time, nor later, when good people took care of her, did she forget him nor did she cease to long for him. Ladislaus was not a deep connoisseur of the human soul; he felt, nevertheless, that what for him was simply a love adventure, a shallow enjoyment of the senses, a transient impression which disperses to the winds like the fragrance of flowers, for her became a new life; a surrender of her whole being and whole soul, too pure and too noble for her to seek a new happiness upon new paths. And now he understood why that coveted Miss Anney of to-day, charming as a dream, brilliant, surrounded by affluence and arousing admiration, wrote to him that she had a heart not of foreign books but of a Polish village--simple and faithful. He understood also why the letter was signed "Hanka." Suddenly and irrevocably were banished all his suspicions, and her words, "my life from the moment of the departure from Rzeslewo has been pure," touched him to the extent that he began to upbraid himself that he should for a moment have thought that it could have been otherwise. At once he seemed to himself to be little, mean, and unworthy of that noble and exalted soul. But through his heart and head there coursed during the last moments so many thoughts, impressions, and feelings that he was uncertain whether the final sensibility of his own shortcomings and wretchedness would be lasting. Nevertheless, he was seized with an ever-increasing tenderness, and more and more became obliterated that difference between Hanka and Miss Anney which was so irritating to him in the first moments. Now, on the contrary, the recollection that this simple girl of old and that fascinating lady of to-day were one and the same woman penetrated him with a kind of thrill, resembling a thrill of joy. The memory that at one time he possessed the other began to waken in him, as it were, a hunger and a new passion for the present one, and the thought of her charms intensified the play of his young blood. But he strove to stifle within him those impressions with the consciousness of the responsibilities which were imposed upon him. Above all things he propounded to himself the question. What should a man of honor do who had betrayed and therefore wronged a girl, almost a child, who was in love with him, and later, after a few years, met her under a changed name and fell in love with her? There was only one answer; even if he did not fall in love, if her love continued, he ought to assume all the consequences of his acts. If she remained a simple-minded rustic who never could understand him, or if she had deviated from the path of rectitude, even in such a case, it would not, for his vexed soul, be sufficient reason for washing his hands and withdrawing from the affair; and so much the more, since the girl had bridged the intellectual and social chasm which separated them, and in addition ennobled her own soul and had not ceased to love. "Yes it is so. I would spit in my own eyes," said Ladislaus (not thinking at that moment that in practice an act like that would be a trifle difficult to perform), "if I hesitated any longer. There is only one thing to do and I will do that at once." Having formed this resolution, he took a deep breath like a man, from whose heart a heavy load has fallen--and as much as he at first became little in his own eyes, so now he began to gain in stature. He did not, however, propound the question, what would happen if Miss Anney did not have such wondrous eyes, gazing with a heavenly streak, nor such a countenance, whose color reminded him of the petals of a white rose, nor those other charms which attracted his eyes. He said to himself that many of his acquaintances could not afford to form a similar resolution; he was pleased with himself; and that it was easier for him to do so because he was impelled thereto by his heart and senses, he deemed not as lessening the worthiness of the act itself, but as his own good fortune. He foresaw, however, that he would yet have to do with his mother as well as with the so called opinion of society, which is not concerned about principles but only about gossip, and which seeks, above all things, food for its own stupid malice. But he expected to reconcile his mother, and as to the malicious, smiling ironically upon the slightest provocation, his nostrils, distended at the very thought, and his clenched teeth boded them no good. But this anticipated knightly action was a matter of the future; in the meantime his impetuous nature urged him to immediate action. He determined to go to his mother at once and definitely come to an understanding with her. Glancing, however, at his watch, he became aware of the fact that it was almost three o'clock in the morning. In view of this, that was impossible. Not feeling, however, the least need of sleep, and desiring absolutely to do something, he sat down to write letters. First, he inclosed Miss Anney's letter in an envelope, because he wanted to send it to his mother before the decisive interview took place; after which he started to write to Miss Anney, but soon stopped, as it occurred to him that since he gave his word that he would remain silent for a week, he did not have the right to do it. Instead, after a brief deliberation, he wrote a few words to Pani Otocka, praying that she would permit him to visit her that day.

Finally, when the dawn began to peer into the room and mingle with the light of the lamps, he thought of repose, but though he felt great weariness, he could not fall asleep, and mentally he conversed with his mother and Miss Anney until sunrise. He fell into a sound slumber only when the morning bustle in the hotel began and did not awake until late. Dressing himself, he rang for the servant and ordered him to deliver Miss Anney's letter to his mother, but at the last minute he made up his mind to take it to her himself. But in the rooms engaged by his mother he found only the younger members of the family and the French governess, who informed him that "madame" went to church early in the morning.

V

Pani Krzycki had indeed gone to church and confession, for in the grief which befell her, she needed consolation and advice. And her grief was real and profound. She lived in times in which various ancient prejudices and prepossessions clashed, and were becoming more and more obliterated, yielding place to new democratic ideas. As she often heard that the wave of these new ideas might bring benefit and salvation to the country, she, notwithstanding that her habits and former conceptions conflicted with them, not only did not struggle against them, but quietly acquiesced in them in a passive manner. This was easier for her as it never occurred to her that personally she would ever have anything to do with them. For her it was the same as if somebody had installed modern furniture in a few rooms in Jastrzeb, which were not continually occupied. Let them stay there since fashion requires it and since in the other rooms there are old armchairs, heirlooms, in which one can rest comfortably. And now, suddenly she was ordered to move to that new part of the house; suddenly she was confronted by the fact that her son was in love with a peasant woman from Rzeslewo and was about to marry her. Then in the first moments everything within her was stirred up; the old instincts and customs began to cry out. That silent and passive acquiescence in the new ideas crumbled like a building of sand, and the whole course of events appeared to the indignant citizeness-noblewoman as an unworthy intrigue in which the victim to be sported with was her son and with him, the entire Krzycki family. Amazement that the chief partner and almost author of this intrigue could be a being whom she regarded as the incarnation of all feminine virtues, and whom she desired her son should marry, only aggravated her anger. In vain did Zosia explain to her that her son was the betrayer of an innocent child and Miss Anney was an angel, and that in bringing her to Jastrzeb, she did not have any sinister designs and did only that which every other woman in her place, sympathizing with a wronged and longing woman, would have done. "If the most fervent wish of Miss Anney was to behold once more in her life the place in which her life was undone, and the man whom she could not forget and who was the author of her undoing, then it was due to her; and everybody who has the slightest heart ought to understand this. And let Aunt say," she continued, "whether I could betray her secret and whether an impossible situation would not have been created for her." The usually quiet and gentle Zosia became so wrought up in defence of her friend that she plainly told Pani Krzycki that even if Laudie fell in love with Miss Anney without any requital that it would be only what he deserved and, besides, since "Aninka" did not accept his proposal and gave him a week's time for consideration, he could withdraw it; in such case, however, "Aninka" would not be the only one whose respect he forfeited. But all this was pouring oil upon fire and only increased the ire of Pani Krzycki who declared that, at any rate, she and her son were victims of a plot. After which she moved to a hotel, announcing at the time of her departure that her feet would never again cross the threshold of that house.

Nevertheless, the bitterness and anger which accumulated in her heart were not directed against Pani Otocka alone. Her son also had wounded her heart deeply and awakened a whole series of painful recollections, connected with the memory of her husband. For her husband, a man worshipped by her during the first years of their marital life for his manifold good qualities and extraordinary beauty, had caused her not a little mortification through his immoral life in relation to women in general and the female residents of Jastrzeb and its vicinity in particular. To Pani Krzycki it was no secret, that, in the course of long years, cows were led continually from the manor cow-houses as gifts or rather as rewards to various Kates and Marys and that in Jastrzeb could be found quite a number of step-brothers and step-sisters of her children. So she shed copious tears over this state of affairs until almost the last year of her husband's life. In her time she suffered in her own self-love and her womanly dignity as a wife and mother. Afterwards she forgave everything, but after the death of her husband, as a woman deeply religious, she lived in continual fear at the thought of the Divine Tribunal, before which the deceased appeared. For whole years she tried to supplicate for him forgiveness through tears, fasts, alms, and prayers. Above all she determined to bring up her son in such a manner that he would never fall into the errors of his father. She watched him in his boyhood days, like the eye in her head; she shielded him from all evil influences. After sending him to school she confided the care of him to her relative, a priest, and to Gronski, in whose morality she justly believed. And when the son grew up, when after finishing school, he attended the university, and afterwards assumed the management of the Jastrzeb estate, she had that bottomless, naïve faith, usual with women, upright and pious but unacquainted with the depravity of the world, that up to that time "Laudie" was as pure as a lily. And now unexpectedly the film over her eyes dropped. The son was following in the footsteps of his father. At this thought she was beset by despair. In her soul a protest truly vehement poured forth against the alliance of her son with a peasant woman, but having a very sensitive conscience she felt, after her conversation with Zosia, that Miss Anney had some claim on Ladislaus. Once or twice, this manner of extricating themselves from an onerous situation suggested itself to her mind; that Ladislaus in pursuance of a prearranged compact should propose to Miss Anney and she should refuse him. "But do I know," she said to herself, "how many similar Hankas may already be found in Jastrzeb?" And a horror penetrated to the marrow of her bones at the thought that among those Hankas might be Ladislaus' step-sisters, for it seemed to her that the crimes of the father fatally dragged after them the yet greater crimes of the son and with them must follow damnation. "Ah, Laudie! ah, Laudie!" she repeated despondently, and she felt besides fear, such pain, such disappointment of heart and such profound resentment, that however much she understood that it was necessary to summon Ladislaus as soon as possible and ascertain how he had received the news that Miss Anney is Hanka and what he intended to do, nevertheless she could not persuade herself to see him at once. After removing from Pani Otocka's, the information that he was not at the hotel afforded her true relief. She immediately locked herself up in her room and determined, if he called, not to admit him.

The following morning she went to church and to confession and after confession she begged her relative, the prelate, the same who in his time had charge of Ladislaus, for advice. Already she was calmer. The aged prelate received her and began with extraordinary particularity to question her about Miss Anney, her stay at Jastrzeb, about the course of events after the attempt on Ladislaus' life, and about the details in Hanka's life, of which Pani Krzycki had learned from Zosia: afterwards about the fears of Pani Krzycki herself, and finally after a long silence he said:

"As to the sins, which Ladislaus, after this, the first sin of his youth, might have committed, that is only a conjecture, and a fear, and as we have no irrefutable proofs of them, we should not take them into account at all. There only remains the former Hanka and the Miss Anney of to-day. It is only with this one case that we have to do. So I desire to know how you, as a mother, regard her."

Pani Krzycki replied that she knew perfectly well that all people in the sight of God were equal, but she was concerned about the happiness of her son. Similar marriages were not usually happy. It may be that the reason for this is the malice of the world: it may be that the wife met with humiliation on the part of vain and malicious persons, but the husband must feel that also, in consequence of which irritation ensues and the relations grow from bad to worse even without any ill-will on either side. As to her son he is ambitious and sensitive as but few are, and even if he loved his wife most strongly, he would suffer if any one evinced towards her even a shade of disdain. Whoever lives in the world must reckon with everything, even with stupidity, even with malice, not to say with other considerations upon which marital happiness often depends.

The aged prelate listened, folding and unfolding according to his habit a silk handkerchief, and finally said:

"Reckoning with stupidity and malice may only mean guarding against them, not making any concessions to them."

After which he began to look at Pani Krzycki with a penetrating gaze and asked:

"Permit me to put one question to you: Why should your son necessarily be happy?"

She looked at him with surprise.

"Why, I am his mother."

"Yes, but there are things more important than happiness, particularly temporal,--is it not true?"

"True," she answered quietly.

"That which you said in respect to temporal matters may be more or less just and may actually be the reasons which make such marriages less happy than others, but it is necessary above all things to propound to one's self the question. What in life is greater and what is less, what is more important and what is less important, and to act according to the dictates of conscience."

"Well, how am I to act?" asked Pani Krzycki.

The aged prelate looked at the crucifix hanging on the wall and quietly, but with emphasis, answered:

"As a Christian."

A momentary silence followed.

"I am satisfied with the advice," said Pani Krzycki, "and I thank you."

VI

Ladislaus, while his mother was in church and consulting the prelate, repaired, notwithstanding the early hour, to Pani Otocka. At the very beginning he raised to his lips both of her hands and kissed them so long that she, from that act alone, perceived his intentions.

"I knew it would be so! I knew it!" she cried with emotion and joy.

While he replied in a soft quivering voice:

"I did not require a week to perceive that I cannot live without her."

"I knew it," Zosia once more repeated. "Have you spoken with your mother, yet?"

"No. Yesterday, I ran about the city senselessly, after which I rushed to Gronski's and went to the hotel very late, and this morning I was informed that Mother was in church."

Pani Otocka again became anxious.

"Yesterday," she said, "she was very angry and God grant that she may be reconciled, for on this all depends."

"Not all," answered Ladislaus; "not to speak of my great attachment for Mother, I esteem her immensely; and God sees that I would be pleased always to conform to her will. But that has its limits; when the happiness, not only of myself, but of the being most precious to me in the world, is concerned, then I cannot sacrifice that under any circumstances; I have pondered over this all night. I have a hope that Mother will consent; as I trust in her character and in that love which she has always shown to me. If, however, contrary to my hopes, it should appear otherwise, then I will tell her that this is a resolution which cannot now be and will not be revoked."

"Maybe there is no necessity for that," said Pani Otocka, "for Aninka also is concerned. Yesterday, after the letter which she wrote to you and after Pan Gronski's departure, we talked until late at night. She was very nervous and cried, but spoke thus: 'If he returns to me, not joyfully and with entire good-will, but only because he did not want to withdraw his word, then I will never consent to it. There is no pride in me. I did not even reckon with my own self-love, and wrote to him sincerely what was in my heart, but even if it should break I would not wed him, if it shall seem to him that he is lowering himself for me.'"

"The dear, lovely creature!" interrupted Ladislaus.

Pani Otocka continued:

"After that she began to cry, and added that she would not consent to be the cause of an estrangement between mother and son."

"No, I repeat once more that my resolution cannot and shall not be revoked. Here my whole life is involved--and even if now Mother cannot find in her heart sufficient good-will, she will find it later. In the meantime I will do everything in order that my future wife should have in her also a mother, affectionate and grateful for her son's happiness."

"Can I repeat that to Miss Anney?"

"That is just what I came for. But I have yet one more prayer. She took my word that for a week I would not return to her and she alone can release me from it. But in view of what I came here for, this would be downright, needless torture. Neither a week nor a year can change anything. Nothing, absolutely! Will Cousin deign to tell her that and beg of her from me, but beg very cordially, that she release me from my word?"

"With the greatest pleasure, and I have a hope this will not be a too difficult matter to adjust."

"I thank you with my whole soul and now I will hurry to Mother."

But before he left the room, Marynia rushed in and began to gaze sharply, now at her sister, then at Ladislaus. In reality she was not apprized of the secrets of the former relations between Ladislaus and Hanka, but she already knew that Miss Anney is the former Hanka; she knew everything which transpired afterwards and, loving Miss Anney very much, she was dying from uneasiness and curiosity as to what turn the affair would take. She was so pretty with that wistful gaze and uneasy face and, besides, she had such an amusing mien that Ladislaus, in spite of his emotions, at the sight of her, fell into a good humor. Zosia remained silent, not knowing whether he wished to speak of his affair of the heart before Marynia, while he, purposely, for sometime did not break the silence; finally he approached his little cousin and squeezing her hand, announced in a sepulchral voice:

"Too late!"

"How too late," she asked alarmed.

"She is going to marry some one else."

"Who?"

"Panna--Kajetana."

And he burst out into a sincere, jolly laugh. Marynia conjectured that matters could not stand so badly since Ladislaus was jesting. Desiring, however, to learn fully the good news, she began to stamp with her foot and importune like a child.

"But how?--now, honestly. I could not sleep to-day! How? now, honestly. How?"

"Honestly, that hope and joy and happiness--there!" answered Ladislaus, pointing in the direction of Miss Anney's quarters.

After which, kissing his cousins' hands, he rushed out like a stone whirled from a sling, for he was in a great hurry.

On the way he grew grave and even gloomy at the thought that the moment for his decisive interview with his mother was approaching.

He found her in the hotel, where she awaited him in her own room. The sight of his mother's face, serene and filled with an unusual kind of sweetness, gave him, for the time being, encouragement, but at the same time he thought that gentle persuasion, entreaties, and perhaps tears, would be heavier to bear than anger--and he asked in an uncertain voice:

"Did Mamma read her letter?"

"I did," she answered, "but even before that I learned almost everything from Zosia, whom Miss Anney herself begged not to conceal anything from me."

"Gronski told me that Mamma became angry at Zosia?"

"Yes, that is so, but that can be rectified. Now I want above all things to talk with you sincerely."

So Ladislaus began to narrate how in the first moments he was struck as if by a thunderbolt and how he could not reconcile himself to the thought that Hanka and Miss Anney were one and the same person. He confessed his vacillation, his doubts, suspicions, and the pain, which pierced him; and the internal strife and accounting with his conscience and everything through which he passed. But only after reading her letter, did he perceive that this pain had its origin in his love for her and that the struggle was a struggle with his own heart and happiness; then he ceased to waver; he could not imagine happiness otherwise than with that most precious being in the world, and without her he did not desire it.

After which he said that when he became acquainted with her at Jastrzeb, as Miss Anney, from almost the first moment he was attracted to her by some incomprehensible force and she engrossed all his thoughts. He, of course, esteemed Zosia Otocka highly, and Marynia he regarded as a bright phenomenon. But admiration and love are two different things. Besides, he did not owe anything either to Zosia or to Marynia. They were kind while he was wounded and that was all. But to Miss Anney he probably owed his life, and he remembered that she for his sake placed herself in peril. With what could he repay her for that, and how could he make reparation for the former wrong, committed while she was still almost a child? Who was the worthier of the two? Was it he, who forgot and lived from day to day an easy, thoughtless, and spiritually slothful life, or she whom no new attachments could reconcile to their separation and who ennobled her mind and heart through suffering, yearning, and labor? "I scarcely dare to believe. Mother," said he, "that she not only absolves my injury, but has not ceased to love me. Perhaps it happened thus, because it was I who, for the first time in her life opened for her the doors to the world of happiness, but undoubtedly it was because hers is a totally exceptional nature. Yes, Mother! She is one of those who, in a pristine state even at the time when they are unable to realize things, possess that noble instinct, that sort of elevation of feeling that love ennobles indeed everything, but only when it is great, when it is for a whole lifetime; and those who love have such strength, such a depth of affection, that they are incapable of any other affection. But when such a one is found, then we can only thank God on our knees, and, in plain terms, my head is confused at the thought that for my transgression I meet with, not punishment, but fabulously good fortune. It may be that there are in the world more such women who can make a man happy, but I want to be happy only with this one; maybe there are others who ennoble and elevate everything about them, but I feel that through this one I will be better and better. Finally, this is a question not only of my happiness but also of my honor."

Here, folding his hands, he began to gaze into her eyes with a pleading look; after which he continued:

"All this I intrust to Mamma's hands; my whole life, my entire future, and the peace of my conscience, and happiness and honor."

Pani Krzycki placed both of his palms to her temples and kissed his forehead.

"My Laudie," she said, "I am an old woman and have various prejudices: so I will not tell you that from the first moments it was easy for me to assent to your intentions. Do you know that yesterday I became enraged at Zosia and until this morning, I persisted in my determination to oppose as far as it lay in my power your marriage. Be not surprised at this, since you admit that you were struck as if by lightning; then think, how it must have affected me, I, as is usual with a mother, had at the bottom of my soul the conviction that for you even a king's daughter would not be too high a mate. But it was not only the old mode of thought, not only a maternal vanity, and not only prejudices which inflamed my opposition. I feared also for your happiness. I would not have had anything against the person of Miss Anney herself, were it not for these other circumstances. I became acquainted with her at Jastrzeb and loved her sincerely; often I said, God grant that all our ladies could be like her. But learning who she is and what took place between you, I became alarmed at first at the thought that you might have committed similar offences in Jastrzeb."

"No, Mamma," answered Krzycki; "I give my word for that."

"For you see I thought you were absolutely pure; so think what a blow it was to me."

Ladislaus bowed to her hands, in order to hide his face, for notwithstanding the gravity of the moment, notwithstanding his sincere emotion and anxiety, the naïvete of his mother seemed to him something so unheard-of that he feared he might betray himself by an expression of astonishment, or what was worse, a smile. "Ah," he thought, "it is lucky that I have to swear only as to Jastrzeb, for I could not tell mother what I told Gronski, that a wise wolf never takes from that village where he keeps his lair." But simultaneously it occurred to him that one must be an angel to have such a delusion, and his adoration of his mother increased yet more.

And she continued:

"Then I took into consideration the world and the people among whom you must live. I knew that not a few would commend your conduct, but in reality you would have to endure a thousand petty annoyances and stings which would irritate and exasperate you until they caused a pain and bitterness even in your feeling towards your wife. I was concerned about your happiness which, in my blindness I craved above all things for you. And only to-day was the film taken off my eyes. Apparently such things we know and proclaim, but, nevertheless, with real surprise and as if it was something new, I heard that happiness is not the most important thing in life and that it ought not to be the greatest concern of a mother. And before that my heart was cleansed of its pride and I was commanded to be guided by my conscience: therefore, my Laudie, I cannot dissuade you from this marriage."

Ladislaus, hearing this, again bowed his head to his mother's hands and began to cover them with kisses.

"Ah, Mamma, dear," he repeated, "ah, Mamma, how happy I am!"

"And I," she answered; "for I feared that your feeling might be superficial, founded upon a delusion and fancy; but, after this conversation, I see that you love Aninka truly."

"Yes! That is imbedded so deeply that it could only be torn from me with my life."

"I believe, I believe."

Thus mutually assuring each other, they both spoke with absolute sincerity, and both at the same time deluded themselves. For Ladislaus had an inflammable head, greedy senses, and soft heart, but he lived principally on the exterior, and none of his feelings could spring from great depths as, on the whole, he was not a deep man.

But his mother, believing every one of his words as she believed in the gospel, said with great confidence:

"May God bless you, my child. Let us at present speak of what is to come. I, of course, understand that once having agreed, it is necessary to agree not with half but with the whole heart: it is necessary to receive Aninka with open arms and give her to understand that it is she who is conferring a favor upon us for which we should be grateful."

"Yes, for she does," exclaimed Ladislaus with ardor.

"Very well, very well," answered Pani Krzycki, with a smile, "now it becomes me to go to her and thank her myself. I assume also that Aninka will withdraw the condition that you should not call upon her for a week."

"Zosia is to attend to that, but naturally Mamma's words will be more effective."

"When do you want me to go?"

Ladislaus again folded his palms:

"At once, Mother dear, at once."

"Very well; will you wait for me here, or at Zosia's?"

"Here; for Zosia might be with Marynia at the rehearsal. She sometimes accompanies her."

Pani Krzycki rose heavily from the chair, as that day, from the morning, had been trying for her and the rheumatism held her more and more strongly. Having, however, straightened out her limbs, she moved briskly ahead. The thought that she was troubling herself for her boy made it an agreeable task and exertion.

But on the way she began to think of matters of which thus far there had been no mention between herself and her son. She belonged to that type of women, often found among the country nobility, who know perfectly well how to line the ideal cloak with a real lining. In her time the entire management of the Jastrzeb estate rested on her head, and on that account she had a multitude of worries and had habituated herself to struggle continually with them. So at the present time her mind turned to the material side of the affair.

"I would consent to this marriage" (she thought as if to justify herself to herself), "even though Aninka did not have anything, but I am curious to know how much she can have." After which she began to fondle the hope that while Aninka might not have millions and for an Englishwoman might not be very rich, she might have what in Poland might be regarded as great opulence, though in England it might be deemed a modest fortune.

And amidst such meditations she rang Miss Anney's door-bell.

The visit passed off as could be expected. Pani Krzycki was honest, grateful, motherly and, at the moment when she surrendered the life and happiness of her son to the hands of Miss Anney, "her dear daughter," she was, in a measure, pathetic. Miss Anney, too was in a measure, pathetic, also cordial and simple, quiet and collected as well, but she seemed to be acting with caution, though nothing whatever was said of the past. With Pani Krzycki there even remained an impression that there was by a hairbreadth too much of this "reserve." She understood perfectly that it would be want of tact on Miss Anney's part if she displayed too much enthusiasm and conceded that she acted properly, but nevertheless she carried away at the bottom of her heart a little disappointment as it were, for there was hidden in her the conviction that the woman who would get "Laudie" and would bear his name, could be excused even though she went insane from joy.

Returning to the hotel, she did not, however, confess to her son this thought, but began to load "Aninka" with praises and speak of her so warmly that tears stood in the eyes of both. Ladislaus, above all else, was anxious to know whether the "taboo" was removed and the prohibition recalled; having learned that such was the case, a quarter of an hour later, he was at Hanka's feet.

"My beloved, my angel, my wife!" he said, embracing her knees.

VII

A few days later, the old notary, Dzwonkowski, and Dr. Szremski came to visit Gronski. The latter, to whom this was an agreeable surprise, as he liked both, and, besides, esteemed the doctor highly, greeted them with great cordiality and began to ask the news of the city, the vicinity, and of themselves.

"Ha! We live, we live," answered the boisterous doctor. "In these times, that is an art. But the police so far have not arrested us, the bandits have not shot us, the socialists have not blown us up into the air; so we not only live, but have come to Warsaw. I, because I must ride farther,--as far as Volhynia, and this gentleman," pointing to the notary, "on account of the concert and Panna Marynia's participation in it. Having read of it in the daily newspapers he fell into such a state that at any moment I looked for an attack of apoplexy or aneurism. There was no help for it. I had to prescribe a stay in Warsaw as a cure. Finally, he cannot at all endure our little town any more, and is thinking only of giving up his office to some one and of moving here permanently. In his heart a fire is burning, and the snow melts, and ice melts and so forth. Ha!"

During these words, the old notary moved his jaws so furiously that his chin almost touched his nose; finally he declared:

"The head splits! The head splits!"

"The same old quarrel?" asked Gronski, laughing.

"Quarrel?" repeated the notary. "It is not I who quarrel. He has shaken up my brain, shattered my nerves, stupefied me, torn to pieces, exhausted, cleaned out, sucked, and outtalked the remnants of strength within me. From yesterday, sir, on the whole road--a continual din and roar in the ears--and after that in the hotel; to-day, since morning, and now here. No, I cannot stand it, no, I cannot!"

"Tut, tut. And who daily summons me? Who every day hangs out his tongue until it reaches the first button on his vest and orders me to examine it? Wait, sir. I will ride away and you will have to examine it yourself before a mirror."

"Then you are really going to Volhynia? How about your patients?" asked Gronski.

"I fear that in the meantime they may get well; but it can't be helped, I must go!"

"And for how long?"

"I do not know, but do not think very long. I am a Volhynian Mazur, from the minor nobility of that place, or as they say there of the single-manor nobles. They are mostly settled there as tenants of various petty nobles, but I have my own seat in partnership with a brother, an ex-judge, who has charge of the estate and to whom I am now riding."

"But, of course, not because he is sick?"

"Certainly, sir; he has become insane."

"My God! Since when?"

"Not long ago. From the time he became a 'local rights' man.'"

"Ah."

"That is so. The indigent, haughty noble took a notion to pose as a landed proprietor, hankered after the society of gentlemen, and got water on the brain. A month ago I sent him two thousand primers for our impoverished shabby gentility, of whom no one thinks and who involuntarily or rather in spite of their will, are there losing their Polish spirit. And would you believe it, sir, that he sent back to me the whole package, together with a letter in which he announced that he would not distribute the primers."

"Why?" asked Gronski, whom the narrative of the doctor began to interest.

"He wrote to me in the first place that they have decided to live and labor only for their own province and occupy themselves only with local or provincial affairs, and again they aim at some kind of synthesis of all nationalities, and thirdly they will Polonize nobody."

"But you were only concerned about primers for the children of the petty nobility, who are Polish."

"By them this is already styled Polonization, for it interferes with their 'synthesis.' We know in what that synthesis must end. May the devils take them, together with their diplomacy. But that is not enough! In the end, my ingenious brother informs me that he does not regard himself as a Pole, but only as a Volhynian with Polish culture and that this is his political position. Ah, sir, Stanczyk was wrong when he said that in Poland there are the most doctors. In Poland there are the most politicians. Every average Pole is a second Talleyrand, a second Metternich, a second Bismarck. He never participated in political life, is unacquainted with history, never passed through any schools, and never studied. That is nothing! He is by grace of God! He from nature has a pastille in his brain, of which he thinks that if he only lights it, then all the horse-flies and gnats, which suck our blood will be so hoaxed that they will cease to molest us. And every one is convinced that he alone sees clearly, that he alone has the exclusive measures, and that his diplomacy, county, local, provincial, or whatever you may call it, is a panacea. It never occurs to him, that with such county or local polities, this fatherland, as Yan Casimir said, would go into direptium gentium."

"Sir," said the aged notary to Gronski, pointing to the doctor, "you have pressed in him such a button, that now he will not stop talking until we shall not be able to move hand or limb."

"That is not a button, that is a sore," answered Gronski.

And evidently it was a sore for the doctor, as he was so absorbed that he did not hear what was said about him, and began the following dialogue with his absent brother.

"Ah! So you are not a Pole but only a Volhynian with Polish culture? Very well! Then, in the first place I will tell you that you have repudiated your father, grandfather, and great-grandfather; that you have spat upon their graves; that you have renounced your traditions, your right of existence, that you have grown smaller, that you have deserted your own people and have gone to those who do not want you, who do not invite you and who treat you with contempt; that you hang in the air and you will look prettily under such conditions in your Volhynia. Again, I will tell you that you are not yet a turncoat, since that which you are doing, you do through stupid politics which in consequence of your ignorance you regard as wise, but you have paved the way for future turncoats. Your grandson or great-grandson will renounce Polish culture. And finally, if you say that you are not a Pole, but only a Volhynian, why do you not go back farther, even as far as Darwin? You could with equal justice say that you are not a Pole, but an orang-outang or a pithecanthrope with Polish culture? What? Bah! But you still say that you do not want to Polonize any one? How can you Polonize? Whether with a whip, with prison, by religious compulsion, with school, or with a gag on the native tongue? Tell me! But, if not denying your nationality you would shine with the example of your public Polish virtues, if you would give someone your Polish hunger for liberty, your Polish ability to understand the sufferings of others, your Polish love, your Polish hope, your faith in a better future, and through these reconcile him to Poland, then would you regard such a Polonization as premature, and bad politics? But in such case, I ask you, you dunce, have you anything better to offer, and why are you staying there where you settled? You don't know? And in the end you will not even know who you are. That I will tell you. You, Brother, are a weak character and above all have a weak head."

Here he turned to Gronski:

"This is what I have to say to my brother and why I am riding to him. There is to be some kind of an assembly there, so I will say this, in other words, publicly."

"If you would only go as quickly as possible," exclaimed the notary.

And the doctor began to laugh.

"But as I have yet time, I will first attend Panna Marynia's concert."

"By all means," said Gronski, "ride, sir. Poland is not only being cut from the outside by inimical scissors, but she is beginning to be rent asunder internally. Ride, sir, and tell them that publicly. Perhaps some may be found who will be frightened at their amenableness to the future."

"I think that such will be found. For, in the main, I assume that they, or at least a majority of them, thus far feel in the old way, and only speak as they do in order to loosen, even though for a moment, the noose which presses on their throats. But in this they are mistaken. The result will be that they will be despised and trampled upon, both from above and below."

"When are you going?"

"The assembly meets in about ten days, so I actually will stay here about a week, for I have various matters to attend to in Warsaw. In the meantime, I will visit my acquaintances, and among others Pani Otocka, and the Krzyckis. How is Krzycki?"

"As well as a fish--and he is going to marry."

"Well, well. I will wager that it is with that beautiful Englishwoman? A pure flower!"

"Yes. But it seems that this is not an English flower, only genuinely Polish, from a village meadow."

"For the Lord's sake. What are you saying?"

"That is no longer any secret. Her name is Hanka Skibianka."

Here Gronski related the whole history of Miss Anney, omitting only that Ladislaus knew her while she was Hanka.

And they listened with astonishment, while the doctor slapped his knees with his palms and cried:

"Ah! If I had known that; ah, if I had known that!"

"Well, what would have happened? asked the notary testily.

"What would have happened? I would have been in love with her not only under the ears but above. As it was, I only missed by a hair being in love with her. Ah, lucky but undeserving Krzycki! But such is my ill-luck. Let only one catch my fancy--lackaday! either some one takes her, or she is in love with somebody else. But it cannot be helped! I must see Miss Anney and tender her my best wishes. For after all Krzycki is a good boy. Such as he will not rebuild Poland, but a good boy, nevertheless. And such a comely rascal, that he ravishes the eye. I would like to see them together. That will be a couple--what!"

"If you wish to see them, and have the time," said Gronski, "then it will not be difficult, for we arranged yesterday at Pani Otocka's that to-day we will all be present at the rehearsal for the concert. I can take you gentlemen to-day to the rehearsal, and afterwards, the whole party can go to breakfast."

"Exactly," exclaimed the notary, "that is just what I came to ask you to do. I have dropped out of the old relations and I did not know to whom to apply--well!"

Gronski glanced at his watch.

"If that is the case, all right; but we have still time. In the hall at this moment there is some kind of meeting or lecture, and such meetings usually drag beyond the designated time. After that, before they ventilate the hall and replace the chairs, a half hour will elapse. I have not omitted any rehearsal, so I know how things go."

"And I will not omit any," said the notary.

Nevertheless, he grew so impatient that they left too early. Before the building stood about a dozen persons, evidently waiting for those in the hall; while from within there reached them a buzzing noise, at times shouts, applause, and the sound of the stamping of feet.

"What kind of meeting is it?" asked the doctor.

"Really, I do not know," answered Gronski. "Now we are full of that. There are political meetings, social conferences, literary lectures, and God knows what else."

"I envy Warsaw," exclaimed the doctor.

"There is not much to envy. At times it chances that something deserves attention, but oftener such absurdities take place that one feels ashamed."

"Oh, they are already leaving," observed the notary; "but why are they shouting so?"

"Let us wait; that is some kind of a brawl," said Gronski.

In fact it evidently was a brawl, for from the roomy vestibule there rushed out on the wide stairs between ten, and twenty men, without caps or hats, who in the twinkling of an eye, formed a disorderly heap. In this heap, hands, canes, and umbrellas moved violently, and these motions were accompanied by a shrill shriek. Afterwards from the gyrating mob, shoved by tens of arms, shot out, as if from a sling, somebody, with bare head and tattered coat, who, leaping from the stairs, turned a somersault at the doctor's feet in such a manner as almost to tumble him and the notary on the ground.

"Swidwicki!" exclaimed Gronski with astonishment.

Swidwicki rose, and shaking his fist menacingly at the crowd, which, having ejected him outdoors, was again returning to the hall, began to say with a panting voice:

"Ah, it is you! They have warmed my hide--they have warmed my hide! They have broken my ribs a little, and torn my coat. But that is nothing! I also have crooked a few straight noses and have straightened out a few crooked ones. This is the second time that this has happened to me--ouch!"

"Come with me. You cannot stay thus, with bare head and in such a coat."

"No, no!" answered Swidwicki. "Ouch! Let me recover my breath. Hey! Messenger!"

And beckoning to a messenger, he said to him:

"Citizen! Here are two pieces of coin and a wardrobe check. Go to the vestibule and fetch me my hat and topcoat."

"But for the Lord's sake what happened?"

"Directly, directly," said Swidwicki; "but let me first dress. After that we will go to some confectioner's shop--ouch! For as soon as the meeting closes, they will begin to go out and, finding me here, they will be ready to administer a new drubbing to me and to you gentlemen to boot."

"So that was a meeting?"

"A meeting, conference, discussion, lecture--whatever you wish. Panna Sicklawer spoke on 'Imparting knowledge.' On the platform sat Pan Citronenduft, Panna Bywalkiewicz, Panna Anserowicz, Panna Kostropacka, the editor Czubacki, and others. The hall was packed to suffocation. Ouch! I enjoyed myself like a king."

"We see," observed Gronski.

"You think not? But introduce me to these gentlemen. For I am the hero of the day."

"Hero Swidwicki, gentlemen; Notary Dzwonkowski and Dr. Szremski," said Gronski.

Swidwicki squeezed the palms of Gronski's astonished companions; after which when the messenger brought the hat, cane, and top-coat he dressed himself and said:

"With this cane I would be ready to wait for them here--but for to-day I have had enough. The meeting will last twenty minutes or longer. Let us go to some confectioner's shop, for I feel a pain in my legs and cannot stand."

They went to a confectioner's. Swidwicki ordered for himself one and then a second glass of cognac, after which he began to talk:

"That was an instructive meeting. Panna Sicklawer, I tell you gentlemen, is a Cicero in petticoats. When she started to impart knowledge to various meek creatures of the masculine gender and various magpies of fourteen years, of whom the audience mainly consisted, even I grew warm. The meek creatures applauded or else cried 'shame' when there was a talk of parents, and the magpies blushed so violently and fidgeted in their seats so much, that they seemed to sit on needles, and everything went along smoothly. Remarks were made by Pan Citronenduft, Panna Gotower and some maid, a native of far away Kars, whose name as well as I could hear it, had a Grecian or Spanish sound,--Nieodtego. The maturer portion of the auditors was also carried away by the enthusiasm, and I, though Gronski doubts it, enjoyed myself like a king. For you see, gentlemen, that I, from principle, have nothing against imparting knowledge,--nothing. Quite the reverse! Only, I am of the opinion, if an affair is to be jolly let it be really jolly. So then, after a few addresses, I rose, asked leave to speak and announced that I desired to recite a poem in honor of the gathering. They agreed to it and I received applause in advance. Then I began to declaim--indeed, not an original poem, but my own parody on the fable: 'Once wanton little Thad.' But this did not continue long; it appeared that my Thaddy proved himself to be so wanton, that he was too wanton, even for them. They did not like also this; that in staring at Panna Nieodtego, I closed one eye. They began to shout 'Silence!' 'Fie!' 'Away with him! This is jeering!' And here my ideal fable began to change into a real epic. For when in reply to the shout 'This is jeering,' I said, 'Well what did you think it was?' there was a universal roar of 'Put him out!' At least fifty hands grappled my shoulders and neck; a nice rumpus followed. They struck me, I struck back. Finally, they dumped me into the corridor: from the corridor on to the stairs, and into the street. The rest you gentlemen know. I repeat for the third time that I enjoyed myself like a king."

"That to me is at least courage," said the doctor; "it is necessary to stop such things, even by a scandal; so you did well, sir; you are a brave nationalist."

"I, a nationalist," exclaimed Swidwicki, "why, the day before yesterday I was thrown out of a meeting of the National Democrats. Indeed, a little more politely, but I was ejected."

Gronski began to laugh.

"So this is your new sport?"

But with this their conversation ended as their attention was attracted by the crowd returning from the lecture. Before the window flowed a black human stream, among which were a large number of striplings, and young girls with cheeks covered with blushes.

When the stream finally passed by, there appeared after an interval the bright, vernal forms of Hanka, Marynia, and Pani Otocka, in the company of Krzycki.

VIII

Upon the so called "happiest period" in Krzycki's life certain small shadows fell, and this for various reasons. If on the one hand his love for Hanka grew with each day, on the other there began various petty annoyances which his mother had foreseen. They were things almost imperceptible, about which one could not pick a quarrel, but which nevertheless stung. Thus it happened that the ladies of Gorek came to Pani Krzycki to invite her to the wedding of Kajetana to Pan Dolhanski, which wedding through a special dispensation of the church was to take place in a few days. Pani Krzycki in tendering them her good wishes announced that they could also do the same to her, owing to the betrothal of her son to Miss Anney. Then both, one after the other, began to heartily embrace her, which, though apparently a sign of their good wishes, looked more like condolence, the more so as Pani Wlocek did not utter anything besides the words, "It is God's will," while Kajetana raised her eyes as piously as if she wanted to supplicate the Powers on high to comfort the heartbroken mother. Ladislaus laughed after their departure, but in his soul he wished that both would break their necks. When, however, a few days later it appeared that out of the entire circle of acquaintances only Hanka did not receive an invitation from these ladies, he wanted to start a brawl with Dolhanski: and his mother was barely able to restrain him with the declaration that neither she herself, nor Zosia, nor Marynia would attend the wedding. Krzycki was even angered because some of his acquaintances, in contrast to the ladies of Gorek, tendered to him their good wishes with excessive ardor, as if he had performed an heroic act. His marriage, as well as the antecedents of Hanka, became the subject of every conversation in "society." Out in the world, great political changes could take place, bombs could explode, strikes could break out, but in the salons for a few days only Hanka was spoken of, various flabby dames, with eyes half closed, in a questioning tone, drawling through their teeth, "Anka--Skubanka[^[12]]--n'est ce pas?" But while the good wishes of those who tendered them to Krzycki with such excessive ardor sprang from appreciation of the heroism with which he dared to take as wife "Skubanka," Hanka's marriage settlement and the hope of "plucking" the millionaire in the future played an important rôle. This marriage settlement, which, agreeably with Pani Krzycki's anticipations, was, for local conditions, quite considerable, but by no means reached the millions, grew in public opinion with almost every hour, so that it attained almost fabulous proportions, and intensified the universal curiosity to the extent that when Hanka in the company of her two young female friends together with Pani Krzycki and her fiancé appeared at the races, all the lorgnettes were directed at their carriage. The flabby dames from "high life," gazing at her radiant countenance, sparkling with happiness and health, indeed said that they could at once surmise that "this is something a little different," and contended that in the present days this "high life" ought to open its delicate bosom to a person possessing such means for "doing good." As to her comeliness, however, the opinion prevailed that she was not sufficiently pretty for one to lose his head and that Krzycki was marrying for money. His defence was undertaken only by the ladies from Gorek, who, meeting now many people, made it everywhere understood that their young neighbor did not always seek merely money, and that only when he was disappointed in other fancies, did he come to the conclusion that it was better to have money than nothing.

Thus did things shape themselves externally. But on the sky of the betrothed pair appeared tiny clouds which, as Ladislaus' love became inflamed, appeared even with greater frequency. Hanka, habituated to English customs, did not at all hesitate to receive her fiancé at her home and pass with him long hours alone; to stroll with him over the city, to drive from the city without a chaperon, and even call him by his Christian name. She said to herself that in great and sincere love there also should be room for friendship and that it was necessary before one became a wife to be a sincere friend and comrade. She thought that Ladislaus would understand this and not only would love her all the more but also cherish her all the more. Once she had read in an English book that one might love and not cherish, and that in such a case love grows embittered to the degree that it may become perpetual unhappiness. So, desiring to avoid this and place her future life upon immovable foundations, she wished to win, besides love, the deepest possible friendship.

But here the misunderstandings between the engaged couple began. That golden-hair, that good friend, gazing with a heavenly light, that rose-colored, gay comrade who dressed herself in a light dress and spring hat, was so charming that Ladislaus cherished indeed without limit, but at every tête-à-tête lost his head. To Hanka it appeared that her betrothed, though he was enamoured to distraction and at the same time was a friend, should be the kind of a man upon whose shoulders she could at every moment press her head with perfect confidence that he would not abuse her trust and would not take advantage of their seclusion nor of any temporary weakness, nor of the gray hour, nor of the fact that love disarms and weakens a woman. He, on the contrary, perhaps because he lost his head, acted as if he thought that friendship and the relations of a comrade only added to the rights of betrothal. From this there was generated a mutual vigilance; in him a watchfulness for everything of which he might take advantage; in her a wariness of that which she ought to avoid. This vigilance, at first silent, soon lapsed into quarrels. They were followed by apologies, which would have intensified the love of both were it not that Ladislaus apologized too passionately. And this misunderstanding was in reality deeper than both thought, for when Hanka, remembering what once had taken place between them, believed that he should on that account be more continent, he, in moments when blinded by desire, seemed to fancy that very past, together with the burnt bridges, justified him in everything. From these causes, the enchanted edifice of their happiness from time to time became defaced and would have been defaced yet more strongly were it not for this, that in Ladislaus there was material for everything and there came upon him moments entirely different. Sometimes on clear nights when they sat on the balcony leading to the garden of Hanka's residence, and when from the neighboring balcony came the song of Marynia's violin, and the moonlight seemed to sleep quietly on the opposite walls, it also put to slumber Ladislaus' senses. His soul, lulled to sleep by the sight of the beloved being, bleaching like a white angel in the dusk,--intoxicated with the fragrance of leaves and flowers, winged by music, was dissolved into a kind of universal but sweet and chaste feeling, which enveloped Hanka and bore her towards the stars. The impressionable soul of the girl at such times was susceptible of this and was simply submerged in happiness.

But these were transitory moments of tranquillity of mind. A moment later, while Ladislaus was bidding her good-night and when he kissed her hands and forehead, quickly there was awakened in him the eternal hungry desire, and he sought her lips and hugged her breast to his own; he lost his memory, and, when she broke away from his arms, he said that he did not promise her that he would be an English Quaker; and they parted, if not angry, as if both were humiliated and sad.

And that sadness fraternized with love.

But it often happened that Ladislaus disarmed Hanka with his great frankness which in reality was his chief attribute.

"You, my Hanusia," he said to her once, after serious quarrel, "would want that I should mount a ladder and stay on the highest round, for a time--Good!--I can! But to stay there forever I could not do any more than I could walk on stilts all the time. Do not imagine that I am something more than I am. I am an ordinary mortal, who only differs from others in this, that he loves you above everything."

"No, Laudie," answered Hanka, "I do not at all desire that you should be some great personage, for I remember that the Englishmen say that an honest man is the noblest work of God."

"I did a little mischief once, but I think I am honest."

"Yes, but remember that not he is honest who does not do evil, but he who does good. In that everything is contained."

"I agree to that. You will teach me that."

"And you me."

"Ha I we will keep house in Jastrzeb and will do all we can. There is much work to be done there and of the kind for which I am fitted. To be a good husbandman, to be good to the people, to instruct them; to teach, love, and enlighten; to be also a good citizen of the country and in case of necessity to die for it--for this, I give my word I am fit. Yes, it is so. And now you have me. But taking everything together, no evil will befall you with me, Hanusia,--I love you too much for any evil to befall you. Only, my golden one, my love, my rosy lady, do not command me to sit on the ladder, for that I cannot do."

His simplicity and sincerity propitiated Hanka. The thought of a joint life in Jastrzeb, of loving the folks whose child she was, of instructing them, of laboring over and for them, cheered and allured her more powerfully than anything else could do. To return to Poland and take charge of a Polish village was the plan which she formulated immediately after the death of the Anney family. And now just such a horizon was opened to her by this former "young lord" whom she loved while yet a simple girl. Therefore she was grateful to him: she was ready in her soul to exalt his good qualities, to exculpate his faults, to love him, and to persevere faithfully at his side, but in exchange she wanted nothing more than that he should love her not only with his senses, but with a true and chaste love, and that he should regard her above all things as his life companion, "for better or for worse."

And, for that reason, whenever there came to her moments in which it seemed to her that he saw in her principally an object for his desires and was unable to find, in himself strength to struggle with them and elevate his feelings to noble heights, doubt seized her heart and she could not resist the thought that he was not such as she would wish him to be.

"But nevertheless," she consoled herself in her soul, "that is a sincere and true nature, and where there is sincerity and truth, everything may be brought to light."

Ladislaus on the contrary was in reality sincere to the degree that one could see through him--through and through, as though he were made of glass. The proof of this was the opinion which Dr. Szremski expressed about him in a conversation with Gronski.

"To me," he said, "the present-day Hanka Skibianka is ten times more interesting than the former Miss Anney, and I wish her happiness from my whole soul. But if she bases that happiness upon the feeling which Krzycki entertains for her, I fear that she will be disappointed. I do not wish to say anything bad of him. On the contrary, to me he is a sympathetic type, for he is immensely ours, immensely domestic. If he had lived a hundred years ago and been a Uhlan, he would have charged at Samo-Sierra no worse than Kozietulski and Niegolewski. Only he belongs to that species of men for whom it is easier to die for some idea or for some feeling than to live for them and to persevere in them. To turn to one idea or to one feeling, as a magnetic needle turns to the north, is not within their power nor their concern. They require distraction, amusement. And there is nothing strange in this. Consider only that for entire ages nobody was better off than the various Krzyckis and Gronskis--nobody. So they sucked of the pleasures of life, like juice of grapes. They ate, drank, played, dissipated--bah! they even fought for the pleasure of it. They were not vicious nor terrible, for a happy man cannot be totally vicious. They had in their hearts a certain feeling of humanity. They were indulgent to people who were subject to them, but above all things they were indulgent to themselves. Hence at the bottom of the Polish soul always lies indulgence. Then came the time of penance and that indulgence by right of inheritance, particularly in the spheres to which Krzycki belongs, remains. For him, neither love for woman nor for fatherland will suffice. He will love them and, in a given case, will perish for them, but in life he will indulge himself. And you see, sir, that it was just for this reason that I said that such as he will not rebuild Society."

"And who will?" asked Gronski.

"The future generations--not the pot-bellied, not the easy-natured, not the chatterboxes, not the indulgers in sensual delights and the pleasures of life--no--apparently they are good for everything and fit for nothing--but only the hardy, the persistent, the quiet, and the practical. For them, misfortune and slavery have tilled the ground for a hundred years."

"And the present day manures the ground," said Gronski, "only it is a pity that this manure has such a rank smell."

"That is not manure; that is sand blown from abroad which renders the soil sterile," replied the doctor with energy.

And he began to curse.

IX

Dolhanski, however, completely subdued his fiancée and his future mother-in-law, inasmuch as he prevailed upon them to call personally upon Hanka and invite her to the wedding. They were prompted to this by the consideration that at any rate it behooved them to preserve the outward semblance of good relations with their future neighbors from Jastrzeb, and they were persuaded in particular by the news, which he brought from the high spheres, that "high life" was reconciled to the idea of admitting Hanka into its fold, while he, on the other hand, wanted to see her at a close range in the church. After their visit, during which the mother and daughter, under the watchful eye of Dolhanski, acted not only properly but quite amiably, Pani Krzycki revoked her resolution, of not attending the nuptial rites.

These took place early in the week at the Church of the Order of Visitation in the presence of a great concourse of dames from the "grand world" and Dolhanski's titled colleagues from the club. In this the desire to take a close view of the peasant-millionairess played as important a part as the wish to see Dolhanski. Those of his acquaintances who knew the ladies from Gorek had previously stated that he was taking a lady of wealth, but old and ludicrous; in consequence of which these good colleagues wanted to see what kind of mien he would have, so that they might afterwards have a subject for their gibes and jests. But in this respect they met with the most complete disappointment. Dolhanski, escorted on one side by Gronski, on the other by Count Gil, walked through the church with such self-confidence, such sangfroid, and with such a smile on his lips, as though he had the right and desire to jeer at his colleagues. The tall and gaunt young lady did not, after all, look so badly in her lace wedding dress. She had too much powder on her face; her veil was too long, and too much did she "tremble like a leaf," which created an impression that this leaf did that a little purposely.

There was nothing in her, however, to excite ridicule, and, when the two knelt before the altar, the dames and beaux, looking from the depth of the church, had to admit that in her slender white form there was some charm. But the eyes of those present were directed principally at Hanka who glided through the nave on Ladislaus' arm, like a light spring cloud. To the gentlemen of the club it seemed that from the moment of her entrance the church grew brighter. Count Gil, who found himself near her, behind the stalls, later stated in a certain salon that a rosy warmth radiated from her. Others at once corroborated this and to the mot of a dame that in order to find favor in men's eyes it was necessary that one must not only be a woman but also a radiator, they replied that it was absolutely necessary.

In the meanwhile they envied Ladislaus Mr. Anney's millions and Hanka, who so absorbed to herself the general attention that Pani Otocka and Marynia passed by almost unobserved. Neither appeared to the best advantage that day. In Pani Otocka, Dolhanski's marriage aroused a certain disgust, which was reflected in her countenance, and Marynia opened her lips too widely out of curiosity, and besides, her bared arms were so thin and, as usual with immature girls, were so red that, they could only excite compassion. The ladies of the "grand world," besides, did not look at one or the other for the further reason that Ladislaus, with his stature and visage of a Uhlan of the time of the Duchy of Warsaw, became the focus upon which the rays of their tortoise-shell lorgnettes were converged.

With the appearance of the priest silence fell and the rites began. The lorgnettes were now directed towards the altar. In the distance could be seen floating under the orange blossoms the bridal veil and Dolhanski's head, somewhat bald at the summit, over which crept the reflexes of the candles flickering in the dusk. Krzycki, bending towards Hanka, began to whisper: "And we will soon--" and she dropped her eyelids in sign of assent; after which when their eyes met, she blushed violently and raised her lace handkerchief to her lips, and later fixed her gaze upon the altar, for she recalled to her mind how, not long before, the candles flickered in the same manner in the Church of the Holy Cross, when together they prayed for their future happiness. Yes, soon they would kneel there again in order not to be separated for life, and this thought, so full of sweetness and at the same time of uneasiness of feeling, expanded her breast.

In the meanwhile in the silence could be heard the voice of the priest: "Edward, do you take Kajetana, whom you see before you, for wife?" and when Dolhanski firmly confirmed this and Kajetana mumbled that she wanted this Edward, their hands were bound by the stole and the rites rapidly approached an end; then the hymeneal party left the church. The bridal couple were to leave for a tour abroad within two hours, but before that in the dining-hall of the hotel a dinner awaited them, to which, of the relatives of the groom, only Pani Krzycki, Ladislaus, Hanka, as his betrothed, and the sisters were invited; of the more distant, Gronski and Count Gil, as groomsmen attended. The dinner with the inevitable toasts did not last long; after it the newly-married pair repaired to their separate apartments and after a certain time reappeared attired in their travelling clothes. Then began the usual bustle preceding a journey; trunks, small luggage, and bright travelling paraphernalia were hauled out. Dolhanski during the dinner and these last moments displayed such sangfroid and such phlegm that all the lords of England might envy him. Without the least haste he conversed with the gentlemen; he expressed his regrets to Marynia that he could not be at the concert; to Pani Otocka he said that he owed to her in a great measure his happiness of that day; and afterwards intrusted Gorek to the neighborly care of Krzycki, and bantered with Gronski, trying to persuade him to follow in his footsteps.

This superb calmness of his contrasted strangely with the uneasiness and distraction of the bride. For a half hour before the departure and immediately after donning her travelling robe, she began to stare at her mother with an inquiring look as if awaiting from her something which was overlooked or forgotten and which under no circumstances ought to be overlooked. This continued so long that it attracted general attention, and when Pani Wlocek did not appear to understand the inquiring look, Kajetana beckoned her for a confidential talk in a room adjoining the dining-hall.

To the ears of the guests there began to reach for a quarter of an hour some alarming though muffled cries of, "Ah!" and "Oh!" and after an interval the bride entered with her eyes covered by her palms. But after a while she dropped her hands alongside her dress and gazing at Dolhanski with the look of an antelope at a lion, she asked in an almost inaudible voice:

"Edward, perhaps it is already time?"

Gronski, Krzycki, and Count Gil bit their lips, while Dolhanski glanced at his watch and said:

"We have yet five minutes."

X

The cloudlets looming between Hanka and Ladislaus began by degrees to be transformed into clouds. At times they ceased to mutually understand each other. Hanka was more and more disturbed by the thought whether Ladislaus, notwithstanding his good heart and his ability to appreciate everything which is exalted and noble, was not a weak character, that in a moment of sudden impulse or passionate ecstasy is unable to resist and cannot muster within himself sufficient strength, even though his own worth is involved, and at this thought she was oppressed by a deep sorrow. But she was yet more painfully nettled on another side of the matter. This was that she arrived at the conviction that his feelings towards her were better, purer and, as it were, more shy at the time when he thought that she was Miss Anney. She remembered various moments, both in Jastrzeb and in Warsaw, in which she was certain that this burning flame of love, which glowed in his heart, was at the same time a sacrificial flame of esteem. And now when she had told him that she is the former Hanka that pure fire has changed into an ignition of the senses. Why? Was the cause of this their former sin; was it that she was a peasant? In the answer to those questions lay the pain, for Hanka felt that whatever happened was the result of these causes.

But she was mistaken in thinking that Ladislaus did not understand that just for these two reasons he ought to act directly contrary, in order to efface in her the memory of sin and to raise her in her own eyes and to respect her as his future wife. He understood this quite clearly, and often it happened that after parting from her he upbraided himself, not mincing words, and in his soul made a solemn promise of reformation. But as in his easy life he had not accustomed himself to contend with anything and, above all, with himself, therefore this lasted but a short time--as long only as he was away from her, as long as he was not enveloped by the warmth emanating from her; only when he was not absorbed with her eyes; did not feel her hand in his own, and did not intoxicate himself with her feminine attractions. Then reason blinded in him and darkened; he became the slave of blood, full of sophisms, the agent of senses, and the recollection of the former Hanka, instead of repressing the temptation, only increased it the more.

Under such conditions, sooner or later, the storm had to break above the heads of both and create desolation. Accordingly it burst sooner than Krzycki could have foreseen.

One day, coming at the twilight hour to Hanka, he found her in a strange and unusual condition. She was agitated, her countenance was suffused with blushes, her eyes were red, and the hand which she tendered to him, palpably trembled. At the beginning she did not want to tell him what was the matter, but when they sat beside each other, he began to beg of her that she would not make anything a secret with him, but to tell him what occurred, not only as a fiancé, but as her best friend.

Hanka was always conciliated by an appeal to friendship. Therefore after a while she said, smiling sadly:

"I was not concerned about any secret but I preferred to keep to myself an unpleasantness. Did you, sir, ever notice my servant, Pauly?"

(Hanka from a certain time addressed her fiancé as "sir," believing that in this manner she would hold him more easily at a proper distance.)

"Pauly?" repeated Ladislaus, and though, after all, he thus far had done nothing with which to reproach himself, a sudden disquiet arose in him. "Pauly? Why of course! Why, she was at Jastrzeb and I saw her here everyday. What happened?"

"She created for me a horribly disagreeable scene and has left me."

"Why?"

"That is just what I do not know. She always was very violent and nervous, but very honest. So I was attached to her and I thought that she would be attached to me. But for some time I have observed in her something like a dislike to me, with each day greater. Really, I never was harsh to her; even the contrary. So I attributed everything to the nerves. In the meantime, to-day, it came to an outburst and it is so disagreeable to me! so disagreeable!"

Hanka's voice faltered, and it could be seen that she felt the whole occurrence deeply. So Ladislaus pressed her hand to his lips and asked with sympathy:

"What kind of outburst was it?"

"This afternoon, or rather after Marynia's return from the rehearsal, we were to ride up town with Zosia. So, desiring to change my dress, I ordered her to hand it to me. Pauly went after it as usual and brought it, but suddenly she threw it upon the ground and began to trample upon it, and in addition screamed in a loud, shrill voice that she would serve me no longer. At first I was stupefied, for it occurred to me that she had become insane."

"She surely is insane!" interrupted Ladislaus; "but what further?"

"She slammed the door and left. I did not see her any more. About an hour later somebody came for her things and wages."

Here Hanka began to shake her head.

"And nevertheless when I recall her dislike and what she told me in the last moments, I do not think that it was an attack of insanity; it was only an outburst of hatred, which she could no longer restrain in herself. And for me this is such a disappointment, such a disappointment!"

"My lady--Hanus," said Ladislaus, seizing both of her hands, "is it worth while to take to heart the deed of a foolish vixen? For she is a foolish vixen--nothing more. It is enough to look at her. Calm yourself, Hanus,--this is only a momentary matter which it is necessary to forget as soon as possible. Remember who you are and who she is! Such times have come that everything is turned topsy-turvy. Such occurrences now take place everywhere. But they will pass away. In the meantime we two have so many reasons for joy that in view of them such wretched smarts ought to disappear."

And he began to press alternately her hands to his lips and to his breast and gaze in her eyes, but this increased her grief; for Hanka desiring to spare unnecessary disagreeableness to her betrothed and herself did not confess everything to him. She was particularly reticent about this, that the infuriated servant, on leaving, screamed at her in her eyes, "You base peasant. You ought to serve me, not I you! Your place is with cows, not in the palace!" Perhaps Hanka might not have taken these words so much to heart were it not for the previous friction in her relations with Ladislaus, and were it not for the thought that he transgressed certain bounds perhaps because she was his former sweetheart and a peasant. But just this reason caused the thorn to be imbedded in her heart more deeply and bred in her a fear as to future life in which similar scenes might be repeated more frequently.

So, also, his words about the happiness awaiting them were only drops overflowing the cup of bitterness, and his caresses affected the aggrieved girl like a child, who the more she is consoled the more disconsolate she becomes. There came to her a moment of weakness and exhaustion. The usual strength deserted her, her nerves were unstrung, and she began to sob, but feeling at the same time ashamed of her tears she buried her face in his breast.

"Hanus, my Hanus!" repeated Ladislaus.

And he began to kiss her light hair. Afterwards clasping her temples with his palms, he raised her tear-stained face and kissed off her tears. She did not defend herself; so after a while he sought with his mouth her quivering lips.

"Hanus! Hanus!" he whispered in a panting voice.

The ferment of desire more and more obscured his reason, obscured his heart, his memory. He drank from the girl's lips while his breath held out, he forgot himself like a drunkard and finally seized her in his arms.

"Hanus! Hanus!"

And it happened that he offended her grievously, that to the humiliation, which she had met that day, he added a new humiliation; to insult, a new insult--that an abyss plainly separated them!

XI

When on the morning of the following day Ladislaus awoke after a brief feverish sleep, he was seized by grief and an insane rage at himself. He recalled everything which had taken place. He remembered that his parting with Hanka the day before was equivalent to being shown the door; there returned to him as a wicked echo his own wretched and dreadful words said in his passion at the time of separation, that if her resistance flowed from fear that later he might break their engagement, then let her know that it was an idle fear. And so he imputed this resistance to miserable motives. And he, a man who prided himself not only upon his good breeding but also upon a subtile sense of honor and personal worthiness--he, Krzycki, could act the way he did and say what he said. In the first moments after opening his eyes, it seemed to him that this was a point-blank impossibility; some kind of a continuation of the nightmare which throttled his slumber, which ought to disappear with the light of day.

But that nightmare was a heavy reality. It was incumbent upon him to take it into account and remedy it in some manner. He sat down to write a letter, in which he smote himself upon the breast, complained, and apologized. He said that no one was able to condemn him as he had condemned himself, and if he dared to beg for forgiveness it was only in hope that perhaps some voice, some echo of the better moments would intercede for him in her heart and would procure for him forgiveness. At the close he begged for an opportunity of repeating in person the words of the letter and for an answer, even in case the sentence pronounced against him was final.

But when the messenger who took the letter informed him upon his return that there was no answer, he fell into genuine despair. As a really spoiled child of life, unaccustomed to opposition and obstacles, and one convinced that everything was due him, it began to appear to him that this was more than he deserved; that he was the injured party. He would not admit, however, that all was lost. He indulged in the hope that Hanka might, before opening the letter, have announced that there was no answer and that after reading it she would be moved, would relent, and rescind her resolution. Sustained by this hope, he dressed himself, strolled over the city for an hour in order to give Hanka time to reckon with her heart, and afterwards rang the bell of her residence.

But he was not received. Then it occurred to him to apply to Pani Otocka. After a while, he nevertheless perceived that the causes of his rupture with Hanka were of such a nature that it was impossible to discuss them either with Pani Otocka or his mother. In his soul he now began to accuse Hanka of downright cruelty, but at the same time the greater the difficulties interposed between them the greater was his grief. He could not, in any measure, be reconciled to the thought that whatever he regarded as his own should be taken away from him; and as is usual with weak persons, he began to commiserate himself.

From Pani Otocka he went to Gronski, regarding him as the only person with whom he could speak frankly and whose mediation would be effective. And here disappointment awaited him. Gronski had suffered for several days with his eyes and was not allowed to read; this put him into a bad humor, and for this reason he received Ladislaus more indifferently than usual. Ladislaus became convinced that it was difficult to speak of the rupture not only with Pani Otocka and his mother, but even with a man and old friend who knew of his former relations with Hanka. A feeling of shame plainly choked the words in his throat, and he began to beat about the bush and palliate things, talk in empty phrases about a misunderstanding and the necessity of a friendly mediation, so that Gronski at last asked, with a shade of impatience:

"Tell me plainly about what you had a falling out, and then I can tell whether I will undertake to bring you together again."

And evidently he did not attach much importance to the matter for he waved his hand and said:

"It would be best if you made it up between yourselves."

"No," replied Ladislaus; "this is more serious than you think, and we ourselves cannot come to any agreement."

"Well, finally, what was it about?"

Shame, exertion, and constraint were depicted upon Ladislaus' face.

"In a moment of forgetfulness and ecstasy," he said, "I passed--that is--I wanted to pass--certain limits--"

And he stopped abruptly.

Gronski began to look at him with amazed eyes and asked:

"And she?"

"Why, if anything had happened there would not have been any rupture and I surely would not speak of it now. She ordered me to the door and not to show myself there any more."

"May God bless her," exclaimed Gronski.

Silence ensued. Gronski walked with big paces over the room repeating every little while, "It is unbelievable!" and again, "An unheard-of thing!" and in addition his face became more and more severe and cold.

After which he sat down and, looking at Ladislaus, began to speak deliberately:

"I have known many people even among our aristocracy, in whom beneath the veneer of society, beneath high descent and all the pretensions of elegant breeding were concealed the ordinary coarse, low, peasant instincts. If this observation can be applied to you as a comfort, accept it, for I have no other for you."

A sudden wave of anger swept over Ladislaus' heart and brain. For a while he struggled with himself in order not to explode and answer insult with insult; in the end he subdued himself and replied in a hollow voice:

"I deserve it."

But Gronski, not disarmed by this confession, continued:

"No, my dear sir, I will not undertake your defence, for I should act contrary to my convictions. To you less than to any one else was it allowable to indulge yourself, even out of regard for the past. And your fiancée must have so understood it, and besides she did not forget her extraction. To you it was less permissible! She was a hundred times right in showing you the door. The matter is really more serious than I thought, and so serious that I do not see any help for it. You did not respect Hanka, your future wife, and therefore yourself and your own honor. In view of this how can she honor you and what can she think of you?"

"I know," said Ladislaus in the same hollow voice, "and I have said all this to myself in almost the same words. I wrote a letter to her this morning, begging for forgiveness--there was no answer. I went to her personally--I was not received. So I came to you as the last refuge--for--for me there pleads only one thing--I acted badly, brutally, and scurvily, but I have not ceased to love her. There is no life for me without her, and though you may not believe it, nevertheless it is so that under the frenzy which possessed me, under that froth which blinded me and under which I to-day sink, lies the feeling not only deep but pure--"

Gronski again began to measure with great steps the room for he was somewhat touched by Ladislaus' words.

While the latter continued:

"If she will not read my letters and will not receive me, then I will not be able to tell her that. Hence it is imperative that some one should speak to her in my name. I cannot apply either to Mother or Pani Zosia in this. I thought that you, sir--but since you decline, I now have no one."

"Look, however, into the eyes of reality," said Gronski more gently, "for it may be that her love for you was at once torn into shreds. In such case from where will she take it when she no longer possesses it?"

"Let her tell me so; that at least is yet due to me."

Again silence fell.

"Listen," Gronski finally said, "I always was a friend of yours and of your mother, but this mission which you want to intrust to me I cannot undertake. I cannot among other reasons, because if your fiancée does not reply to you, so likewise she may not reply to me. One look, one word, will close my mouth and with this it would end. But try another method. Panna Hanka comes quite often with Marynia to the rehearsals, at which I am always present, and afterwards I escort both home. Come with me. You may find an opportunity to speak with her. During the return home I will take Marynia and you will remain with her. I think that she will not repel you even though out of regard for Marynia, to whom she would not wish to divulge what had passed between you.--Then tell her what you have said to me and also beg her for an interview, which, if it cannot be otherwise--will be final. It will be necessary somehow to give to the world some plausible excuse for your rupture; so I presume she will agree to that. If not, we will think of something else."

Ladislaus began to wring his hands and said:

"Perhaps through Zosia we could ascertain whether this is forever."

"You understand that she may not have wished to discuss the cause of your rupture even with Pani Zosia."

"I understand, I understand."

"But you now have a fever," said Gronski, "your hands are burning. Go, try to cool off and calm yourself."

XII

Laskowicz now beheld Marynia, indeed from a distance, but daily. Even on rainy days, when she did not walk to the rehearsals, but rode, he lay in wait on the stairway of the edifice, in order to see her alight from the carriage. On fair days he usually waited near her home, and afterwards followed after her to the hall. As among the employees in the building were found a few "associates," these facilitated his admittance to the rehearsals. To hide in the boxes or in the seats at the end of the rows was easy, as during the rehearsals only the stage was fully lit up and in the auditorium itself the dusk was illumined by only a few lamps, which were lit in order that the handful of privileged lovers of music, who occupied the seats behind the orchestra, might not be plunged in complete darkness. Amidst these privileged ones, Laskowicz often recognized acquaintances,--Gronski, Pani Otocka, the old notary. Miss Anney, sometimes Krzycki, and two or three times, Dr. Szremski. But notwithstanding his hatred of Ladislaus and dislike of the doctor and Gronski, he was little occupied by them and thought of them very little, as his eyes could not even for a moment be torn from Marynia. He encompassed with his gaze her girlish form, standing out on the edge of the stage, bathed in a lustre of electricity, luminous of her own accord, and involuntarily she reminded him of that alabaster statuette, which the venerable canon deemed his greatest treasure. Laskowicz was not an educated man. His one-sided study of physics had contracted his intellectual horizon and he was incapable of rendering to himself a clear account of certain impressions. Nevertheless, when he gazed on that maid, with violin in hand, on her pure calm countenance, on the elongated outlines of her figure and dress, there awakened in him a half conscious feeling that in her there was something of poetry, and something of the church. She seemed to him an artless supernal vision, to which one might pray.

Accordingly he deified her in his wild, fanatical soul. But there raged within him a revolt against all divinities, therefore he fought with his own feelings and struggled to depress and weed them out to the last extremity. Intentionally he plucked off the wings of his own thoughts: intentionally he imposed fetters upon his vagaries and unchained his concupiscence. He discomfited himself, tortured himself, and suffered.

Often he stood on the brink of madness--and in such cases he was ready to annihilate, slaughter, and set fire to the whole city in order to seize, amidst the bloodshed and conflagration, this silvery maid and possess her,--and afterward perish with her and all others. He imagined that during the revolutionary storm, which the waves of the proletariat would stir up, such an universal hour of annihilation might strike. But when reality scattered these dreams, when moments occurred in which it became plain that the people themselves put a muzzle upon the jaws of the revolutionary dragon, then the gory vision evaporated into vacuous smoke, and only exhaustion and confusion remained, for this gloomy proletaire felt that as long as he had strength the storm would rage, and that when it passed away he would sink into complete nothingness.

Hence, in his heart bitterness and jealousy accumulated more and more. He loved Marynia and at the same time he hated her, for he thought that she looked upon him as a worm which squirms at her feet, unworthy of a glance. He was confirmed in this conviction by the fact that his letters evidently did not make the slightest impression upon her and did not disturb her usual tranquillity. Laskowicz had given his word to Pauly that he would see Marynia only from a distance, and he could not approach her, because she was never out alone. But in reality he could not conjecture that those letters were received and burnt by Pani Otocka and that Marynia knew nothing about them. It appeared to him that his passionate appeals in which the words, "Beloved! beloved!" were repeated every little while, and those fiery outbursts in which he prostrated himself in humility at her adored feet must have represented him to her as the ruling king-soul shoving the human wave into the unknown future, and ought to have evoked some result. "Let it be anger, let it be hatred," he said to himself in his soul, "but here there is nothing! She passes by me as if I was a street cur; she does not see me; she does not deign to recognize me."

In fact it was so. In the moments when they passed each other on the street, Marynia did not and could not recognize Laskowicz, for after his departure from Jastrzeb he allowed his youthful beard to grow, and afterwards, Swidwicki, in order to disguise him in the eyes of the police, bleached his beard, together with his mustache and the hair on his head, a light yellow. His clothes and spectacles also changed his appearance but he forgot about that, and he fretted with the supposition that her eyes do not see him or do not recognize him, firstly, because a recollection of him never comes to her mind, and again because she belongs to some kind of social Olympus and he to the "proletarian garbage-box."

Under such impressions his anguish changed into fury. With savage satisfaction, he thought of this: that there might come a time when the fate of this "sacred doll" and all her kin would be in his hands. He persuaded himself that that moment would be a triumph for himself personally and for the "good cause," and therefore he rejoiced at this conjunction. He pictured to himself what would happen when Marynia came to him to beg for a favor for herself and her relatives. Whether, at that time, he would prostrate himself on the ground before her and tell her to plant her foot on his head, or whether he would seize her in his arms and afterwards pass time away shamelessly--he did not know. He only had a feeling that he could do one or the other.

In the meantime he often said to himself that he ought not to see her any more, and decided to seek her no more, but on the following day he rushed to the place where he could meet her. He struggled with himself, he was torn inwardly, and became exhausted to such an extent that he began to fail in health. Want of such air as he breathed in Jastrzeb, the necessity of hiding from the police, uneasiness, lack of sleep, sudden and painful spiritual changes sapped his strength. He became haggard, swarthy, and at times he thought that death threatened not on the gallows but in a hospital.

In such a disposition was he found by Pauly, who after her scene with Hanka, dashed like a whirlwind into his little garret room.

Her face was so changed, so pale, so sickly and malignant, and her eyes glittered so feverishly that at the first glance he knew that she was driven to him by some extraordinary accident and he asked:

"What has happened?"

"I am no longer with that low peasant."

And she remained silent for she could not catch her breath, and only her face was twitching nervously.

Laskowicz understood only that she had abandoned her employment and looked at her with a questioning gaze, awaiting further explanations.

"Then, sir, you do not know," she broke out after a while, "then you do not know that he is to marry her? And that she is no Englishwoman, but only a low peasant! And such a one I served! He is to marry her--a low peasant!--a low peasant!--he!"

And her voice changed into a shrill nervous hiccough. Laskowicz was frightened at her transports, but at the same time breathed easily. Howsoever he might long since have conjectured that Krzycki's affections were directed towards Miss Anney and not towards Marynia, he was nevertheless pleased in his soul that reality corroborated those conjectures.

Living, however, in a world which no echoes of the higher social sphere reach, and knowing nothing of the transformation of Miss Anney into a Polish peasant woman, he began to interrogate Pauly minutely because the affair aroused his curiosity; he wished also to give time to the excited girl to calm herself. But this last was not an easy matter, and he long had to put questions to her to elicit the news which Swidwicki had first told her that Miss Anney was a simple peasant woman, but which, however, she did not at first believe, as he said it while under the influence of intoxicants. Only from the conversations which she overheard did she become convinced not only of the truth of the statement but also that Krzycki was to wed Miss Anney. Afterwards she peeped through the keyhole and saw him kneel before her and kiss her hands. Then she could not restrain herself any longer and at the first opportunity flung at the feet of her mistress her "linen frock," and, reviling her as a base peasant, left her service.

Here again indignation began to seize her so that Laskowicz from fear that she might have an attack of convulsions, said:

"We will consult together about this, but only let the lady be pacified."

But she replied with increasing irritation:

"I did not come here for you to pacify me. You, sir, have prated about our mutual wrongs and now you order me to be pacified. I want help and not your chatter."

"You are anxious that he should not marry her?"

"And what else do you suppose?"

In any case Laskowicz would have sided with the girl for he was obligated to do that by gratitude to her for saving his life, by the similarity of their lot, and those "joint wrongs" of which he himself had previously spoken to Pauly, and of which she now reminded him. But the existence of Krzycki at present ceased to stand in his way and Miss Anney's existence less so. Only one thing he could not forgive in her:

"She was a peasant woman, she was a wage-earner, and afterwards became a female bourgeois. In this is the crime."

"In it or not in it, it is now I or she! Do you understand, sir?"

"I understand, but what is to be done?"

"When you ran away from the police, I did not ask what was to be done."

"I remember."

"And you said at Swidwicki's that your people could accomplish everything."

"For it is so."

"So if he only does not marry her, then even let the world end."

Laskowicz began to look at her with his closely set eyes and after a moment commenced to speak slowly and with emphasis:

"Krzycki was once already condemned and lives, thanks to you, lady, but if he gets a bullet in his head, then he will marry no one."

But she, hearing this, turned pale as a corpse; in the same moment she sprang at him with her finger-nails!

"What!" she cried in a hoarse voice; "what! he! Let but a hair fall from his head, then, I will have you all--"

Laskowicz's patience, however, was exhausted. He was irritated, torn internally and sick; hence, after her threat, a wave of bitterness and rage flooded his brains. He started up and, glaring in her eyes, shouted!

"Do not threaten with betrayal, for that is death!"

"Death?" she screamed. "Death! this is what life is to me!"

And shoving her palm close to his face, she blew on it so that her breath moistened him, and repeated:

"Look! This is what life is to me."

"And to me," exclaimed Laskowicz.

For an interval they stared in each other's eyes like two odious and despairing souls. He recovered his wits first, and clasping his head with both hands, said:

"Oh, how unfortunate we are! oh!"

"Yes! yes!" reiterated Panna Pauly.

And she began to sob hysterically.

Then he commenced to quiet her. He promised her that nothing should befall Krzycki and that his marriage would not under any circumstances take place. He said that at that moment he could not indeed disclose to her what measures would be adopted, but he assured her that neither he nor his party would show any consideration to a mere female bourgeois, as here was involved a higher social justice, which does not need to take into account any particular individual. Pauly only understood that that "low peasant" would not wed the young master of Jastrzeb, and became appeased in some measure: and afterwards, both, from necessity, became occupied with other matters. It was imperative that some kind of shelter be found for the young girl: so Laskowicz placed her with "a female associate" residing in the neighborhood, who immediately went for her wages and belongings. He himself returned to his own rooms and began to revolve in his mind how he could repay Panna Pauly for saving his life.

And in this feeling of gratitude lay the first reason why he took the matter to heart. A second reason was his own ill-luck and ill-fated love for Marynia which made him sensitive to similar strifes; and the third was that "social justice" which he mentioned to Pauly. As to the third reason he felt, however, the necessity of deliberating with his own soul in order that when the time for action arrived his hands would be untied, and under the pressure of this necessity he began to reason in the following fashion:

"On the background of the general concern of the proletariat, personal affairs will appear. It might be said that the general concern is the sum-total of them all. In this respect whoever stands in defence of the personal affair of a proletaire by that act alone defends universal principles. But here comes the question of ethics. Whither are we tending? To universal justice. Ergo, our principle is moral for it is only the sum-total of personal affairs: therefore these personal affairs also must be moral. From this it follows that the proletaire, who is in the wrong in a controversy with a bourgeois, nevertheless has justice on his side simply because he is a proletaire. In this world everything is relative. A soldier, slaying his opponent in a war, commits manslaughter; therefore the act itself is not ethical. But as he commits it in defense of Fatherland, therefore, from the viewpoint of national welfare he acts ethically. If in addition thereto he has the spur of personal hatred to an antagonist, his act would gain in energy and would not lose its additional significance for Fatherland. For us, the Polish proletariat is the nation and the idea of their emancipation, the Fatherland. For this we wage war and if there is war, then murder and injuries are inflicted upon the antagonists; and even though the motives for them might be personal, they nevertheless are not only justifiable but are covered a hundred-fold by the universal welfare."

"Besides,"--he reasoned further--, "the quintessence of our existence is unhappiness; and from unhappiness as well as, inversely, from happiness must blossom corresponding deeds. This is a necessity flowing from the nature of things; and with this ethics have nothing to do. I and that rabid girl are luckless, like homeless dogs; in view of which it is all one whether a wrong was perpetrated upon us intentionally or unintentionally; just as it is all one to the wolf whether the forester who shoots him in the head, hunted him purposely or whether they met by chance. The wolf has teeth to defend himself. That is his right. The moment has come when our fangs have grown; therefore we have the right to mangle.

"As to that girl, she is mangled by despair which can only be assuaged by revenge. Is it just? Will it be beneficial to the girl? That is all one. The wage-earners without work and bread drown their woes in alcohol; the bourgeois in case of pain injects morphine into himself, and for her, revenge will be alcohol and morphine. Whatever may be the consequences, she will destroy the happiness of the pampered; she will change their joy into tears; she will break their lives and raze a particle of that world, which lies heavily, like a nightmare, upon the breasts of the proletariat. So it is necessary to aid that revenge, for so does gratitude for saving life command; likewise common wrong, also the good of the cause."

In view of this, it already seemed to Laskowicz a matter of minor importance whether in that aid a rôle would be played by a knife, or by a revolver, or by casting upon Hanka some ignominy, after which nothing would remain for her to do but to fly and hide herself forever from human eyes. Neither opportunity nor willing hands were wanting. It was only necessary to deliberate upon the choice: and afterwards to act promptly and decisively.

With this he went to Pauly who agreed to everything. As a compensation he demanded that she should release him from his promise to see Marynia only from a distance, and he secured that with ease. He evidently wanted to have his hands untied also in that regard.

XIII

"Here is the answer which I finally received," said Ladislaus, handing a letter to Gronski; "I could not expect anything else."

"I knew that you would receive it," replied Gronski, blinking with his ailing eyes and searching for his binocle, "I was already informed of it by Pani Otocka, who from the beginning insisted that Miss Anney ought to answer you, and in the end prevailed upon her."

Ladislaus reddened and asked:

"Ah! So Zosia Otocka knows everything."

"She does and does not know. Miss Anney told her only this much; 'He did not forget that he is a young lord and I a peasant woman and we ceased to understand each other.' For her it was yet harder to speak of this than for you and that difficulty festers all the more the wound which, without it, is deep enough--But I cannot find the binocle."

"Here it is," said Ladislaus.

Gronski placed it on his nose and began to read:

"You, yourself, sir, rent and trampled upon our joy, our happiness, my trust, and that deep attachment which I had for you. To your query of whether I can ever recover those feelings, I answer that I seek for them in vain. If ever I recover them I will inform you with the same sincerity with which I to-day say that I have in my heart only grief and sadness which for a joint life will not suffice."

"Only so much!" said Ladislaus.

"My foresight," answered Gronski, "is verified only too perfectly. The spring for the time being has dried up."

"To the bottom, to the bottom, not a drop for refreshment."

Gronski remained silent for a while; after which he said:

"I think otherwise, nevertheless. This is not entirely hopeless. There remains sadness, grief and, as it were, the anticipation of the recurring swell. In reality, it will not flow to-day nor to-morrow.--In view of this, for you there remains either to persevere patiently and win anew that which you lost, or else, if you have not sufficient strength, to take some shears and sever the remaining threads."

"Such shears I will not find. Do you remember, sir, what she did for me when I was wounded? I will not forget that."

At this Gronski shaded his eyes with his hand, gazed at Ladislaus intently and asked:

"My dear sir, did you ever propound to yourself one question?"

"What one?"

"What pains you the more,--the loss of Miss Anney or your wounded self-love?"

"I thank you, sir," answered Ladislaus, with irony. "In reality, only self-love. Through it, I do not sleep, do not eat; through it, in the course of a few days, I have grown lean like a shaving and were it not for this living wound, life for me would be one perpetual round of pleasure."

And he began to laugh bitterly, while Gronski continued to gaze at him, not removing his hand from his ailing eyes, and thought:

"That girl has an honest heart, and let her only see him; then she will forgive everything through compassion alone."

After which he said:

"Listen, after a quarter of an hour, I will put on those dark spectacles and go to the rehearsal. Come with me."

"How will that help me, now?" exclaimed Ladislaus.

"I do not know. I do not even guarantee that we will meet Miss Anney, for Marynia sometimes goes with a servant. But, in any event, you will not lose anything by it; so come."

But further conversation was interrupted by the entrance of the doctor, the more unexpected, as he had announced, upon leaving Warsaw, that he would stay with his brother at least ten days.

"How is this? You have already returned!" exclaimed Gronski.

"A surprise, hey?" vociferated the doctor. "Yes! And for me it was a surprise! One medical visit, afterwards a fee supplemented with the amiable advice, 'Get out of here, while you are whole!' Lo, here I am. Oh, what a delightful journey!"

"How did this happen?"

"How did it happen? I will tell you immediately. But no! I know that at this hour you leave for that rehearsal: so I will go with you, gentlemen, and relate it to you on the way. That is such an amusing thing that it is worth while to hear it. Ha!"

Accordingly after a while they went and the jovial doctor began to recite his Odyssey.

"I arrived," he said, "a little fatigued, for that is a distant journey, and besides it is necessary to change cars, wait for trains at the stations, and so forth--the usual order with us. I reached the country-seat late and after greeting my brother, I went to bed at once. But the following day I had barely unpacked the primers--you remember, gentlemen?--those I brought with me for the petty nobility--and I had barely reproved my 'provincial' brother, when an emergency call came summoning me to a high official who has an estate adjoining our seat and in summer resides with his family in the country. Ha! there was no help for it--I ride! And what appears? Why, a thimble stuck in a child's throat. I found the child already livid, but the moment I pulled the thimble out, the infant went away playing and everything was in the best order. There was nothing else to do. I saved a future dignitary to the empire, and to the parents an only son, as the other children were daughters. So the gratitude was immense. They pay--certainly! I wanted to ride away and iterated that there is nothing more to do. They would not let me go. Gratitude, breakfast, cordiality, friendship, overflowing of Slavonic feelings, and a chat which after a time passed into a political discussion. 'There is not,' says the dignitary, 'harmony amidst brothers. And what a pity! Religion and tongue divide their languages. But what is religion, if not only an outward form? God is one. It is the same to Him whether He is glorified in the Latin or the Slavonic language. Why, for Slavonians it is more seemly if in the Slavonic. And as to the tongue, then the various dialects could be limited to conversations at home. Why, however, should not one language be adopted, not only officially, but in literature? The convenience would be greater, the control easier. Then you would abandon your Catholicism and your dialects and accept ours--the one and the other,--but heartily and voluntarily. And harmony would immediately follow. The times for you would be better. There would be downright delight.'--"

"He mistook his man," interrupted Gronski, laughing.

"And that he should chance upon me," replied the doctor. "I, gentlemen, am a deist, a philosopher, but a passable Catholic. Often it happens that I assail the church just as I assail Poland whenever anything occurs which displeases me. Only if some stranger does the same thing in my presence then--a strange thing!--I have a desire to knock out his teeth. Therefore I began to defend the Church as if I never in my life crawled out of a sacristy; bah, even better, in a way as if I was a Catholic apologist. 'If,' I said, 'religion is only an external form tell me just why should we abandon this form of ours, which is the most spiritualized, the most cultural, and the most beautiful. That Catholicism, with which you advise us to take our leave, has encompassed the entire West, organized society, produced European civilization, preserved learning, has founded universities, reared churches, which are masterpieces, gave us Saint Augustine, Dante, Petrarch, Saint Francis, and Saint Thomas, created the Renaissance, created Leonardo da Vinci's; "Lord's Supper," Michelangelo's "Tombs of the Medici," Raphael's "School of Athens" and "Disputa," erected such temples as Saint Peter's, not counting others scattered throughout Italy and all over Europe. That Catholicism made us partakers of the universal culture, united us with the West, imprinted a European stamp upon our Polish soul, etc., etc.' And I talked in this strain until he interrupted me and said. 'In this is the misfortune, that it has united you with the West.' And I replied to that, 'A misfortune to whom, and to whom not a misfortune? But now we will speak of your proposition of renouncing the tongue and therefore the nationality. Know, sir, that this is an empty and foolish dream. That never will take place. I proclaim and insist in advance--never! But assuming for a moment an impossible thing, that a pestilence will so blight us, that our hearts will be so debilitated that we will say to ourselves "Enough!--we can no longer be Poles!" then what? Reflect, sir, objectively, like a man who has not lost the ability to think, what could restrain us from becoming Germans? Our Slavonic extraction? But we are Slavonians, just because we are Poles. You are a people who do not know how to live and do not permit anybody else to live. So what motive would keep us with you? Is it your peace? Your welfare? Your morality? Your administration? Your science? Your learning? Your wealth? Your power? Learn to look in the eyes of reality; cultivate in yourselves the ability to reckon with it, and you will understand that by denationalizing us you labor for some one else. But I reiterate yet once more that this is only a foolish dream; that the moment of renunciation will never come and if I spoke of it, it was only to answer those things which you suggested.'

"With this our conversation ended. They, in a yet higher degree than we, cannot endure unpleasant truths, so my dignitary changed into a decanter of iced water, and on the leave-taking merely said to me: 'Well, you are too candid, young man, but I thank you for the child.' A half an hour later I was at home."

"I can surmise what happened afterwards," said Gronski.

"Yes. As the thimble was removed, that same night I received an order to leave the next day by the first train."

"Be satisfied that it ended with that."

"I am satisfied. I will stay a few days in Warsaw; I will see the notary; I will attend Panna Zbyltowska's concert. Certainly! Certainly!"

Here he addressed Ladislaus.

"How is your mother and your fiancée?"

"Thank you. Mother is not badly, but will soon have to leave."

And desiring to hide his confusion, he began to gaze intently into the depths of the street, and after a while exclaimed:

"But look! I see Panna Marynia with a maid-servant, and with them some third person is walking."

In reality about a hundred paces down the street Marynia could be seen approaching, accompanied by a maidservant, with the violin in a case. On the other side, though somewhat behind, walked a young man with a yellowish beard, who, leaning towards Marynia, appeared to speak to her in an earnest and vehement manner. She hastened her steps, turning her head aside, evidently not desiring to listen to him, while he, keeping pace with her, gesticulated violently.

"My God! Some one is molesting her!" said the doctor.

And all three rushed at full speed towards her.

"Who is that? Who are you, sir?"

And Marynia, seeing Gronski, seized his arm and trembling all over, began to cry:

"Home! Take me home, sir!"

Gronski understood in a moment that nothing else could be done and that it was necessary to hurry, as otherwise Marynia might be embroiled in a vulgar street row. He was certain that Ladislaus in whom was accumulated an enormous supply of spleen and irritation, with his impulsive nature, would not permit the offence of the assailant to pass unpunished. So taking the girl aside, he placed her as soon as possible in a hackney-coach, which was passing by and ordered the coachman to drive to Pani Otocka's house.

"There is nothing now. Everything is all right," he said on the way, to pacify the affrighted Marynia. "From home we will send a message that there will be no rehearsal to-day, and with that it will end. It is nothing, nothing."

And he began to press her hand; after a while, he asked:

"But who was that and what did he want?"

"Pan Laskowicz," answered Marynia. "I did not recognize him at first, but he told me who he was."

Gronski became distressed when he heard the name of the student, for it occurred to him that if the encounter with Ladislaus ended with the police, then the consequences for Laskowicz might prove fatal directly. But not desiring to betray his uneasiness before Marynia, and at the same time wishing to better quiet her, he spoke to her half jokingly:

"So that was Laskowicz? Then I already know what he wanted. Ah! Ah!--Some one begins to play not only on the violin but on the soul.--Only why did you allow yourself to be so frightened?"

"For he also threatened," answered Marynia. "He threatened all terribly--"

"Such bugbears only children fear."

"True! Especially as I am to play for the hungry; they will not do any wrong to me or any of us."

"Assuredly not," confirmed Gronski.

Conversing thus, they reached home. Gronski surrendered Marynia to Pani Otocka's care and when, after a moment, Hanka appeared, he related to them everything which had occurred. He likewise had to quiet Pani Otocka, who, knowing of the letters, took the whole occurrence very much to heart and announced that immediately after the concert they would leave for Zalesin, and afterwards go abroad. After the lapse of a half hour he left and on the stairs met Ladislaus.

"God be praised," he said, "I see that it did not end with the police. Do you know that the man was Laskowicz?"

"And it seemed so to me," said Ladislaus with animation; "but this one had light hair. How is Marynia?"

"She was frightened a little but now is well. Both ladies are at her side and dandle her like a little chicken. They are so occupied with her that Pani Otocka certainly will not receive you."

"And I thought so; especially, if she is there," answered Ladislaus, with bitterness; "so I will only leave my card and will return at once. Do you care to wait for me?"

"Very well."

Accordingly, he returned after a while, and when they were on the street, he began to say:

"Yes! and to me it seemed that he was Laskowicz but I was puzzled by the light tuft of hair on his head and the spectacles. After all there was no time for thinking."

"Listen--you undoubtedly cudgelled him?" asked Gronski.

And Ladislaus answered reluctantly:

"Far too much, for he is an emaciated creature, and he evidently did not have a revolver."

For some time they walked in silence; after which Gronski said:

"Your mother needs a cure; the ladies will depart from here immediately after the concert and Miss Anney undoubtedly with them. I would advise you also to think about yourself."

Ladislaus waved his hand.

At the same time in a garret in the quarters of the "female associate," Laskowicz said to Pauly:

"Pan Krzycki is a true gentleman. He battered me a while ago because I dared to approach her."

And he began to laugh through his set teeth.

XIV

The day of the concert arrived. On the sofa in the sisters' dressing-room lay, ready at an early hour, Marynia's evening dress, white as snow, light as foam, transparent as the mist, and fragrant with violets which were to form her sole adornment. Previously, Pani Otocka and Gronski held a long and grave consultation over that dress, for both craved warmly that their beloved "divinity" should captivate not only the ears but the eyes. In the meanwhile the "divinity" bustled about all the rooms, now seizing the violin and repeating the more difficult passages, now taking the boxes of bon-bons which Gronski had sent to her; then joking with her sister and predicting fright at her first public appearance. This fright also possessed Pani Otocka who consoled herself only with the thought that Marynia indeed would tremble upon entering on the stage, but from the moment she began to play would forget everything. She knew also that a warm ovation awaited the beloved violinist, likewise numerous baskets of flowers, from the "Committee for aiding the hungry," and from acquaintances. Notwithstanding their uneasiness both sisters felt a great joy in their souls, as the concert, owing to the arrivals during the racing season, promised to be highly successful, and it was already known that the receipts would be extraordinary. Marynia besides found a cure for her fright: "When I think," she said to her sister, "that so many eyes will gaze at me, my heart is in my mouth, but when I recollect that I am not concerned but only the poor, then I cease to fear. So I will save myself in this manner: entering upon the stage, I will repeat quietly, ''Tis for the poor! 'tis for the poor!' and everything will come off in the best possible way!" And when she spoke, her voice quivered with honest emotion as her young heart felt deeply the woes of the unfortunate who did not have any bread, and at the same time she felt proud and happy at the thought that she would be instrumental in their relief. She even experienced certain pangs of conscience on account of the new dress and the new satin shoes, as it occurred to her that this outlay might have been expended for bread.

About noon Hanka came and took both sisters to her apartments for breakfast. Gronski, who was invited, did not appear, as at that time he was to meet a few journalists. Marynia took her violin with her with the intention of playing after the breakfast the first part of the programme, and in the meanwhile, waiting before they were seated at table, she began to look out from Hanka's salon through the open window on the street.

The day was fair and clear. During the night an abundant rain had fallen which settled the dust, washed the city's stone pavements, refreshed the grass plots, and laved the leaves on the trees. The air became fresh and bracing. From the two acacias, growing under the windows of Hanka's residence, which strewed the walk near them with petals white as snow, came a sweet scent, strong and intoxicating as if from a censer. Marynia partly closed her eyes and, moving her delicate nostrils, sated herself with the perfume with delight, after which she turned to the depth of the room.

"It smells so sweet," she said.

"It does, little kitten," answered Hanka, interrupting a conversation with Pani Otocka. "I purposely ordered the window to be opened."

And the acacias not only smelt sweet but seemed to sing, for both were cumbered by a countless diet of sparrows so that the leaves and flowers quivered from their chirping.

The maiden watched for some time with delighted eyes the small, nimble birds; after which her attention was directed to something entirely different. On the walk before the house, in the middle of the street and on the sidewalk on the opposite side, there began to gather and stand clusters of people who, raising their heads, gazed intently at the windows of Hanka's residence.

Some wretchedly dressed people spoke with the doorkeeper standing at the gate, evidently questioning him about something. The clusters each moment became more numerous and, together with the passers-by, who remained out of curiosity, changed into a mob of several hundred heads. Marynia jumped back from the window.

"Look," she cried, "what is taking place on the street. Oh! oh! Perhaps they are the poor coming to thank me in advance? What shall I do if they come here? what shall I answer? I am not able.--Come, see!"

And saying this, she drew her sister and Hanka to the window. The three young heads leaned out of the window on to the street, but in that moment an incomprehensible thing happened. A ragged stripling pulled out of his pocket a stone and hurled it with all his strength into the open window. The stone flew over Pani Otocka's head, rebounded on the opposite wall, and fell with noise upon the floor. Hanka, Marynia, and Zosia drew back from the window and began to look at each other with inquiring and startled eyes.

In the meantime on the street resounded savage outcries; the rabble battered down the gate; on the stairs sounded the stamping of feet, after which in the twinkling of an eye the doors leading to the room burst open with a crash, and a mob, composed of Christians and some Jews, filled the residence.

"Away with the kept mistress! Strike! tear! smash!" howled hoarse voices.

"For the mercy of God! People, what do you want here?" cried Hanka.

"Away with the kept mistress! away with the kept mistress! through the window! on to the street!"

In a moment a young man-servant, who rushed to the assistance of the ladies, was thrown upon the ground and trampled upon. Amidst the dreadful commotion, which the mob increased more and more, the human beasts became unfettered. Women with disheveled hair, filthy striplings with the marks of crime upon their degenerate features, and all manner of ragamuffins with drunken faces, rushed at the furniture, divans, bed curtains, and everything which fell into their hands. In the residence an orgy of destruction prevailed. The rooms were filled with the stench of sweat and whiskey. The mob became infuriated; it broke, smashed, stole. On the street, under the windows piles of splintered furniture were formed. They threw out even the piano. Finally some ruffian, with a pock-marked visage, seized Marynia's violin and brandished it, desiring to shatter it on the wall.

But she jumped to its aid and seized his fist with both hands.

"That is mine! that is mine!--I am to play for the poor--"

"Let go!"

"I will not let go!--that is mine!"

"Let go, carrion!"

"That is mine!"

A shot was fired, and, simultaneously, Pani Otocka's scream pierced the air. Marynia stood for a moment with upraised hands and head inclined backwards; afterwards she reeled and fell back into Hanka's arms.

The shot and the murder overawed the crowd. The mob became silent, and after a moment began to scamper away, panic-stricken.

XV

Pani Krzycki, Zosia, and Hanka, and with them Gronski, Ladislaus, and Dr. Szremski surrounded the bed on which Marynia lay, after the operation and the extraction of the bullet. A second surgeon and his assistant sat aloof, awaiting the awakening of the patient. In the room, filled with the odor of iodoform, a profound stillness prevailed. Marynia had previously awoke immediately after the operation was performed, but stupefied still by the chloroform and weakened by the loss of blood, she soon sank again into a slumber. Her beautiful head lay motionless upon the pillow, her eyes were closed, and her countenance was waxen and transparent, as if she were already dead. In Pani Otocka and in Gronski, who but now sounded within himself the immensity of his affection for that child, despair whimpered with that quiet, terrible whimper, which lacerates, tugs and rends the bosom but fears to emerge on the surface. Both glanced time and again with alarm at Dr. Szremski who from time to time examined Marynia's pulse, but evidently he himself was uncertain whether that sleep would be final: he only nodded his head and placed his finger to his lips in sign of silence.

Nevertheless, their fears for the time being were vain, as after the lapse of an hour Marynia's eyebrows commenced to rise, quiver, and after a moment she opened her eyes. Her look, at the beginning, was dull and unconscious. Slowly, however, the stupefaction left her and consciousness of what had occurred as well as of the present moment returned. On her countenance appeared an expression of amazement and affliction, such as a child feels who has been punished cruelly and unjustly. Finally her pupils darkened and two tears coursed down her cheeks.

"For what?--for what?" she whispered with her pallid lips.

Pani Otocka sat at her side and placed her palm on her hand. Gronski was seized with a desire to throw himself on the ground and beat his head on the floor, while the patient asked further in an amazed and mournful whisper:

"For what?--for what?"

God alone could answer that question. But in the meantime the doctor approached and said:

"Do not speak, child, for that harms."

So she became silent, but the expression of affliction did not disappear from her countenance, and tears continued to flow.

Her sister began to wipe them off; repeating in a subdued voice:

"Marynia, Marynia, calm yourself--you will be well--you are not dangerously wounded--no, no--the doctor guarantees that--"

Marynia raised her eyes at her as if she desired to divine whether she was telling the truth. It appeared, however, that she listened to her sister's words with a certain hope.

After which, she said:

"It is sultry.--"

The doctor opened the window of the room. Out in the open air the night was fair and starry. Waves of fresh air brought the scent of the acacias.

The patient lay for some time calm, but suddenly she began again to seek somebody with her eyes and asked:

"Is Pan Gronski here?"

"I am, dear, I am--"

"You, sir--will not--let me?--Truly--"

To Gronski it seemed at that moment that he was enveloped by a deep night and that amidst that impenetrable darkness he answered in a strange voice:

"No, no!"

And she spoke with terror, her countenance growing more and more pallid:

"I do not want to die--I am afraid--"

And again tears began to trickle from her eyes--tears inconsolable, tears of a wronged child.

The entrance of a priest relieved the harrowing moment. It was the same old prelate, a relative of the Krzyckis and the Zbyltowskis, who previously shrived Pani Krzycki. Drawing nearer, he sat beside Marynia's bed and bending over her with a cheering smile, full of hope, said:

"How are you, dear child? Ah, the wretches!--But God is more powerful than they and everything will end well. I only came to ask about your health. God be praised the bullet is already extracted.--Now only patience is necessary and you will be patient--will you not?"

Marynia winked her eyes as a token of acquiescence.

The amiable old man continued in a more genial and as if jubilant voice:

"Ah! I knew that you would. Now I will tell you that there is something which often is more efficacious than all the medicines and bandages. Do you know what it is? The Sacrament! Ho! how often in life have I seen that people, who were separated from death by a hair, became at once better after confession, communion, and anointment, and after that recovered their health entirely. You, my dove, are surely far from death, but since it is a Christian duty, which helps the soul and body, it is necessary to perform it. Well, child?"

Marynia again winked her eyes in sign of assent.

Those present retired from the room and returned only upon the sound of the little bell to be witnesses to the Communion. The patient, after receiving it, lay for some time with closed eyelids and a quiet brightness in her countenance, after which the moment of extreme unction arrived.

In the room assembled, besides those previously present, the servants of the house; suppressing their sobs, they heard the customary prayers before the rite.

"Lord, Jesus Christ, who hast said through Thy apostle Saint James, 'Is any man sick among you? Let him bring in the priests of the Church and let them pray over him, anointing him with oil in the name of the Lord.' We implore Thee, Lord God, our Redeemer, for the grace of The Holy Ghost: have mercy upon this sick one, heal her wounds, pardon her sins, and banish from her all pains of soul and body and in Thy mercy return health completely to her, in order that, restored to life, she may again give herself up to good deeds. Oh Thou, who being God, livest and reignest with the Father and Holy Ghost, now and forever. Amen."

The priest appeared to hurry. Quickly he took the vessel standing between two candles under the crucifix and approaching the patient he whispered the second, brief prayer required by the ritual, and at the same time began to administer extreme unction. He first touched the girl's eyelids, saying, "Through this holy unction and His own most tender mercy, may the Lord pardon thee whatever sins or faults thou hast committed by sight"; after that he anointed her ears to purge the sins which she might have committed through the sense of hearing; after that the lips; after that the hands, resembling two white lilies, which that day were to have played for the poor; and finally he blessed her whole body from head to feet--already purified of all blemish and already as truly angelic and immaculate as a lily in the field.

A half hour passed. To those present it seemed that the patient again succumbed to slumber. But unexpectedly she opened her eyes wide, and cried in a stronger, as if joyful, voice:

"How much bread!--How much bread!--"

And she expired calmly.

During the depth of the night, a young man came to the gate and asked the doorkeeper whether the little lady was still alive and, hearing that she had died, he left in silence.

An hour later in the garret of one of the houses near the Vistula a shot from a revolver was fired, and, filled with consternation, the inmates suddenly awakened from their sleep. The people in the neighboring rooms flocked to the place of the accident. The locked doors of the room were battered down but all aid was futile. On the bed lay the dead body of the student with his breast perforated by a shot.

The gloomy, tragic soul had already flown into darkness.

XVI

The room in which Marynia died was changed into a funeral chamber. The coffin stood in the middle, high, amidst burning candles and a whole forest of plants and flowers, of which such a number were amassed that they filled not only the chamber but even the anteroom and the stairway. The coffin was still open and in the brightness of the day, blended with the light of the wax-candles, Marynia could be seen dressed in that same dress in which she was to have appeared at the concert. The little metal cross which she held in her folded hands glittered like a sparkling spot on a dark background of plants. Her face was pensive, but without the slightest trace of suffering,--and at the same time as if she was absorbed in listening to voices, sounds, and tones, which were inaudible and incomprehensible to mortals.

Though the open windows there blew in from time to time a breeze, extinguishing here and there the unsteady flames of the candles and causing the leaves of the plants to rustle. On the acacias in front of the house the sparrows chirped boisterously; one would think that they were relating to each other feverishly what had happened; while at the side of the catafalque a human stream flowed. There came with wreaths, workingmen, for whose benefit the concert was to have been given, and at the sight of the barbarously slain little lady, they left with fire in their eyes and clenched fists. The intelligence of the monstrous and reckless crime attracted whole throngs of students, who determined to carry the coffin on their shoulders. In the meantime they moved slowly and quietly about the catafalque, gazing with bosoms swelling with sympathy and grief at the silvery profile of the girl, turned towards heaven, and unconsciously they recalled the words of the poet:

"And now in pale satin enshrouded,
In silence, hands folded, she lies."

Horror, indignation, and at the same time curiosity aroused the city from centre to circumference. Even the streets in front of the house were thronged by great crowds--uneasy, being unable to explain to themselves how such a thing happened--and, as if, alarmed by the thought of what the future might bring forth, what other crimes might be committed and what other victims the uncertain morrow might devour.

The remains of Marynia were to be conveyed to the railway and from there to Zalesin where the tombs of the Otockis were located. Immediately after noon the coffin was taken off the stretchers and then, before its sealing, came for Pani Otocka and for Gronski the dreadful moment of viewing for the last time in life that beloved being who was for them a light and sun. If she had died of some sickness their despair might not have been less, but it would have been more intelligible to them. But she was murdered! They murdered this sweet and innocent child, just at a time when she wanted to aid people and when she rejoiced at the thought of that aid. Murdered was that incarnate song, that fragrant flower, sent by God for the joy of mankind! And in just this there was something which could not be confined within the limits of despair, but reached into the borders of madness. For lo, this is the last moment for beholding that love, that youth, that maidenly charm, that white victim of crime and mistake; and after that nothingness, darkness,--solitude.

But overstrained pain kills itself like a scorpion, it covers the intellect with darkness, and commands the blood to congeal in the veins. That happened with the sister of the slain. For a long time Dr. Szremski was uncertain whether he would be able to restore her to life. In the consternation and confusion it was hardly observed that into the chamber there rushed an insane woman and, whining mournfully, she flung herself upon the ground. Swidwicki led her away with the aid of the students and intrusted her to their care.

In the meantime the coffin was sealed; the youths placed it on their shoulders and the funeral party moved towards the railway. After them marched a long procession, at the end of which empty carriages jogged along. The ever-increasing swarm flowed along the middle of the streets and sidewalks; and not until they reached the bridge did those who joined the procession only through curiosity begin to return home.

Swidwicki approached Dr. Szremski, and for some time both walked in silence, not perceiving that they were remaining more and more behind the procession.

"You knew the deceased?" asked the doctor.

"Otocki was my relative."

"Ah, what a horrible mistake it was?"

But Swidwicki blurted out:

"That was no mistake. That is the logical result of the times, and in those that are coming such accidents will become a customary, every-day occurrence."

"How do you understand that?"

"The way it should be understood. That coffin has greater meaning than it seems. That is an announcement! A mistake? No! That was only an incident. Lo, to-day we are burying a harp, which wanted to play for the people, but which the rabble trampled upon with their filthy feet.--Wait, sir! Let things continue to proceed thus, and who knows whether, after ten or twenty years, we will not thus bury learning, art, culture, bah! even the entire civilization. And that not only here but everywhere. There will be an endless series of such events.--To me, after all, it is all one, but absolutely it is possible."

The doctor ruminated for some time in silence over Swidwicki's words; finally he exclaimed:

"Ah, knowledge, knowledge, knowledge."

Swidwicki stood still, seized the doctor by the flap of his coat and shaking his goat-like beard, said:

"Hear, sir, an atheist, or at least, a man who has nothing to do with any religion: knowledge without religion breeds only thieves and bandits."

The procession paused for a while on account of an obstruction on the road; so conversing, they drew nearer to the coffin; nevertheless, Swidwicki, though lowering his voice, did not cease to talk:

"Ay, sir--a great many people think the same as I do; only they have not the courage to say it aloud. After all, I reiterate it is all one to me,--we are lost past all help. With us there are only whirlpools.--And these, not whirlpools upon a watery gulf, beneath which is a calm depth, but whirlpools of sand. Now the whirlwind blows from the East and the sterile sand buries our traditions, our civilization, our culture--our whole Poland--and transforms her into a wilderness upon which flowers perish and only jackals can live."

Here he pointed to Marynia's coffin:

"Lo, there is a flower which has withered. Do you know, sir, why I, though a relative, seldom visited them? Because I felt ashamed before her eyes."

They reached the station and went upon the roadway, from which could be seen the coach, decorated with flowers and fir-tree boughs.

"Are you riding to Zalesin?" asked the doctor.

"I am. I want to gaze at Pani Otocka. God knows what now will become of her. And see, sir, how Gronski looks. An old man--what? Now his Latin and books will not help him."

"Who would not have felt this," answered the doctor. "Krzycki also looks as if he were taken off the cross."

"Krzycki? But perhaps it is because his matrimonial plans are broken."

Further conversation was interrupted by the orchestra which began to play Chopin's "Funeral March."

XVII

Dr. Szremski upon his return to the hotel began to ponder over Swidwicki's words, which were imbedded deeply in his memory. Before his eyes there glided a picture of the funeral procession and that coffin, with the victim, murdered by those to whom she wanted to do good. "Yes, yes!" he said to himself, "that apparently was a mistake, but similar mistakes are the logical consequences of the unbridled, blind, animal instincts. We must admit that we are flying at break-neck speed into some bottomless abyss. And not only we. But is it allowable to conclude from this, that, as to-day we conducted song, murdered by the rabble, so after ten, twenty, or fifty years we will witness the burial of learning, culture, and civilization? Apparently--yes. It is high time that God, Who rules the world, should give new proofs that He in reality rules. It ought to thunder so that the earth would tremble--or what? Mankind are entering upon a road which is directly opposite to entire nature. For the whole endeavor of nature is to create as perfect beings as possible and through them to ennoble the species; and humanity perversely kills them as it did that angelic child, or else seizes them by the hair to drag them from the heights to the general level. And nevertheless this is but a specious appearance. If the engineers determined to excavate all the mountains and make the earth as smooth and even as a billiard ball, some convulsions would take place, some eruptions of volcanoes would occur, which would create new abysses and new heights. Of the Aryan spirit can be said that which the Grecians, enamoured with the soothing architectonical lines, said of the Roman arches: 'The arch will never fall asleep.' Likewise the Aryan spirit. The humanity, which possesses it, is incapable of drifting into infinity on one wave, thinking one thought and living in one idea. That which is to-day--will pass away. On the summits of reason, feeling, and will, new whirlwinds will generate and they will raise new waves."

Here the doctor's thoughts were apparently directed nearer to matters lying more on his heart, for he began to clench his fist and pace with big, uneasy steps about the room.

"Will we," he said to himself, "however, remain amidst these convulsions, waves, and whirlwinds? Whirlpools? Whirlpools!--and of sand! Sand is burying the whole of Poland and transforming her into a wilderness, on which jackals live. If this is so, then it would be best to put a bullet in the head.--I am curious as to what Gronski would say to this--but lightning has struck his head and it is of no use to speak to him.--We are lost past all help? That is untrue! Beneath these whirlpools which are whirling upon the surface of our life is something which Swidwicki did not perceive. There is more than elsewhere, for there is a bottomless depth of suffering. There plainly is not in the world greater misfortune than ours. With us the people awake in the morning and follow the plough in the field, go to the factory, to the offices, behind the benches in the shops, and all manner of labor--in pain. They go to sleep in pain. That suffering is as boundless as the expanse of the sea while the whirlpools are but ripples upon that expanse. And why do we suffer thus? Of course, we might, at once, to-morrow, breathe more freely and be happier. It would be sufficient for every one to say to Her, that Poland, of whom Swidwicki says that she is perishing, 'Too much dost Thou pain me, too much dost Thou vex me; therefore I renounce Thee and from this day wish to forget Thee.'--And nevertheless nobody says that; not even such a Swidwicki, who prevaricated when he said it is all one to him; not even they who throw bombs, and murder sisters and brothers!--And if it is so that we prefer to suffer than renounce Her, then where are the jackals and where is Her destruction? Jackals seek carrion, not suffering! So She lives in every one of us, in all of us together, and will survive all the whirlpools in the world. And we will set our teeth and will continue to suffer for Thee, Mother, and we--and if God so wills it,--and our children and grandchildren will not renounce neither Thee nor hope."

Here Szremski was touched by his own thoughts, but dawn brightened his countenance. He found an answer to the question which Swidwicki thrust into his soul. Walking, he began to repeat: "For nothing, nobody would consent to suffer thus." After which it occurred to his mind that to suffer for Her was not yet sufficient, for he began to rub his hands and turn up his rumpled sleeves, as if he wanted at once to do some important and urgent work. But, after a while, he observed that he was in the hotel, so he smiled, with his sincere, peculiar smile, and said aloud:

"Ha! It cannot be helped. To-morrow I must return to my hole and push the wheelbarrow along."

And suddenly he sighed:

"To my solitary hole."

After which, he, himself, not knowing why, recollected what Swidwicki had told him about the breaking of Krzycki's matrimonial engagement, and his thoughts, like winged birds, began to fly to Zalesin.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1]: "Even bird's milk is not lacking," a Polish proverbial expression signifying "abundance," "living in clover."

[Footnote 2]: "On the thief's head the cap burns:" a Polish proverb meaning that persons, conscious of guilt, always fear detection.--Translator.

[Footnote 3]: "Sprinkled his eyes with poppy:" proverbial expression denoting "lulled to sleep."--Translator.

[Footnote 4]: Kilinski was one of the bravest and most popular heroes who fought under Kosciuszko. He was a shoe-maker by trade.--Translator.

[Footnote 5]: Bigos: a Polish dish of hashed meat and cabbage.--Translator.

[Footnote 6]: Peter Skarga was the most famous pulpit orator in the history of Poland.--Translator.

[Footnote 7]: "Poland is not yet lost."

[Footnote 8]: Referring to the Sacred Fire of pagan Lithuanians.

[Footnote 9]: Mamalyga, a kind of porridge in Bessarabia, made principally of corn.

[Footnote 10]: Piast; the name of the first King of Poland, who was a peasant.

[Footnote 11]: Stanislaus Augustus Poniatowski, the last king of Poland.

[Footnote 12]: "Skubanka," a pun upon the word, "skubac," to pluck.

THE END

THE ZAGLOBA ROMANCES
by Henryk Sienkiewicz. Translated from
the Polish by Jeremiah Curtin.

WITH FIRE AND SWORD

An Historical Novel of Poland and Russia. Illustrated. Crown 8vo. $1.50 net.

The first of the famous trilogy of historical romances of Poland, Russia, and Sweden. Their publication has been received as an event in literature. Charles Dudley Warner, in Harper's Magazine, affirms that the Polish author has in Zagloba given a new creation to literature.

A capital story. The only modern romance with which it can be compared for fire, sprightliness, rapidity of action, swift changes, and absorbing interest is "The Three Musketeers" of Dumas.--New York Tribune.

THE DELUGE

An Historical Novel of Poland, Sweden, and Russia. A Sequel to "With Fire and Sword." With map. 2 vols. Crown 8vo. $3.00 net.

Marvellous in its grand descriptions.--Chicago Inter-Ocean.

Has the humor of a Cervantes and the grim vigor of Defoe.--Boston Gazette.

PAN MICHAEL

An Historical Novel of Poland, Russia, and the Ukraine. A Sequel to "With Fire and Sword" and "The Deluge." Crown 8vo. $1.50 net.

The interest of the trilogy, both historical and romantic, is splendidly sustained.--The Dial, Chicago.

---

LITTLE, BROWN, & COMPANY, Publishers Boston, Massachusetts