More Tales by Polish Authors

by Unknown

THE RETURNING WAVE

By BOLESŁAW PRUS (ALEXSANDER GŁOWACKI)

Chapter I

If Pastor Boehme's worthiness could have been weighed on a pair of scales, the reverend gentleman would have been obliged to travel on a goods truck. But as worthiness cannot be classified under any of the three mathematical dimensions, but comes under the fourth, which does not belong to the world of realities, he travelled in a little one-horse britzka instead.

To the fat, well-groomed pony, the flies, the heavy collar, the sultry day, and the dusty road were of much greater interest than the virtues of his master, or even his whip. His master took the whip with him only for fear of being laughed at, for he never used it. In fact, he would have been unable to use it; for when he exhibited his worthy personality, with its short whiskers, panama hat, and white and pink percoline coat, on the roads, he had to hold the reins firmly in one hand to prevent the old pony from stumbling, and with the other he poured out continual and benevolent, but ineffectual blessings on all passers-by. For they all took off their caps to him; regardless of religious differences they liked the "worthy German."

On this particular July afternoon the reverend gentleman was on his way to perform one of his minor spiritual duties, namely that of first grieving his neighbour and then comforting him. In short, he was going to see his friend Gottlieb Adler, to inform him that his son, Ferdinand, had run into debt abroad, and subsequently to exhort the father to forgive his prodigal son.

Gottlieb Adler was the owner of a cotton-mill. The road along which the pastor was driving connected the mill with the railway-station; it was a well-kept road, though it had not been planted with trees. A little country town lay on the left, and the factory on the right, at some distance. The black and red roofs of the workmen's cottages peeped from the sheltering plane-trees, limes and poplars; behind them lay a large four-storied building in the shape of a horseshoe. This was the factory. A thicker clump of trees close by indicated Adler's garden; it surrounded an elegant villa with some farm buildings attached. The sun was flooding everything with golden light. The tall red-brick chimney sent out thick, curling smoke, and had the wind been in his direction the pastor would have heard the busy roar of the engines and the noise of the power-looms. But as it was, nothing disturbed the peaceful silence except the whistle of a distant train and the rattling of his own cart. A quail diving into the corn was singing its little song.

The constant attention needed to prevent the fat pony from stumbling at last wore out the pastor; so trusting to the mercy of Him who delivered Daniel from the lions' den and Jonah from the whale's belly, he tied the reins to the back of the seat, and folded his hands as in prayer. Boehme loved to dream, and a gentle doze helped to open memory's enchanted gates. He now recalled (probably for the hundredth time that year and at the same spot) another factory, somewhere in the plains of Brandenburg, where he and his friend Gottlieb Adler had spent their childhood. They were sons of fairly well-to-do master-weavers, were born in the same year, and went to the same elementary school. A quarter of a century passed after they left it before they met again. Boehme had finished his theological studies at the University of Tübingen, and Adler had amassed some twenty thousand thalers.

On Polish soil, far away from their Fatherland, they met again. Boehme had been appointed pastor of a Protestant parish, and Adler had set up a little cotton-mill. Another quarter of a century had now passed, during which they had never been separated; they visited each other several times every week. Adler's little mill had grown into a huge factory which at the moment employed some six hundred workmen, and brought him in a clear profit of several thousand roubles a year. Boehme had remained poor except for the profit of several thousand blessings yearly.

The two friends also differed in other respects. The pastor had a son who was now finishing his studies at the technical college at Riga, and who looked forward to supporting himself, his parents and his sister for the rest of their lives. Adler's only son had never even completed his school course; he was now travelling abroad, and his only concern was to get as much as he could for himself out of his father's money. While the pastor was fairly satisfied with his several thousand blessings a year, and only wondered sometimes whether his daughter, aged eighteen, would marry well, Adler was ever impatient for his banking account to reach the desired sum of a million roubles as quickly as possible, and he often worried himself with thoughts as to what would ultimately become of his son.

At the present moment Boehme was quite content to look at the cornfields around him and the sky above—scattered with white and grey clouds—and to recall the memories of childhood; a similar factory in the shape of a horseshoe, the same kind of trees, and the same villa with a pond in the garden.... What a pity there was no village school here, no almshouses, no hospital! Adler had forgotten to build these, although he had copied the shape of the Brandenburg factory. "Had there not been a school there," the pastor reflected, "Adler would never have been a millionaire, nor I a pastor."

The britzka was now approaching the factory, and the noise became audible and roused the musing pastor. A group of dirty children in ragged dresses or only in shirts were playing in the road. Vans with cotton goods became visible behind the wall which surrounded the yard, and Adler's villa appeared to the left in all its elegance. The pastor could now distinctly see the summer-house in the garden, near the pond, where he and his friend usually sat drinking their hock and talking of old times and current news.

Here and there the washing was hanging out of the windows of the workmen's cottages. The inhabitants were nearly all at work at the mill; only a few pale, hollow-cheeked women greeted the pastor with the words:

"May the Lord be praised!"

"For ever and ever!" he answered, raising his battered old panama hat.

Meanwhile the britzka had turned to the left, for the pony, needing no further guiding, trotted into the courtyard of the villa residence. A groom came out at once, wiped his nose on his sleeve, and helped the pastor out.

"Is your master at home?"

"He is at the factory; I'll run and tell him you are here, sir."

The pastor entered the portico. Having divested himself of his coat, the reverend gentleman now revealed himself in a long frock-coat which made his short legs look still shorter, while the long nose adorning his faded face seemed to grow in proportion. The pastor folded his hands and waited, reminding himself of the object of his visit, and rehearsing a well-thought-out address, which was to be divided into three parts according to the laws of rhetoric. The introductory part dealt with the unfathomable ways of Providence which lead human beings along thorny paths to eternal joy; the second part dwelt on the story of young Ferdinand Adler, who was unable to return to the paternal home until his creditors had been satisfied.... This was likely to produce an outburst of wrath on the part of the father, and a long list of Ferdinand's misdoings. But when the angry cotton-spinner would be on the point of disinheriting his son, there would follow the third part of the pastor's address, which would include a reconciliation. Boehme intended to allude to the story of the Prodigal Son, to touch lightly on the fact that his friend was himself responsible for Ferdinand's bad upbringing, and that in expiation of this sin he should offer the sum demanded by the creditors as a sacrifice.

While the pastor was rehearsing his plan of action, Adler appeared. He was huge and of clumsy build, already slightly bent; with large feet, a big round nose, and thick lips like those of a negro. He had thin fair whiskers and no moustache, and was dressed in a long grey frock-coat of an unfashionable cut, and trousers to match. When he took off his hat in order to mop the perspiration off his forehead, he showed tow-coloured, closely cropped hair, and projecting light blue eyes without eyebrows.

The millionaire walked with a heavy tread like a trooper; his big arms stood out from his body like the ribs of some antediluvian animal. His broad chest heaved and fell like a pair of smith's bellows as he greeted the pastor from a distance with phlegmatic nods and loud guffaws; but he did not smile. Indeed, it would have been difficult to imagine what a smile would look like on this fleshy, apathetic face which Nature had fashioned so roughly. Yet it was not repulsive, merely rather strange; it did not inspire fear, only the feeling that opposition to those clumsy hands would be useless. Obviously it was impossible to get at the heart of this battering-ram in human form, but, if injured, the whole fabric would collapse like a building the foundations of which had crumbled away.

"How are you, Martin?" Adler called from the lowest step of the staircase. Shaking the pastor's hand firmly, he went on: "Ah, of course, you were in Warsaw yesterday.... Have you heard anything of my boy? The rascal writes so rarely.... Probably the only person who knows his whereabouts is the banker."

As they stood together in the portico, the little pastor looked, beside his friend, like "a locust beside a camel."

"Well, tell me," Adler continued, sitting down on a little cast-iron seat; its metallic sound as it creaked under his weight harmonized strangely with the thundering roar of the factory. "Has Ferdinand not written to the bank?"

Boehme found himself plunged unwillingly into the middle of his business. Sitting down on the seat facing Adler, he remembered with marvellous presence of mind the opening part of his speech—namely the unfathomable ways of Providence.

The pastor had one drawback; this was that he could not speak fluently without his glasses, which he was in the habit of mislaying. He felt that he ought now to begin the introduction; but how was he to begin without his glasses? He cleared his throat and fidgeted, turned out his pockets and found nothing. Where could he have left his spectacles? He quite forgot his opening sentences.

Adler, who knew his friend by heart, began to feel uneasy.

"Why are you fidgeting like that?" he asked.

"I am sorry—it is very annoying—I have left my spectacles behind."

"What do you want your spectacles for? You are not going to preach a sermon, are you?"

"No, but you see——"

"I am asking about Ferdinand—any news of him?"

"I will tell you presently," Boehme said, grimacing. Again he put his hand into his breast pocket, and took out a letter and a large purse, but no spectacles.

"I wonder if I left them in the britzka," he said, turning towards the steps.

Adler, who knew that the pastor carried only important documents in his breast pocket, snatched the letter from his hand.

"My dear Gottlieb," Boehme said, confused; "give me back the letter; I will read it to you myself, but I must first find my glasses."

He ran out into the courtyard, but returned in dismay a few minutes later, not having found them.

Adler was reading the letter with great interest; the veins stood out on his forehead, and his eyes seemed to project more than ever.

When he had finished he spat on the floor.

"What a scoundrel, this Ferdinand!..." he burst out. "In two years' time he is fifty-eight thousand and thirty-one roubles in debt, though I gave him a yearly allowance of ten thousand roubles."

"Ah, I know!" suddenly exclaimed the pastor, and ran off. "I couldn't have left them anywhere but in the pocket of my overcoat."

He returned triumphantly.

"You are always mislaying your spectacles and finding them again," grumbled Adler, leaning his head on his hand. He looked thoughtful and sad.

"Fifty-eight and twenty—that's seventy-eight thousand and thirty-one roubles in two years. How shall I be able to make that up? By Heaven, I don't know."

Meanwhile the pastor had put on his spectacles and regained his usual presence of mind. Though the introduction and the second part of his speech had been lost, there was still the third part left. Boehme was always resourceful in a difficulty, so he cleared his throat, and began:

"Although, dear Gottlieb, your feelings as a father may be deeply wounded, and you may sometimes justly complain——"

Adler roused himself from his reverie, and replied calmly:

"It's more than mere complaining; I have to pay. Johann!" he suddenly shouted, with a voice that shook the roof of the portico.

The footman appeared.

"A glass of water!"

He emptied two glasses, and then said without a shade of excitement: "I must telegraph to Rothschilds' to-night. I will send that rascal a wire too; he must come back; he has had enough travelling."

Boehme realized that not only the chance of the third part of his speech was gone, but that Adler was treating his son far too indulgently. To incur debts of nearly sixty thousand roubles was not only a financial loss, but an abuse of parental confidence, and therefore no light offence. Who knows? If it had not been for this money, Adler might have been persuaded to found a school for the children, without which they were growing up idle and wild. Instead of standing up for the frivolous son, the pastor would now become his censor, which was all the easier for him as he had known him from his childhood. Moreover, he had now recovered his spectacles and his balance of mind.

Adler was leaning back with his hands clasped behind his head, looking at the ceiling. Boehme put his hand on his knee and began:

"My dear Gottlieb, your Christian submission in misfortune sets an excellent example; but as we are very imperfect in the sight of God, it is our duty not only to be resigned, but to be active. Our Lord not only sacrificed Himself, but taught and improved men. Ferdinand is your son in the flesh, and mine in the spirit. In spite of his gifts and good qualities, he does not carry out the injunctions to work which were laid upon man when he was driven from Paradise."

"Johann!" shouted Adler.

The footman instantly appeared.

"The engine is going too fast; tell them to slacken down! It's always like that when I am out of the way."

The footman disappeared, and the pastor continued, undismayed:

"Your son does not work, but wastes the powers of body and mind given him by the Creator. I have told you my principles on this point many times, and in educating my son Józef I have endeavoured to be faithful to them."

Adler shook his head gloomily.

"What is Józef going to do when he leaves the technical college?" he asked unexpectedly.

"Go into an engineering business or factory, and perhaps in time become a director."

"And when he is a director?"

"He will go on working."

"What for?"

Boehme was taken aback.

"In order to be useful to himself and others," he replied.

"Well, if Ferdinand comes back he can be a director here with me; and he is already useful to others by spending seventy-eight thousand and thirty-one roubles—and certainly to himself!"

"But he does not work."

"That is true, but I work for him and for myself. I have done the work of five all my life; why shouldn't he enjoy himself? He won't do it later on; I know that by my own experience. Work is a curse; I have borne it all these years, and I have borne it well, as my fortune proves. If Ferdinand was meant to work hard, as I have done, why should God have given him the money? What will the boy get out of it if he spends his life in adding ten millions to the one I have made, and his son in adding another ten? God has created rich and poor; the rich enjoy life. I myself shall probably never enjoy it; I am too old, and I don't know how to. But why shouldn't my boy enjoy it?"

"My dear Gottlieb," said the pastor, "a good Christian——"

"Johann," interrupted the cotton-spinner, addressing the returning footman and observing that the engine went more slowly, "take a bottle of hock and some cakes into the summer-house. Martin——" He tapped Boehme's shoulder with his heavy hand and guffawed.

On their way into the garden a wretched-looking woman stopped them and threw herself at their feet.

"Please, sir, give me three roubles for the funeral," she sobbed.

Adler calmly drew away.

"Go to the publican," he said; "that's where your fool of a husband wastes his money."

"Oh, sir——"

"Business matters are attended to in the office, not here," interrupted Adler. "Go there."

"I have been there, sir, but they turned me out."

Again she stretched out her arms to embrace his feet.

"Go away!" shouted the manufacturer. "You won't come to work, but you know where to beg for your christenings and funerals."

"How could I come to work, sir, just after my confinement?"

"Well then, don't have children if you have no money for their funerals."

With this he pushed the pastor, who was indignant at this scene, through the garden gate. When he had closed it, Boehme stood still.

"I would rather not drink, Gottlieb," he said.

"Oh!" said Adler, wondering.

"The tears of the poor spoil the taste of the wine."

"You need not be afraid; the glasses are clean and the bottles well corked," Adler guffawed.

The pastor flushed, turned away, and hurried into the courtyard without a word.

"Come back, you silly woman!" Adler shouted to the miserable creature, who was crying near the gate. "Here is a rouble, and be off with you!"

He threw her a paper rouble.

"Martin! Boehme!... Come back, the wine is in the summer-house."

But the pastor had got into his cart without his overcoat, and was driving out of the gateway.

"He is a madman," Adler observed to himself. He was not angry with the pastor, who frequently treated him to such scenes.

"These learned people always have a screw loose in their heads," he reflected, looking after the dust raised by the pastor's britzka. "If I were a learned man and had Boehme's income, Ferdinand would now be toiling in a technical college. It is a good thing he is not learned, either."

He turned round, glanced at the stable, where a groom was making a pretence of sweeping, sniffed in the smoke from the factory, looked at the loaded vans, and went into the office.

He ordered a clerk to credit Ferdinand's account with sixty thousand roubles, and wired him instructions to pay his debts and to come home at once.

When Adler left the office, the old German book-keeper, who wore a shade over his eyes and had sat on the same leather stool for many years, looked round suspiciously and whispered to the clerk:

"So we are going to 'economize' again. The young man has spent sixty thousand roubles, and we are going to pay for it."

In a quarter of an hour's time the rumour had reached the engine-house, and in an hour had spread all over the factory, that Adler was going to cut down the wages because his son had squandered a hundred thousand roubles. By the evening Adler knew all that was being said. Some threatened to break his bones, others that they would kill him or set fire to the factory. Some said they would leave, but these were shouted down; for where was one to go? The women wept and the men cursed Adler, invoking God's punishment on him. The cotton-spinner was satisfied. As long as the workpeople cursed they would do nothing worse. He could safely reduce their wages. Those who threatened were chiefly his most faithful men.

During the night a plan of "economy" was prepared. The more a man earned, the larger was the percentage knocked off his wages. There was a general outburst of indignation when these plans became known next day. For some years a bone-setter had been appointed to the factory for urgent cases, and during an outbreak of cholera a doctor had been added. The latter had now nothing to do according to Adler's ideas, and was given notice, and the bone-setter's salary was reduced by half. Both left the factory at once. Some score of workmen followed their example; others did less work than usual, but talked the more. At midday and again in the evening a deputation of workmen waited upon Adler to entreat him not to wrong them in this way. They wept, cursed and threatened, but Adler remained unmoved.

As he had lost sixty thousand roubles through his son, economy would have to bring him in at least fifteen to twenty thousand a year. Nothing could alter this resolution. Besides, why should he alter it? He was not risking anything.

As a matter of fact, the workmen calmed down. Some went to work of their own accord, others were sent away and their places taken by new hands, to whom the wages seemed good. There was a great deal of poverty in the district, and people were asking for employment. The place of the bone-setter was taken "for the present" by an old workman who, in Adler's opinion, was sufficiently acquainted with surgery to attend to slight injuries. As to graver cases—and these were rare—it was agreed to send for the doctor from the town, and the sick workmen and their wives and children were to go there at their own expense. So after this great upheaval matters were all right again at the factory.

Information carefully collected showed Adler that, in spite of all the wrongs he had done his workmen, nothing was going to happen to him—that there was in fact no power on earth which could do him harm.

The pastor, however, to whom Adler went without waiting to make up their difference, shook his head, and shifting his spectacles, said:

"Wrong begets wrong, my dear Gottlieb. You have neglected Ferdinand's education, and you did wrong. He has squandered your money, and you have reduced the workmen's wages in consequence, and done a greater wrong. What will be the end of it all?"

"Nothing," said Adler.

"It cannot be nothing," said Boehme, solemnly raising his hands. "The Almighty has so ordered things that every beginning has an end. Good beginning, good end; bad beginning, bad end."

"Not for me," said the cotton-spinner. "My capital is safely invested, the hands won't burn the mill, and if they do it is insured. If they leave, I shall find others. Besides, where could they go? Or do you think they will kill me? Martin ... do you really think they will?" the giant guffawed, clapping his huge hands together.

"Do not tempt God," the pastor said angrily, and changed the conversation.

Chapter II

The history of Adler was as strange as he himself. After leaving the elementary school he had learnt weaving, and by the time he was twenty he was earning quite good wages. He was a strong fellow with a high complexion, to all appearances clumsy, but in reality shrewd and able to work like a horse. His seniors were satisfied with him, though they often found fault with him for being too dissipated. Adler spent every Sunday enjoying himself with friends and with women; they would go on merry-go-rounds and see-saws, gorge themselves and drink together; he was always the leader of the party. He enjoyed himself so frantically that his companions were sometimes quite taken aback. But on week-days he worked quite as frantically. His powerful organism seemed to possess no soul; only nerves and muscles were at play. He did not like reading or art of any kind; he could not even sing.

No other thought possessed him than that of using his accumulated animal strength to the full without bounds or limits, except envy for the rich. He heard that there were large cities in the world, with beautiful women ready to be loved, with whom one drank champagne in gorgeously decorated rooms; that rich people rode fast horses to death, climbed mountains on which one might break one's neck or drop from exhaustion, and sailed their own yachts—and he longed to do all these things. He dreamt of scouring the world from pole to pole, of rushing on to battlefields thirsting for the enemy's blood; besides these things he meant to drink the choicest wines, eat the richest food, and travel with a whole harem. But how was all this going to happen if he spent all his earnings, and even ran into debt? Then suddenly an unusual thing happened.

A fire broke out on the second floor of one of the factory buildings. All the workpeople had got away safely except two women and a boy on the fourth floor. These were only noticed after a time, when the flames were bursting forth from all parts of the building. Nobody thought of going to the rescue; this induced the mill-owner to shout to the crowd: "Three hundred thalers to anyone who rescues them!"

The noise and excitement increased. The people encouraged one another to the venture, but did nothing, while the victims held out their arms in despair, entreating for help.

Then Adler stepped forward. He asked for a rope and a ladder with hooks, tied the rope round his waist, and approached the burning building. The crowd drew back in astonishment; they wondered how he meant to reach the fourth floor. He hooked the ladder to the broad cornices of each floor above him and ran up it like a cat. The flames singed his hair and clothes, thick smoke enveloped him like a blanket. But he climbed higher and higher, hanging like a spider over the flames and the chasm below. When he reached the fourth floor the crowd shouted and applauded. Adler fixed the ladder to the parapet on the roof, and, with surprising skill for a youth so clumsy and heavy, carried the people, who were half dead with fright, one after the other on to the roof. As one wall of the building had no windows, Adler let the rescued people down on that side with the help of the rope, and finally slid down himself. When he reached the ground, burnt and with bleeding hands, the crowd lifted him upon their shoulders.

As a reward for this almost unparalleled bravery, Adler received the gold medal from the Government, and a rise in wages as well as the three hundred thalers from the mill-owner.

This became a turning-point in his life. Finding himself in possession of such a large sum, a desire for money grew in him. He did not value it because he had risked his life for it, or because it reminded him that he had saved the life of others. To him it simply represented a sum of three hundred thalers. What a time he might have if he spent three hundred thalers on enjoying himself! But if he first increased it to a thousand he might have a still better time. Adler gave up his old dissipated habits and became niggardly and a usurer. He started lending his friends money for short terms, but at high interest; and as he worked hard besides, and was getting on fast, after a few years he possessed, not three hundred, but three thousand thalers. All this was done with the idea that when he had amassed a considerable sum he would enjoy himself like a rich man. But—as the sum increased, he decided on ever new limits, towards which he advanced with the same determination as before.

While striving towards this "ideal" of the greatest possible self-indulgence, he lost his sensual instincts, as a matter of fact. He spent his gigantic strength in hard work, suppressed his dreams, and fixed his thoughts on one thing only, and that was money. In the beginning the money had represented the means to another end, but by degrees even this disappeared, and his whole soul was filled with the desire for work and money.

When he was forty years old he possessed fifty thousand thalers gained by real hard work, determination, uncommon shrewdness, meanness and usury. He then went to Poland, where, he had heard, industry could be turned to the greatest profit, and started a small cotton-mill. He married a rich heiress, who died after a year in giving birth to a son, Ferdinand; and having her money to work with, Adler set out to become a millionaire. His new home proved a veritable land of promise, for he was well trained in his exhausting business and in the race for money, and found himself among people who let themselves be exploited: some because they had no money; others because they had come by it too easily and had too much, or they were not shrewd enough, or again because they tried to be cleverer than they were. Adler despised these people who possessed neither the most elementary economic qualities nor the strength to carry through their aims. Having surveyed his ground thoroughly, he knew how to make capital out of it. So his fortune grew, and people thought that the successful manufacturer was backed up by money from Germany.

With the birth of Ferdinand a new feeling awoke in Adler's stony heart—a feeling of unbounded and eternal love. He carried the motherless baby about in his arms, and even used to take him to the mill with him, where the frightened child got blue in the face with screaming. When he grew bigger, the father satisfied all his wishes, stuffed him with sweets, surrounded him with servants, and gave him sovereigns to play with.

The more the child developed, the more he loved him. Ferdinand's games reminded him of his own childhood, of his own instincts and dreams. He pictured to himself that it would be his son who would enjoy life and reap the real benefit of the money. Ferdinand would reach the goal of his own desires, not yet extinct, for distant travels, dangerous expeditions and expensive tastes.

"Only let him be grown up," the father thought, "then I will sell the mill and we will go out into the world together; he will enjoy himself, and I shall look on and see that he comes to no harm."

As a human being cannot give to others more than he himself possesses, Adler gave to his son an iron constitution, selfish propensities, money, and an unbounded desire for enjoyment. He developed no higher instincts in him. Neither father nor son had any understanding for the true values of life; they cared nothing for beauty in Nature or in Art, and they both despised their fellow-men.

In the social life of the community, where every unit is consciously or unconsciously tied by a thousand bonds of sympathy and fellow-feeling, these two stood alone. The father loved money above all things, and his son above money; the son liked his father, but loved only himself and the things which satisfied his instincts.

The boy had his tutors, and went to school for a few years. He learnt several languages, was a fair talker and a good dancer, and dressed in good taste. As he got on easily with people when they put no obstacles in his way, was witty and spent money lavishly, he was popular; though Boehme, who looked at things from a different point of view, maintained that the boy knew very little and was on the wrong track. Ferdinand was a Don Juan even in his seventeenth year; in his eighteenth he was expelled from school. A year later he had incurred debts at cards, and at twenty he went abroad. In spite of large sums allowed him by his father, he ran into debt to the tune of sixty thousand roubles. He had thus indirectly brought about the need for "economy" at the factory, and caused himself and his father to be cursed by the workpeople.

During his few years' absence from home, Ferdinand had climbed Alpine glaciers and Vesuvius, had been up in a balloon, and allowed himself to be bored for a few weeks in London, where houses are built of red brick and there are no amusements on Sundays. But the longest and gayest time he had spent in Paris.

He did not often write to his father; only when a stronger impression than usual touched his iron nerves he reported it to him in detail. These letters therefore were great events in Adler's life. The old mill-owner read them again and again, and enjoyed every word of them; they revived in him the ardent dreams of long ago. To go up in a balloon or look down into the crater of a volcano; to join in a cancan or give a woman champagne baths; to lose or win hundreds of roubles at one throw—had these not been the ideals of his life? Did not Ferdinand even surpass them? Under the influence of these letters, sketched in the excitement of first impressions, the habit of dreaming came back to this sternly realistic mind. At times he distinctly visualized what he read, investing it with an almost poetic fancy, but the vision fled before the rhythmic throb of the engines and power-looms. Adler had only one longing, one hope and faith—to amass a million, sell his mill, and go away with his son to see the world.

"He will enjoy himself, and I shall look on all day long."

Pastor Boehme was not at all in favour of this programme, worthy of the corrupt Elders of Sodom and Gomorrah, or the Roman Empire.

"When you have come to the end of the money and the pleasure, what will you do then?"

"Ah, but money like ours does not come to an end," the mill-owner would reply.

Chapter III

The day for Ferdinand's return had arrived. Adler got up at five o'clock in the morning according to his custom, drank his coffee at eight from his large china mug, inscribed with the motto: "Mit Gott für König und Vaterland," and visited the factory. At eleven he sent the carriage and a luggage cart to the station, and then sat down in the portico and waited, his face as apathetic and dull as usual. From time to time he looked at his watch. The sun was hot; the scent of mignonette and acacia from the courtyard mingled with the pungent smell of smoke from the factory. The sky was clear and the air quite still. Adler wiped the perspiration from his face, and kept changing his position on the iron seat. The old mill-owner did not eat his lunch at twelve, and did not drink his beer out of the big pot with the pewter lid, as he had done every day for forty years.

At one o'clock the carriage with Ferdinand arrived, followed by the empty cart. Ferdinand was a tall, rather thin, but strongly built young man with fair hair and blue eyes. He wore a Scotch cap with ribbons and a light circular cape. As soon as he saw him, the mill-owner drew up his huge figure to its full height, and holding out his arms and giving one of his big laughs, exclaimed:

"Well, Ferdinand, how are you?"

The son jumped out of the carriage, embraced his father and kissed him on both cheeks.

"Has it been raining here, that you have your trousers turned up?" he said.

The father glanced at his trousers.

"Ha, ha! How the rascal notices everything!" he roared. "Johann! Lunch!"

He took his son's cape and travelling bag, and gave him his arm as if he were a lady. Looking back into the courtyard, he asked: "Why, the cart is empty! Why haven't you brought your luggage from the station?"

"My luggage? Why, father, do you think I am married and drag about boxes and portmanteaux with me? My things are in the dressing-bag; besides the fittings, there are a couple of shirts and a few pairs of gloves—that's all."

He talked vivaciously and in a loud voice, and laughed much. Pressing his father's hand several times, he continued: "Well, and how are you, father? What's the news? I am told you are doing very well with your piqués and dimities.... Let us sit down."

They clinked their glasses and finished their lunch quickly. When they had retired to the study, Ferdinand said, lighting a cigar:

"I must introduce the French way of living here, and especially the French way of cooking."

The father made a grimace.

"Why? Isn't the German cuisine good enough?"

"The Germans are pigs!"

"What?" said the old man.

"I say the Germans are pigs," laughed the son. "They neither know how to eat nor how to enjoy themselves."

"Well," interrupted the father, "and what are you?"

"I? I am a human being—in other words, a citizen of the world."

That his son should call himself cosmopolitan mattered little to Adler, but he was much hurt by the wholesale relegation of Germans to the class of unclean animals.

"I thought, my dear Ferdinand, that you might have learnt some sense for the sixty thousand roubles you have spent."

The son flung away his cigar and fell on his father's neck.

"What an excellent father you are!" he exclaimed, kissing him. "What a fine example of a real, stereotyped, conservative Baron! Well, don't frown—cheer up! Come, don't look so glum!"

He seized him by his hands and drew him into the middle of the room. Tapping his chest, he said:

"What a chest! ... what calves! If I had a young wife, I should know who to be jealous of. And you really mean to say all the same that you agree with these dead and stale theories? 'The devil take the Germans and their cookery!' That is a motto worthy of the age and of strong men."

"You must be crazy," interrupted the father, somewhat pacified. "But what are you if you have ceased to be a German?"

"I?" replied Ferdinand with mock seriousness. "Among Germans I am a Polish nobleman, Adler von Adlersdorf; among Frenchmen I am a republican and a democrat."

Such was Ferdinand's first meeting with his father, and such were the spiritual gains of his stay abroad, paid for with sixty thousand roubles.

On the same day father and son drove over to see Pastor Boehme. The mill-owner introduced Ferdinand to him as a converted sinner who had spent much money and gained much experience for it. The pastor tenderly embraced his godson and held up to him as an example his son, Józef, who was working hard, and would continue to work to the end of his life. Ferdinand replied that work was really the only thing that gave human beings the right to exist. He added that he himself had been a little inconsiderate in spending his life among the people of a nation which boasted of its levity and idleness. Finally he asserted that one Englishman worked as much as two Frenchmen or three Germans, and that he had for this reason lately acquired a great respect for the English. Adler was astonished at his son's earnestness and the sincerity of his conviction, and Boehme remarked that young wine must ferment and that his experienced eye could detect a change for the better in Ferdinand, which was worth more than the expenditure of sixty thousand roubles. After these solemn words the old people, with the addition of the Frau Pastor, sat down to a bottle of hock, and talked of their children.

"You know, dear Gottlieb," said the pastor, "I am beginning to admire Ferdinand. From being a young windbag of a fellow he has now become a verus vir. He has experience and judgment, and knows himself too."

"Oh yes," confirmed the Frau Pastor, "he reminds me altogether of our Józio. Do you remember, father, when Józio was here last vacation he said the same thing about the English? Dear boy!"

And the kind, thin lady sighed and pulled at the bodice of her black dress, which seemed to have been made in expectation of greater corpulence.

Ferdinand meanwhile was walking in the garden with Annette, the pretty daughter of the pastor. They had known each other from childhood, and the young girl had greeted the companion, whom she had not seen for so long, warmly and even enthusiastically. They walked about together for nearly an hour; but as the day was very hot, Annette had suddenly complained of a headache and gone up to her room, and Ferdinand returned to the old people. He was sulky and did not talk much. This did not astonish the pastor and his wife. A young man would naturally prefer the society of a young girl. Soon after Adler and his son returned home, and Ferdinand informed his father that he would have to go to Warsaw the next day.

"What for?" asked his father. "Have you got tired of home in eight hours?"

"Not in the least; only, you see, I need shirts and some suits, and also a carriage in which I can pay visits in the neighbourhood."

These reasons did not seem conclusive to the elder man. He said that the housekeeper could go to Warsaw to order the clothes; and if he bought a carriage, he would like to buy it himself from a carriage-builder of his acquaintance. It was difficult to agree about the clothes, but it was finally settled that a suit should be sent to the tailor as a pattern. Ferdinand did not look at all pleased at this.

"I suppose you keep a riding horse?"

"No; what good would it be to me?" replied the mill-owner.

"Well, but I must have one, and I hope you will at least not refuse me this?"

"Of course not."

"I should like to go into the town to-morrow to see if one of the nobility has a good horse for sale. You won't object to that?"

"Not in the least."

By ten o'clock in the morning Ferdinand had left home to go into the town, and a few minutes later Boehme's cart and horse drew up in the courtyard. The pastor seemed unusually excited. When he hurried into the room, there were two flushed spots between his whiskers and his long nose. As soon as he saw Adler, he called out:

"Is Ferdinand at home?"

Adler was astonished, and noticed that his friend's voice was trembling.

"Why? What do you want Ferdinand for?" he asked.

"The scoundrel! He's a bad lot! Do you know what he said to Annette yesterday?"

Adler's face showed that he neither knew nor suspected anything.

"He actually," continued the pastor, getting still more excited, "he asked her...." He broke off, and exclaimed indignantly: "The insolence! The shame of it!"

"What is the matter with you?" asked Adler, growing anxious. "What did he say to her?"

"He asked her to leave the window of her room open for him at night."

The poor pastor, from the excess of his feelings, flung his panama hat on the floor.

In matters which had nothing to do with the manufacture and sale of cotton goods Adler took a long time to think. The chord that would have been touched by the wrong done to the girl was missing in his heart; but he had a feeling of friendship for the pastor, and starting from this basis and reasoning phlegmatically and logically, he came to the conclusion that, if the young girl had listened to the proposal, Ferdinand would have to marry her. In any case he would have to marry her; the old man saw no other way out of it.

This then was the end of it! A few hours after his arrival, and a few minutes after his excellent speech about his improvement, Ferdinand had put himself into such a position that he, the son of a millionaire, would have to marry a dowerless girl—the pastor's daughter! Instead of enjoying life at his side, and seeing him take the best of what money, youth and unrestrained freedom could give, he would now have to marry the boy to this girl.

It was only after the nervous old Boehme had begun to cry in his anger that Adler's wrath burst out in words.

"He is a scoundrel, that fellow!" he shouted. "A week ago I paid sixty thousand roubles for him, and now he extorts more money from me and behaves like this on the top of it all!"

He lifted his hands and shook them like Moses when he threw down the stone tablets on the heads of the worshippers of the golden calf.

"I will thrash him!" roared the mill-owner.

Seeing his excitement, and guessing that a stick in Adler's hand might have deplorable results, the pastor pacified him.

"My dear Gottlieb, that is quite unnecessary. Leave it to me, and I will tell Ferdinand either not to come to our house, or to behave in a decent and Christian way."

"Johann!" shouted the manufacturer, and when the footman appeared he continued without softening his voice: "Send to the town at once for Ferdinand. I will flog the scoundrel!"

The footman looked amazed and frightened, but the pastor gave him a knowing look, and the sagacious Johann went out.

"Dear Gottlieb," said Boehme, "Ferdinand is too old to be flogged with a stick, or even to be reprimanded too violently. Excessive severity will not only fail to improve him, but may cause him to lay hands on his own life; he is an ambitious boy."

This remark had a sudden effect on Adler. He opened his eyes wide and fell back into a chair.

"What is that you are saying, Martin?" he gasped. "Johann! Water!"

Johann brought the water, and the old man calmed down by degrees. He gave no more orders to fetch Ferdinand.

"Yes, the madcap might do such a thing," he whispered in depression, and dropped his head on his chest.

This strong and energetic old man understood that his son had taken the wrong turning and ought to be led back, but he did not know how to do it.

Late at night Ferdinand returned home in an excellent temper. He looked for his father in all the rooms, left the doors open, and beat a tattoo on tables and chairs with his walking-stick, singing in a loud and false baritone:

"Allons, enfants de la patrie...."

He reached the study and stood before his father, with his Scotch cap perched on the back of his head, his waistcoat unbuttoned, and smelling of wine; sparks of mirth, untempered by reason, were burning in his eyes. When he came to the line

"Aux armes, citoyens!"

his enthusiasm was such that he flourished his cane over his father's head.

The old man was not accustomed to people who waved sticks over him. He sprang up from his chair, and looking fiercely at his son, cried: "You are drunk, you scoundrel!"

Ferdinand stepped back and said coolly: "Please don't call me a scoundrel, father; if I get accustomed to being called such names at home, it might not make the slightest difference to me if anyone else called me or my father these names. One can get accustomed to anything."

The moderate tone and clear exposition did not fail to impress the cotton-spinner.

"You are without honour," he said after a while; "you wanted to seduce old Boehme's daughter."

"Did you think it likely I should try to seduce the mother?" asked Ferdinand in a tone of astonishment.

"Stop these bad jokes," the father said angrily; "the pastor has been here to-day, and requests that you do not set foot in his house again. He refuses to have anything to do with you."

"What a pity!" Ferdinand laughed, throwing his cap down on a pile of papers, and himself at full length upon the sofa. "He is really doing me the greatest favour by releasing me from those dull visits. They are a queer lot. The old man believes that he is living among cannibals, and is always converting somebody or rejoicing at somebody's conversion. The old woman has nothing but water on the brain, in which that learned snail, Józio, swims about. The daughter is sacred like an altar at which only pastors are allowed to officiate. When she has had two children, she will be a skeleton like her mother, and then I congratulate her husband. How dreadfully dull and pedantic all these people are!"

"Very well, they may be pedantic," said his father; "but if you had been with them you would not have squandered sixty thousand roubles."

Ferdinand had just started a yawn, but did not finish it. He sat up on the sofa and looked sorrowfully at his father.

"I see, father, you will never forget those few thousand roubles."

"Certainly I shan't forget them," shouted the old man. "How can a man in his right mind spend so much money for devil knows what? I was going to tell you that yesterday."

Ferdinand took his feet off the sofa, smacked his knee with his hand, and feeling that his father's anger did not go very deep, began:

"My dear father, let us for once in our lives have a reasonable talk. I suppose you do not look upon me any more as a child?"

"You are a monkey," the old man said abruptly. His heart was touched by his son's seriousness.

"Well then, father, as a man who looks below the surface of things, you probably understand, though you won't confess to it, that I am such as Nature and our family made me. Our family does not consist of such units as the pastor and his son. Our family was once upon a time given the name of 'Adler,'[24] not 'frog' or 'crab.' If you look at it even from the physical point of view, you can see that it consists of people with huge frames. It possesses a man who has gained millions and an excellent position in a strange country only through the work of his ten fingers. That shows that our family has imagination and strength."

Ferdinand said all this with true or feigned emotion, and his father was much impressed.

"Is it my fault," he went on, gradually raising his voice, "that I have inherited this imagination and this strength from my ancestors? I must live more fully and do more than a 'stone' or a 'flower,' or even an ordinary 'bird'—for I am an 'eagle.' I am not satisfied with a narrow corner; I must have the world. My strength requires that I should either have great obstacles to overcome and difficult circumstances to master, or else I must have plenty of dissipation. Otherwise I should burst. Men of temperament either wreck empires or become criminals. Bismarck smashed beer-mugs on the heads of the Philistines before he smashed up the Austrian and French Empires. He was then exactly what I am to-day. To rise to the surface and to be a true 'eagle,' I must have suitable circumstances; I am not living in my proper sphere now. I have nothing to fix my attention on, and nothing to wear out my strength; that is why I am so fast. If I weren't, I should die like an eagle in a cage. You have your aims in life; you order about hundreds of workmen, and set engines in motion; you have had a big fight to assert yourself against others and to get your money. I have not even got that pleasure. What is there for me to do?"

"Who prevents you from taking an interest in the factory, or ordering the people about and increasing our capital? That would be a better thing than to go and waste it."

"All right!" exclaimed Ferdinand, jumping up; "give me some of your authority, and I will set to work to-morrow. It will be with really hard work that my wings will grow. Well now, will you give over the management of the factory to me to-morrow? I will take it over, if it's only for something to do; I am tired of this empty life."

Had old Adler had tears to shed, he would have cried for joy, but he had to be satisfied with pressing his son's hand repeatedly. He had surpassed all his expectations. What a piece of luck that Ferdinand should wish to take over the management of the factory! In a few years their fortune would be doubled, and then they would go out into the world and look for a wider horizon for the young eagle.

The mill-owner slept badly that night. The next morning Ferdinand really went to the mill, and made the round of all the departments. The workmen looked at him with curiosity, and vied with one another in giving him information and carrying out his orders. The jolly, friendly young man, who was quite the opposite to his stern father, made a favourable impression on them. But all the same, at ten o'clock one of the foremen came to the office to complain that the young gentleman was flirting with his wife and behaving improperly with the workwomen.

"Nonsense!" said Adler.

In an hour's time the foreman of the spinning department came running in with a frightened face.

"Pan Adler," he shouted, "Pan Ferdinand has heard that the hands have had their wages reduced, and he is urging them to leave. He is repeating this in all the workrooms, and is telling the hands all sorts of strange things."

"Has the fellow gone out of his mind?" burst out the mill-owner.

He sent for his son immediately, and ran to meet him. They met in front of the warehouse, Ferdinand with a lighted cigar in his mouth.

"What! you are smoking in the factory? Throw that down at once!" and the old man took it away from him and stamped on it angrily.

"What do you mean? Am I not allowed to smoke a cigar? I—I?"

"Nobody is allowed to smoke inside the factory," bawled Adler. "You will set the place on fire. You are stirring up my workpeople. Get out of this!"

The encounter had many witnesses, and Ferdinand was offended.

"Oh, if you are going to treat me like this, I have done with you. Upon my honour, I won't set foot in your factory again. I have had enough of these pleasant home scenes."

He stamped on his cigar and went into the house without even looking at his father, who was panting hard with mingled feelings of anger and shame.

When they met again at lunch, old Adler said:

"Well, you need not trouble me with your help. I will give you a monthly allowance of three hundred roubles, a carriage, horses and servants, and you can do what you like, provided you promise me to keep away from the mill."

Ferdinand leaned his elbows on the table, and said:

"My dear father, let us talk like reasonable people. I cannot waste my life in this house. I have mentioned to you before that I am threatened with an illness called 'spleen,' and that the doctors have forbidden me to be bored. As our life here is very monotonous, I feel already that I am beginning to fail. I do not want to grieve you, but if I am condemned to death——"

His father was frightened.

"But I am going to give you three hundred roubles a month," he shouted.

Ferdinand made a contemptuous gesture.

"Well, say four hundred, then."

The son shook his head sadly.

"Six hundred—but the devil take you!" screamed Adler, banging the table with his fist. "I cannot give more; the mill economies cannot be strained any further. You will make me bankrupt."

"Well, well, I will try and live on six hundred a month," replied his son. "Oh, I wish my illness would——"

The wretch knew that it was not worth while going to Warsaw with such an income, but that here in the country he could be the king of the local jeunesse dorée, and for the present he was satisfied with his part. He was really a very reasonable young man for his age....

From that day onwards Ferdinand began to live very fast again, though on a smaller scale than before. He paid visits to all the landowners in the neighbourhood. The more respectable among them did not receive him at all, or received him and did not return his call; for old Adler did not enjoy a good reputation, and his son was known as a ne'er-do-well. Nevertheless he succeeded in scraping up an acquaintance with several younger and elderly gentlemen of his own type, whom he met frequently in the little country town, or entertained ostentatiously at his father's house, where the cuisine and cellars greatly attracted them.

The old manufacturer would slip away during these festivities. Though the titles and perfect manners of some of Ferdinand's friends flattered his pride, yet on the whole he did not like these men, and would often say to his old book-keeper:

"If these gentlemen would pool their debts, we could build three factories the size of ours with the amount."

"A respectable set," whispered the obsequious book-keeper.

"Fools!" said Adler.

"That's what I mean," smiled the book-keeper submissively from under his shade.

Ferdinand spent whole nights playing cards and drinking. He had many love adventures, and acquired a bad reputation. Meanwhile the factory hands were ground down by more and more "economies." Fines were imposed for coming late, for talking, for damages which were often purely imaginary. Those who were unable to do arithmetic had their wages simply reduced. They all cursed their employer and his son, for they saw the debauchery that was going on, and knew that they themselves were paying for it.

Chapter IV

Many years ago a certain nobleman had lived in the part of Poland to which we have introduced the reader, who was called a "crank" by his neighbours. He did not lead a dissipated life, and had married only when well advanced in years; but there was a stain upon his character—namely this: he indulged in teaching the peasants. He opened an elementary school where all the children were taught reading, writing and arithmetic, had religious instruction, and learnt a little tailoring and cobbling. Every boy had to learn to make simple suits, shirts and caps. All this formed the basis of the education. Afterwards he engaged a gardener, a blacksmith, a locksmith, a carpenter and a wheelwright, and the pupils now passed on to instruction in these trades, as well as to advanced arithmetic, geometry and drawing. The nobleman himself taught geography and history, read instructive books to the pupils, and told them countless anecdotes, all of which had the same moral—namely, that being honest, patient, industrious and thrifty, among other good qualities, gave a man the true value of a human being.

The neighbouring landowners complained that he was spoiling the peasants, and experts laughed because he taught the boys all the trades. But he shrugged his shoulders, and said that if there were more Robinson Crusoes on earth, forced to know something of all trades while they were young, there would be fewer ignoramuses, loafers, scoundrels, or slaves tied to one place.

"Besides," said the quaint old man, "this is a whim of mine, if you like that better. You breed particular kinds of dogs, cattle and horses; why shouldn't I breed a particular class of human beings?"

He died suddenly, and his relations inherited his property, ran through it in a few years, and the school was forgotten. But it had produced a certain number of men of great economic, intellectual and moral value, though none of these ever occupied prominent positions.

The nobleman's spirit would have rejoiced at his pupils' progress, for he had not brought them up to be geniuses, but to be useful, average citizens such as are always needed in the community. One of these pupils was Kazimierz Gosławski. He, too, had learnt various trades, but he took a special liking to two of them—those of blacksmith and locksmith. He could also draw a plan of an engine or a building, make mathematical calculations, prepare a wooden model of a foundry, and at a pinch make his own clothes and boots. The longer Gosławski lived, the more he appreciated his master's methods, and realized the practical importance of the anecdotes. He held his benefactor's memory sacred, and he and his wife and little daughter prayed for his soul every day. Gosławski had been working in the mechanical part of Adler's factory for seven years, and was the soul of the workshop. His earnings amounted to two and sometimes even to three roubles a day. There was a certain head-mechanic knocking about who drew a salary of fifteen hundred roubles a year, but he occupied himself more with factory scandals than with his own work.

In order to uphold his authority, this mechanic gave orders and explanations, but he did it in such a way that no one either understood them or attempted to carry them out; and this was a blessing for the factory, for had his mechanical ideas been realized in iron, steel and wood, the greater part of the engines would have had to go into the melting-pot.

It was only after Gosławski had found out the damage done to an engine, and put his hand to repairing it, that things went right again. More than once this simple locksmith had replaced parts of engines; unconsciously he had sometimes made inventions without anyone knowing about it. If it had been known, the invention would have been put down to the genius of the head-mechanic, who always boasted of his achievements, and regretted that in this unintelligent Poland one had no chances of becoming director of several factories, no matter of what kind.

Adler had too keen an eye not to see Gosławski's value and the incompetence of his head-mechanic. But Gosławski was made of too dangerous a material to be given a place as independent manager, and the head-mechanic was a good scandal-monger; so he was kept in the foreground, and the other did the work. In this way everybody was satisfied, and the world at large never suspected that the well-known factory was really run by the brains of a "stupid Polish workman."

Gosławski was a man of medium height, with the coarse hands and bow-legs of a workman. When he was bending over his vice he was indistinguishable from the others; but when he looked up from under his mop of dark hair, his thin, pale face showed that he was an intellectually developed human being with a nervous disposition. Yet his calmness and the look in his thoughtful grey eyes proved that reason prevailed over his temperament.

He talked neither too much nor too little, and never too loudly. Sometimes he got animated, but never let himself be carried away by excitement; and he knew how to listen, looking attentively and intelligently all the while into the speaker's eyes. Only to factory scandals he listened with half an ear and without interrupting his work. "What is the good of these things?" he used to say. But he would interrupt his most important work to listen to explanations coming within the range of his profession. He kept himself a little aloof from his fellow-workmen, though he was always friendly and ready to give advice, or even help, in small jobs. Yet he would never ask anybody's help for himself, for he had the same respect for a man's knowledge or time that he had for his money. The aim of his life was to establish a smith's workshop of his own. For this reason he hoarded up his earnings; he did not trust his money to the bank, and did not like to lend it to his fellow-workmen: rather would he give away a rouble or two now and then. For he was not mean: both he and his wife had plenty of clothes, plain but good, and on Sundays he would not begrudge himself a glass of beer or even a glass of wine. By means of this reasonable economy he had saved about eighteen hundred roubles, and was now looking about for the loan of a small building on some landowner's estate, in which he could set up his workshop. In exchange he would give preference to the landowner's orders. These arrangements are often made between a landowner and his smith, and Gosławski had a place of this kind in view for Michaelmas.

His earnings in the mill were rather uncertain. When a new line was tried in the manufacture of cotton goods (and in this Gosławski was unequalled), he was very well paid by the piece; but when the experiment had turned out a success, and he had taught others how to do the work, his pay was reduced by half, or even three-quarters; sometimes he was only paid the tenth part. To keep the level of his wages higher, he would often work overtime, come early and stay late.

When the workmen complained that the boss was cheating them, Gosławski replied that they could not wonder, for they were cheating him in return. But sometimes he would lose patience, and mutter between his teeth:

"Vile German thief!"

Gosławski's wife wished to help her husband by working in the mill too, but he gave her a good scolding.

"You had better look after the child and the dinner! For every rouble you earn at the mill, two are lost at home."

He knew quite well, however, that she would earn more and the home would lose less; but he was ambitious, and did not want the wife of a future master to mix with common factory women. He was a good husband; sometimes he grumbled that the dinner was unpunctual or badly cooked, that the child was dirty, or that his shirt had been made too blue. But he never made a scene or raised his voice. On Sundays he took his wife to church, a few versts off, and when it was fine he carried his little girl there too. Whenever he went into the town, he bought a toy for the child and some little piece of finery for his wife. He loved his little girl, though he was sorry not to have a son.

"What is the good of a girl?" he said. "You bring her up for another, and have to provide her with a dowry into the bargain to get her settled. With a son it is different: he is a support to you in your old age, and might take over the workshop."

"Just you get the workshop started, and then the son will come too," his wife replied.

"Oh, well, you have been saying that for three years; there is not much hope of you, as far as I can see," said the locksmith.

His wife was, however, not boasting without reason this time; for in the sixth year of their marriage, about the time when young Adler returned from abroad, she had given birth to a son. Gosławski was beside himself with joy. He spent about thirty roubles on the christening, and bought his wife a new dress, not counting the expenses of the confinement. His savings were thereby diminished by several hundred roubles, but he resolved to make them up before Michaelmas.

Then, to his misfortune, "economy" was introduced into the mill. This time Gosławski cursed with the others, but he went on working with redoubled zeal. He went to the mill at five o'clock in the morning, and did not come back till eleven o'clock at night, too tired to greet his wife or kiss the children. He fell on to the bed in his clothes, and slept like a log.

Such extreme effort annoyed his fellow-workmen; and his friend Źaliński, the engineer, a fat and quick-tempered man, said to him: "Kazik, why the devil are you toadying up to the boss and spoiling other people's chances? When they went to him yesterday to complain about the wages, he said to them: 'Do as Gosławski does; then you will have enough.'"

Gosławski excused himself.

"You see, my dear fellow, my wife has been ill, and I have had very heavy expenses. I would like to make up as much as I can, because, you know, I want to start on my own. What else am I to do since that dog has reduced the wages? I must go on slaving like this, though I have a pain in my side and my head swims."

"Bah!" said Źaliński; "I suppose you will take it out of the journeymen in your own workshop."

Gosławski shook his head.

"I don't want to profit by doing wrong. I don't give what is mine for nothing, but I won't take what belongs to others, either."

And he went off to his work, which, though he was used to it, had worn him out lately to such an extent that he was not able to collect his thoughts.

"If only I can start on my own," he thought, "I shall forget all this."

But the task was too great. To feed a family, to save all he could, to make up the expenses caused by his wife's confinement, and to pay for young Adler's travels into the bargain, went beyond the strength of any human being.

He looked sad and got still thinner and paler; sometimes the perspiration would break out all over him, and he would drop his hands on his vice and wonder why his brain, usually so quick, felt quite empty and dark. Possibly he would have slackened off if he had not seen in the darkness a fiery signboard:

GOSŁAWSKI'S MECHANICAL WORKSHOP....

Get on! Only three months more!

Meanwhile fortune again smiled on Adler. The demand for his goods, which were excellent, was greater than ever, and in July double the amount of orders came in. He accepted them all after consulting his confidential clerks, and bought up cotton with all his available capital. The hands were told that they would have to work until nine o'clock in the evening, and they were to be paid double for overtime. More workshops were added, and the question of how to make use of the Sundays arose. With regard to this Adler had his plan ready. Sunday work was to be paid at a double rate in the beginning, but in a measure, as the hands got used to it, the pay would be reduced.

If everything went all right, Adler calculated that the profits of the current year would make it possible for him to sell the factory, for which he would easily find a purchaser, and to take his millions and his son abroad.

Thus both the workman and the principal were simultaneously approaching the realization of their hopes.

The increased activity in the mill affected the engineering workshop in the first place. New hands were taken on, the compulsory hours were extended until nine, and overtime work until midnight. The first two hours of overtime were paid double, the next three times as much. A stricter control was introduced, and if anyone left off work before time, so much was deducted from his wages that his profits were practically reduced to nothing. The hands were weary in consequence, especially Gosławski, who, as the most expert, was obliged to work until midnight.

Even he himself felt that he could not go on at this rate, and asked for relief. The millionaire agreed, and proposed a new arrangement. Gosławski was in future to receive a fixed salary, and work with his hands only at those parts of the machinery which required the greatest exactitude. His chief business would be to supervise the general run of the work and direct others. He would in reality be the head of the workshop, and while doing the work of a simple workman receive the pay of a head-mechanic.

No German would have agreed to such a proposal, but when it was first made it flattered Gosławski. He soon realized, however, that he was being exploited again, for he had to work physically as hard as before, and had in addition a greater strain on his mind. All day long he had to rush from the vice to the anvil, and from the anvil to the lathe, and was importuned besides by his fellow-workmen, who thought that Gosławski was there not only to give them information, but to do their work for them as well.

By the end of June he looked like an automaton. He never smiled, and hardly ever talked about anything that was not connected with his work. He, who had been so particular about tidiness, began to neglect his appearance. He ceased to go to church on Sundays, and slept till midday instead. In his relations with others he became irritable. His one pleasure was to sleep; he slept like a man in convalescence. He became a little more animated perhaps, when he kissed his little son "Good-morning" or "Good-night."

Gosławski himself quite understood the state he was in. He knew that the hard work was wearing him out, but he saw no way of freeing himself from it. The contract with the landowner could not be signed before August, and he could not take possession of the workshop till October. If he left the mill he would have to live on his ready money, and spend in a few months some hundreds of roubles which were indispensable for the new start. The only thing to be done was to stick to his post and strain his strength to the utmost. Perhaps a week's rest after he had moved into his own household would restore the disturbed balance of his organism.

But he was sick of the mill. He carried a little calendar about with him on which he crossed out the days as they passed: only two months and a half now; sixty-five days; two months only!...

Chapter V

On a certain Saturday night in August the engineering workshop was in a ferment of rush and work.

It was a large building covered with glass like a hothouse; along one wall was the power-engine, along the other two forges. There was also a small hammer worked by a hand-wheel, several vices, a lathe, drilling machinery and a number of hand tools. Midnight was approaching, the lights had long been put out in all the other parts of the mill; the tired weavers were asleep in their homes.

But here the great rush goes on. The hurried breath of the engine, the throb of the pumps, the din of the hammer, the rattle of the lathe, the grating of the files increase more and more. The air is soaked with steam, coal-dust and fine iron filings; the flames of the gas-lamps flicker through the heavy atmosphere like will-o'-the-wisps. Outside there is the stillness of night as a background to the mill; the moon peeps in through the glass which quivers incessantly from the noise.

There is hardly any talking in the room; the work is urgent, the hour late, so the men hurry on in silence. Here a group of grimy blacksmiths are dragging a huge white-hot iron bar to be hammered; there a row of them bend and raise themselves as under a command over their vices. Opposite them the turners bend to watch the revolving work in the machines. Sparks fly from under the hammer. From time to time an order or a curse is heard. Sometimes the hammering and filing slackens down, and then the mournful groan of the bellows blowing on to the furnaces begins.

Gosławski is at the lathe, turning a large steel cylinder; the work must be done exactly to the thousandth of an inch! But somehow Gosławski is off his work. There had been so much to do that day that he had not been able to leave the workshop during the evening recess; he is even more than usually tired therefore. A light fever torments him, streams of perspiration flow down his body, at moments he has hallucinations, and then he imagines that he is somewhere else, far away. But he quickly rouses himself, rubs his eyes with his grimy hands to shake off the lassitude, and looks anxiously to see whether the cutting tool has not taken away too much of the cylinder.

"I am dead-beat," said his neighbour to him.

"So am I," replied Gosławski, sitting down on a stool.

"It's the heat," said the other. "The engine is red-hot, the blacksmiths are working with both forges; besides, it is getting late. Take a pinch of snuff."

"No, thank you," replied Gosławski, "I should like a pipe, but not snuff. I would rather have a drink of water."

He stepped away and dipped a rusty mug into a barrel of water. But the water was warm, and instead of being refreshed, Gosławski felt the perspiration breaking out still more. He was losing his strength.

"What's the time?" he asked his neighbour.

"A quarter to twelve. Will you finish work to-day?"

"Yes, I think so. I must still take a hair's-breadth off the cylinder; but, damn it! I see everything double."

"It's the heat—the heat!" repeated the neighbour, taking another pinch of snuff and moving away.

Gosławski measured the diameter of the cylinder, moved the cutting tool, clamped it with the screws, and once more set the machine in motion. After the momentary strain of attention there followed a reaction in him, and he began to doze standing, his eyes fixed on the shining surface of the cylinder, on which drops of water were falling.

"Did you speak?" he suddenly asked his neighbour.

But the man, bending over his work, did not hear the question.

At that moment Gosławski fancied that he was at home: his wife and children are asleep; the lamp, turned low, is burning on the chest of drawers; his bed is ready for him.... Yes, here is the table, there is the chair! Worn out with fatigue, he wants to sit down on the chair; he leans his heavy arm on the edge of the table....

The lathe made a strange noise. Something cracked in it and began to go to pieces, and a dreadful human shriek resounded through the workroom....

Gosławski's right hand had been caught between the cogwheels; in the twinkling of an eye he was hung up as though welded to the machinery, which had got hold first of the fingers, then of the hand, then of the bone up to the elbow: the blood gushed out. The wretched man saw what had happened and tore himself away; the crushed and broken bones and torn muscles were not able to bear the load, they broke, and Gosławski fell heavily to the floor.

All this happened within a few seconds.

"Stop the engine!" shouted Gosławski's neighbour.

The engine was stopped, and all the men left their work and came running up to the wounded man. Someone poured a can of water over him; one young man had a fit when he saw the blood; others ran out of the workshop without knowing why.

"Fetch the doctor!" Gosławski cried in a changed voice.

"A horse ... hurry up! ... run to the town!" shouted the workmen, as if they were out of their senses.

"Oh, the blood, the blood!" groaned the wounded man.

The bystanders did not know what he meant.

"For God's sake, stop the blood! Tie up my arm!"

Nobody moved; they did not know how to stop the blood, and were paralyzed with fright.

"What a place this is!" cried the man who had been working next to Gosławski—"no doctor, no bone-setter!... Where is Schmidt? Run for Schmidt!"

Some ran for Schmidt. Meanwhile one of the old blacksmiths showed more presence of mind than the others, knelt down, and compressed the arm above the elbow with his hands. The blood began to flow more slowly. It was a terrible injury; part of the arm and two fingers were left, the rest had been torn away. At last, after a quarter of an hour, Schmidt, who took the doctor's place in the factory, appeared. He was just as terrified as the rest, and bandaged the wounded arm with rags, which instantly became soaked with blood. He ordered the men to carry Gosławski home. They laid him on some boards; two men carried him, two supported his head, the rest crowded round, and they all moved away in a body.

There was no one in the offices, and no light showed in Adler's house. The dogs, scenting blood, began to howl; the night watchman took off his cap and looked with pale face after the procession moving along the highroad, which was flooded by the moonlight.

A factory hand appeared at an open window in his shirt-sleeves, and called out:

"Hallo! What's the matter?"

"Gosławski has had his hand torn off!"

The wounded man uttered low groans. Suddenly the clatter of hoofs was heard, and a carriage with a pair of greys and a coachman in livery appeared on the highroad. Ferdinand, who was returning from a drinking bout, was lolling inside.

"Out of the way!" shouted the coachman.

"Out of the way yourself! We are carrying a wounded man!"

The procession drew near to the carriage. Ferdinand Adler roused himself, looked out of the carriage, and asked:

"What's the matter there?"

"Gosławski has had his hand torn off."

"Gosławski? Is that the fellow who has the pretty wife?" said Ferdinand.

There was a momentary silence. Then somebody murmured:

"How sharp he is!"

Ferdinand regained his senses, and asked, changing his voice:

"Has the doctor dressed his wounds?"

"There is no doctor in the factory."

"Ah, true.... Has the bone-setter seen to it?"

"There is no bone-setter either, now."

"Very well then: horses must be sent to fetch the doctor from the town."

"Perhaps, sir, you would order your coachman to turn round?" one of the men suggested.

"My horses are tired," said Ferdinand; "I will send others." And the carriage moved on.

"What a fellow!" said the workmen; "we can wear ourselves out, and he does not think of giving us rest; but his horses must be rested!"

"Oh, well ... you have got to pay for horses, and workpeople can be had for nothing," another replied.

The crowd was approaching Gosławski's cottage. A lamp was burning in the window. One of the workmen gently knocked at the door.

"Who is there?"

"Open the door, Pani Gosławska!"

In a moment a woman appeared half dressed in the doorway.

"What is it?" she asked, looking terrified at the crowd.

"Your husband has had a slight accident, so we brought him home."

"Jesus!" she cried, and ran up to the stretcher. "Oh, Kazio, what has happened to you?"

"Don't wake the children," whispered her husband.

"What a lot of blood—Mother of Mercy!"

"Be quiet!" murmured the wounded man. "My hand has been torn off, but that is nothing; send for the doctor."

The woman trembled and began to sob. Two workmen took her by the arms and led her into the room; others carried the wounded man inside. His face was distorted with pain, and he bit his lips to suppress the groans that might have waked the children.

In the morning Adler was informed of the accident. He listened in silence, and asked:

"Has the doctor been?"

"We sent for the doctor and for the bone-setter, but they were both out, attending to other patients."

"Fetch another doctor. Telegraph to Warsaw for a locksmith in Gosławski's place."

About ten o'clock Adler went to the workshop to have a look at the damaged lathe. Near the machine he stepped by accident into a pool of blood and shuddered, but soon recovered himself. He carefully examined the cogwheel, to which bits of flesh and of the torn shirt still adhered. There were a few notches in the wheel.

"Have we got another wheel like that?" he asked the head-mechanic.

"Yes," whispered the pale German, who was sick at the sight of the blood.

"Has the doctor come?"

"Not yet."

Adler whistled through his teeth with impatience. The absence of the doctor made a very unpleasant impression on him. At last, about noon, he was informed that the doctor had arrived. The old man quickly left the house. In passing the room where Ferdinand was still sleeping off the effects of his drinking bout, he beat a tattoo on the door with his stick, but got no answer. There was a large crowd outside Gosławski's cottage, for hardly anyone had gone to church. They all wanted to know the details of Gosławski's accident. A neighbour had taken his wife and children to her house.

All conversation was stopped when the crowd caught sight of Adler. Only the most timid took off their caps, the others turned their heads away, and the boldest looked at him without raising their hands to their caps.

The mill-owner was struck. "What do they want of me?" he thought.

He spoke to one of the workmen, a German, and asked how the sick man was.

"They can't tell," the man answered sullenly. "They say his whole arm had to be taken off."

Adler sent someone to ask the doctor to come out to him.

"Well, how is he?" inquired the mill-owner.

"Dying," answered the doctor.

Adler was staggered, and exclaimed, raising his voice:

"What nonsense! People sometimes lose both hands or both legs and don't die of it."

"The dressing was bad; there had been enormous loss of blood. Besides, the man had been overworked."

This answer soon made the round of the crowd, and a murmur arose.

"I will pay you well if you will look carefully after him. It cannot be true that people die from such an injury as that."

At this moment the sick man cried out; the doctor ran back into the house, and the mill-owner turned to go home.

"If there had been a doctor at the factory this would not have happened!" someone in the crowd called out.

"We shall all come to this if they go on keeping us at work till midnight," cried another.

Curses and threats were uttered here and there. But the old giant held his head erect, put his hands in his pockets, and passed through the thickest crowd. Only he half closed his eyes and was pale down to his neck. He did not seem to hear what those on the edge of the crowd were saying, and those near him gave way, guessing instinctively that this man was afraid neither of curses nor even of an open attack.

Towards evening Gosławski, whom the doctor had not left for a moment, called for his wife. She came in on tiptoe, staggering and keeping back the tears that dimmed her eyes. The wounded man looked strangely haggard, and his eyes were fixed. In the dusk his face seemed to have the colour of earth.

"Where are you, Magdzia?" he asked indistinctly, and then said, with long pauses: "Nothing will come of our workshop now ... I have no arm ... I am going to follow after it ... why should I eat my bread for nothing?"

His wife began to sob.

"Are you there, Magdzia?... Remember the children. The money for my funeral is in the drawer—you know.... What a lot of flies there are ... such a buzzing...."

He began to toss about restlessly, and breathed heavily, like a man going off into a deep sleep. The doctor made a sign, and somebody took the wife away almost by force and led her into the friendly neighbour's cottage. In a few minutes the doctor followed her there; the poor woman looked into his eyes and knelt down on the floor weeping bitterly.

"Oh, sir, why have you left him? Is he so ill? Perhaps——"

"The Lord will comfort you," said the doctor.

The women crowded round to try and quiet her.

"Don't cry, Pani Gosławska. The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away. Get up and don't cry—the children will hear you!"

The widow was almost choked with sobs.

"Let me be on the floor; I feel better here," she whispered. "May the Lord give you all the good, since He has given me all the bad. I have lost my Kazio! Oh, my beloved! why did you work so hard and suffer so much? Only yesterday he said that we should be on our own in October, and now he has gone to his grave instead of to his workshop!"

When the workmen entered into the dead man's home and began to move the furniture about, and she realized that no noise would wake her husband again, she gave a terrible shriek and fainted.

---

Gosławski's death subsequently became the cause of much disturbance at the factory and of much trouble to Adler. A deputation waited upon him on the Tuesday to ask permission for all the hands to go to the funeral. Adler was furious, and would only allow a few delegates from each room to go, announcing at the same time that every workman who should leave the factory of his own accord would be fined. In spite of this most of the hands left the mill, and Adler posted up a notice that every workman who had absented himself would have his daily pay halved and would be fined a rouble in addition. Whereupon the more spirited among the hands urged their mates to strike, and one of the stokers suggested the blowing up of the boiler. Adler would have taken no notice of such talk at another time, but now he was beside himself. He called their grumbling mutiny, demanded police from the town, drove the leaders out of the mill and brought an action against the stoker.

When the workpeople saw these drastic measures, they were cowed into submission. They ceased to threaten a strike, but asked for the reinstatement of all the hands, and that at least a bone-setter should be engaged with the money extorted by the fines.

To this Adler replied that he would do what he liked, when he liked, and refused to listen at all to the demand for reinstatement of those he had dismissed.

By the following Monday things had calmed down at the factory. Pastor Boehme came to see Adler, with the intention of inducing him to give way to some of the reasonable demands of the workpeople. But he encountered an unexpected resistance; the mill-owner declared that, if he had ever had intentions of giving way to his workpeople's demands, he no longer had any, that he would rather close the factory than give in.

"Do you know, Martin," he said, "that they have got us talked about in the newspapers? The comic papers have ridiculed Ferdinand, and it has been said that Gosławski died from overwork and because there was no doctor."

"There is some truth in that," answered Boehme.

"There is no truth whatsoever in it," shouted the mill-owner. "I have worked much harder than Gosławski, every German workman works harder; and as for the doctor, he might just as well have been absent from the factory to visit a patient, as he was from town at that particular moment."

"The bone-setter might have been there at any rate," observed the pastor.

Adler gave no answer. He walked up and down the room with long strides, breathing hard.

"Let us go into the garden," he proposed. "Johann, take a bottle of hock into the summer-house."

The pleasant coolness in the summer-house near the pond, the freshness of the wind rustling in the trees, and perhaps the glass of good wine, gradually soothed Adler. Pastor Boehme looked at him over the rim of his gold spectacles, and seeing him in a better mood, resolved to return to the attack.

"Well," he said, clinking his glass against Adler's, "a man who keeps such excellent wine as this cannot have a bad heart. Let them off their fines, Gottlieb, take them all on again, and install a doctor.... Your health!"

"I will drink your health, Martin, but I promise nothing of the sort," repeated the mill-owner, although his anger had somewhat cooled.

The pastor shook his head, and muttered:

"H'm! it's a pity you are so obstinate!"

"I cannot sacrifice my interest to sentiments. If I give them a thousand roubles to-day, they will want a million to-morrow."

"You exaggerate," said Boehme, annoyed; "my advice is that, if you can settle this business for ten thousand roubles, give fifteen thousand rather, and make an end of it."

"It is at an end already," said Adler. "The worst of them are gone, and the rest know that there is discipline here. If I were as soft-hearted as you, they would trample me under foot."

The pastor said nothing, but began to throw things on to the surface of the pond—first a cork, then bits of wood broken off from a stick.

"My dear Martin, what are you throwing rubbish on the water for?" asked Adler.

The pastor pointed towards the pond, where the things he had thrown upon the water were making circles that grew larger and larger.

"Do you see how the waves are getting farther and farther away from the middle?" he asked.

"They are always doing that. What is there peculiar in it?"

"You are quite right," said the pastor; "it is always like that—everywhere, on the pond and in our lives. When something good happens in the world, waves are produced by it; they grow larger and larger and extend farther and farther."

"I don't understand you," said Adler indifferently, sipping his wine.

"I will explain it to you, if you will not be angry with me."

"I am never angry with you."

"Very well. You see, it is like this: you have brought your son up badly and have turned him loose upon the world, as I threw that stick into the water. He has incurred debts—that was the first wave. Then you reduced the workmen's pay—that was the second. Gosławski's death was the third; the troubles in the factory and the newspaper scandals were the fourth; and so on with the dismissal of the hands and the lawsuit. What will the tenth wave be?"

"That does not concern me," said Adler. "Let your waves go out into the world and frighten fools; I am not interested in them."

The pastor pointed to a cork he had just thrown on to the surface.

"Look, Gottlieb, sometimes it is the tenth wave which rebounds on the shore and returns to where it came from."

The old mill-owner reflected for a while on this demonstration, which was quite clear, and for a brief moment it seemed as if he were hesitating, as if an indefinable fear had sprung up in him. But it was only for a moment. Adler had too little imagination and reasoned too obstinately to foresee remote possibilities. He convinced himself that the pastor was talking drivel and preaching one of his sermons, so he laughed and replied in his thick voice:

"No, no, Martin; I have taken proper precautions to prevent your waves from returning to me."

"How can you tell?"

"The doctor will not come back, nor the leaders of the strike, nor the fines, nor even Gosławski!"

"But misfortune may return."

"No, no, no, it will not return! ... or if it does it will break against my fists, against the factory, the insurance, the police ... and above all against my money...."

It was late when the friends parted.

"What a fool Martin is!" thought Adler; "he means to frighten me."

The pastor, driving home in his little cart and looking upwards to the starlit sky, asked anxiously: "Which of the waves will return?" The comparison had come into his head unexpectedly, and he looked upon it as a sort of revelation. He believed firmly that the wave of wrong would turn; but when? ... which of them would it be?...

Chapter VI

Generally, good or bad actions only assume their proper significance in people's opinion when they are reported in print. It had been known for a long time that old Adler was an egoist and a sweater, and his son an egoist and a debauchee. But public opinion had not been raised against them before the articles on Gosławski's death had been published. After that the whole neighbourhood became interested in what was going on at the mill. Everybody knew the extent of Ferdinand's debts, the sums which old Adler sweated out of his workmen by reducing their pay, etc. Gosławski was considered to have been a victim of the father's greed and the son's debauchery.

Public opinion made itself felt in people's relations to Ferdinand. A few young men had cut him dead at the request of their parents; others preserved only the outward forms of politeness. Even from the friends that stuck to him, and these were not of the best sort, he often heard remarks which sounded like a provocation.

Nor was this all. In hotels and restaurants, wineshops and cafés, though they had made much money out of Ferdinand, newspapers containing correspondence about Gosławski's death were purposely put on his table; and when, surrounded by his friends, he once called for wine and wished to know if a good kind of red wine were to be had, he got the answer:

"Yes, sir, red as blood."

Another man might have been impressed by these manifestations of general ill-will, and might have gone away for a time, or even changed his mode of living and exercised some influence over his father. Not so Ferdinand. He had no desire to work and no intention of giving up his amusements. Public opinion not only did not distress him—he liked to provoke it. He judged people's standard by that of the companions of his revels, and felt sure that sooner or later everybody would crawl to him. The silent struggle between him and the public excited him pleasurably, and he saw possibilities of future triumphs in it; for he was determined to quarrel with the first person who should get in his way. He felt in desperate need of a quarrel to revive his jaded nerves and to establish his reputation as a dangerous adversary. In his own way he delighted in breaking down obstacles, for he was his father's true son.

He had a great dislike to a certain Pan Zapora, a landowner and a judge. This man was of severe and unprepossessing appearance, of medium height, thick-set, and with overhanging brows. He talked little, but in a decided way, made no ceremonies with anybody, and called a spade a spade. But behind his rough exterior he possessed great intelligence and a wide knowledge, a noble heart and a loyal character. It was impossible to ingratiate oneself with him either by politeness, position, or the propounding of theories. With him only actions counted. He would listen indifferently to talk, looking sullenly at the speaker and taking his measure all the while. But if he found a man to be honest he would become his friend for good or ill. For people with bad character or no character at all he had a profound contempt.

Young Adler had met this formidable judge several times, but had never talked to him, as there had been no opportunity. Zapora neither sought nor avoided him; his friends knew, however, that when he spoke of "that fool," he meant Ferdinand, and the more experienced felt sure that the two men would meet sooner or later in the narrow sphere of provincial life, and that Adler would then hear a few bitter home-truths. Ferdinand instinctively felt Zapora's dislike for him; more than that, he suspected him of being the author of the newspaper articles. He was in no hurry to make his acquaintance, but he had made up his mind to pay him out at the first opportunity that offered.

In the beginning of September the usual fair took place in the little town, and the noblemen from the surrounding districts were in the habit of meeting on this occasion. Zapora, who had an office in the town, settled some pressing affairs, purchased what he needed, and went to have dinner at the hotel at two o'clock in the afternoon.

He found a crowd of acquaintances in the dining-room; the tables were set in one long row and lavishly provided with bottles of wine, mostly champagne, and the preparations seemed to promise a drinking bout.

"What is this?" asked Zapora. "Is someone giving a dinner?"

Among the acquaintances who greeted him was a friend of young Adler's.

"Just fancy," he said. "Adler is paying for all the dinners to-day, and anyone who comes is invited. I hope you will not refuse us the pleasure of your company?"

Zapora looked at him from the corner of his eye.

"I do refuse," he replied.

The young man, who was not remarkable for excessive tact, asked:

"Why?"

"Because only old Adler would have the right to ask me to a dinner paid for with his money, and even if he did ask me I should refuse."

Another of Ferdinand's friends joined in the conversation.

"What do you have to throw in the Adlers' teeth?"

"Not much; only that the father is a sweater and the son a loafer, and that between the two they do more harm than good."

Public opinion seemed to be summed up in these words from a man of personal courage. Adler's friends were silent, the other guests embarrassed, and the more sensitive took their hats to leave the room. At that moment the door was flung wide open and Ferdinand hurried in, accompanied by one of his friends. He noticed the judge at once, and not knowing what had happened, asked his companion to introduce him.

"Right you are!" said the friend, advancing towards the judge.

"What a lucky chance!" he exclaimed. "Adler is just going to give a dinner here, and as you have fallen into the trap, we will not let you go. But you don't know one another?"

There was a general silence in the room during the introduction.

"Pan Adler—Pan Zapora."

Ferdinand held out his hand.

"I have long wished to make your acquaintance."

"Delighted," said Zapora, without moving.

Some of the guests smiled maliciously. Ferdinand grew pale; for a moment he was confused. But he pulled himself together at once and changed his tactics.

"I have wished to make your acquaintance," he continued, "in order to thank you for the correspondence about my father in the newspapers."

Zapora fixed him with a severe look.

"About your father?" he asked. "I have written only one letter about your father, and that was to the village mayor about the summons."

Adler was boiling with rage.

"It was myself, then, you wrote about in the comic papers?"

Zapora did not lose his calmness for an instant. He only gripped his stick tighter, and said:

"You are quite mistaken. I leave correspondence in the comic papers to young men of no occupation who wish to become notorious by any means at their disposal."

Adler lost his self-control.

"You are insulting me!" he shouted.

"On the contrary, I will not even retract my last statement in order not to offend you."

The excited young man was on the point of throwing himself upon Zapora.

"You shall give me satisfaction!" he panted.

"With pleasure."

"At once!"

"Well, I must have my dinner first; I am hungry," said Zapora coolly. "It does not take me more than an hour; after that I shall be at your disposal in my house."

And nodding to his acquaintances, he slowly left the room.

Ferdinand's banquet was not a success. Many of the guests left before dinner; others shammed gaiety. But Ferdinand himself was in excellent spirits. His first glass of wine soothed him; the second gave his excitement a pleasant flavour. He was delighted at the prospect of a duel, especially of a duel with Zapora, and he had not the slightest doubt of his success.

"I shall give him a lesson in shooting," he whispered to one of his seconds, "and that will be the end of it."

And he thought: "That will do more to put my position right than any amount of dinners."

The more experienced adventurers, of whom there was no lack in the room, had to admit, when they looked at him, that he had grit and pluck of a certain kind.

"Thank Heaven!" said one of them, "our newspapers will at last have something sensational to talk about."

"I am only sorry...." said another.

"For what?"

"Those bottles that we may see no more."

"Oh, I hope we shall give them decent burial."

"I hope we shan't have to do the same with one of the principals."

"I doubt it. What are the conditions?"

"Pistols, and to fight till blood flows."

"Damn it! Whose idea was that?"

"Adler's."

"Is he so sure of himself?"

"He is an excellent shot."

Towards the end of the dinner it became known that Zapora had accepted the conditions, and that the duel was to take place the next morning.

"Gentlemen," said Adler, "I invite you all. We will drink all night."

"Is that wise?"

"I always do it before a contre-dance. This is my fourth," said Ferdinand.

In another and more respectable restaurant, Zapora's friends were also discussing what had happened.

"It is a shame," said one of them, "that a respectable man like Zapora should have to fight with such a senseless fool."

"Zapora had no business to fall into the trap."

"He fell into it by accident, but after that there was no way out of it."

"It is a strange thing," said an old nobleman, "that such a good-for-nothing young fellow as Adler should not only be admitted into society, but also be at liberty to force a quarrel of this kind upon a man like Zapora. Formerly that sort of thing would have been impossible. It is because public opinion is getting slack that respectable men have to stake their lives. Nevertheless I am sorry for Zapora."

"Isn't he a good shot?"

"Quite fair, but the other is more—he is a real virtuoso."

At about six o'clock Ferdinand retired to his room in the hotel. He wanted a little rest between his dinner-party and his night orgy; but he could not sleep, and began pacing up and down. Then he noticed that the windows opposite were those of Zapora's office.

The street was narrow; the office was on the ground floor, and his own room on the first floor; Ferdinand could therefore closely observe what was going on. The judge was talking to his clerk and to a barrister, and showing them some papers. After some time the barrister took his leave and the clerk went out of the room. The judge was left alone.

He placed the lamp on the writing-table, lighted a cigar, and began to write on a large sheet of paper: first a long heading, then he continued quickly and evenly. Adler felt sure that the judge was writing his will.

Ferdinand had already fought several duels, considering them a kind of dangerous amusement. But now he became conscious that a duel could also be a very serious affair, for which one ought to be properly prepared. But how?

There was this man writing a will!

He lay down on his sofa. While he was distinctly conscious of all the noises going on in the corridor, the remembrance of an incident in his early boyhood, when the mill had not long been started, came back vividly to him. He had noticed a small door fastened with a nail in the engine-room. This door used to interest and alarm him. One day he took courage, pressed the bent nail aside, and opened the door. He looked into a small recess; there were a few copper pipes, a coil of rope and a broom.

The memory of this little adventure came back to him whenever he was going to fight a duel, usually at the moment when the seconds had measured the distance and he saw the barrel of his adversary's pistol pointed at him and felt the trigger under his own finger. The mysterious door of Destiny, which is sometimes opened by a bullet, had so far not revealed anything remarkable to him—merely a wounded adversary or else a score of champagne bottles emptied with jolly companions. But what had these duels amounted to? One shot on either side, for the sake of a prima-donna, or a bet at the races, or a jostle in the streets.

To-morrow's affair was of a different kind. Here was he, the son of an unpopular father, coming forward to fight a man respected by everybody, and as it were the representative of an offended community. On the side of his adversary were all those who had the courage to stand up against Adler, all the workpeople and most of the officials at the factory. And who was on his side?

Not his father, for he would not have allowed him to fight; not the companions of his dissipations, for they felt uncomfortable, and were only waiting for an opportunity to desert him. Should he wound Zapora, he would give his enemies fresh cause for indignation; should he be wounded himself, people would say it was a just punishment on him and his father.

What was the meaning of it all? He only wanted to enjoy life along with everybody else. He had been used to being treated with exquisite manners by his companions; people had been indulgent, timid with him. This man, who flung impertinences in his face—where did he spring from so suddenly? Why had there been no one to warn him? Why should the follies of his youth come to such a tragic end?

The mysterious door assumed a sinister aspect. He had a presentiment that this time it would not conceal pipes, ropes and a broom, but a notice on a coffin, which he had once seen in an undertaker's shop in Warsaw: "Lodgings for a single person."

"The undertaker must have been a wag," Ferdinand thought.

The hotel sofa was not remarkable for its softness; when Ferdinand leant his head against its arm, he was reminded of his midnight drives home in his carriage. For a man in a sitting posture that was extremely comfortable, but when you lay down it was as uncomfortable as this sofa. He had the sensation of driving home in it—of the gentle jostling, the clatter of the horses' hoofs: it is midnight; the moon, standing high in the sky, lights up the road. The carriage quivers and then stops.

"What is the matter?" asks Ferdinand in his dream.

"Gosławski's arm has been torn off," answers a low voice.

"Is that the man with the pretty wife?"

"How sharp he is!" says the same low voice.

"Sharp? Who is sharp?" says Ferdinand to himself, turning round on the sofa, away from the scene. But the phantoms do not vanish; he again sees the crowd of men round the stretcher, and the wounded man, his arm in blood-soaked wrappings laid on his chest. He can even see the foreshortening of the shadows on the road.

"How the man suffers!" whispers Ferdinand. "And he must die—must die!" He has the sensation of being the man on the stretcher, tortured with pain, his arm shattered, and of seeing his own face in the cold, cruel moonlight.

Whatever had happened? Champagne had never had this effect on him before. Something entirely new was overpowering, oppressing him—tearing his heart—boring into his brain; he felt as if he must shout, run away, hide somewhere.

Ferdinand jumped up. Dusk was filling the room.

"What the devil! I seem to be afraid ... afraid!... I?..."

With difficulty he found the matches, scattered them on the floor, picked one up, struck it—it went out—struck another, and lighted the candle.

He looked at himself in the glass; his face was ashen, and there were dark circles round his eyes; his pupils were much enlarged.

"Am I afraid?" he repeated.

The candle was trembling in his hand.

"If the pistol is going to jump like that to-morrow, I shall be in a nice mess!" he thought.

He looked out of the window. There was Zapora, still sitting at his desk on the ground floor across the street, writing quietly and evenly. The sight made Ferdinand shake off his nervousness. His vivacious temperament got the better of the phantoms.

"Go on writing, my dear, and I will put the full-stop to it!"

Steps approached in the corridor, and there was a knock at the door.

"Get up, Ferdinand, we are ready for the bout!" called a familiar voice.

Ferdinand was himself again. If he had had to jump into a precipice bristling with bayonets, he would not have flinched. When he opened the door to his friend he greeted him with a hearty laugh. He laughed at his momentary nervousness, at the phantoms, at the question: "Am I afraid?"

No, he was not afraid. He felt again the strength of a lion and the reckless courage of youth, which fears no danger and has no limits.

The carouse went on till break of day. The windows of the hotel shook with the laughter and noise, and the cellars ran empty, so that wine had to be fetched from elsewhere....

At six o'clock four carriages left the town.

Chapter VII

For several days heavy bales of cotton had been pouring into the factory. Adler, expecting a rise in the prices of raw material, had invested all his available money in the buying up of large quantities. Only part of it had so far been delivered.

His calculations had not deceived him; a few days after the contract was signed the prices rose, and they were still rising. Adler declined the most advantageous offers for re-sale. He rubbed his hands with pleasure. This was the best stroke of business he had done for a long time, and he foresaw that, long before all his raw material had been made up, his capital would have been trebled.

"I shall have finished with the mill soon," he said to himself.

It was a strange thing—from the moment that he saw the goal of his wishes definitely before him, a hitherto unknown lassitude took possession of him. He was tired of the mill, and vaguely longed for other things. Sometimes he begged his son not to go out so much, to stay at home and talk to him of his travels. More and more often he would slip over to Pastor Boehme for a talk.

"I am tired out," he said to him. "Gosławski's death and the riots in the factory stick in my throat like bones. Do you know that sometimes I even find myself envying your way of living. But that's all nonsense; it shows I am getting old."

And as Gosławski, on whose grave the earth was still fresh, had counted the days, so the old mill-owner now counted the months of his stay at the mill.

"By next July I ought to have made up all the cotton. In June I must announce the sale of the mill; in August at the latest they must pay up, for I don't give credit. In September I shall be free. I won't say anything to Ferdinand until the last moment. How pleased he will be! Then I shall invest the money and live on the interest; for the rascal would run through it in a few years' time, and then I should have to go and be foreman somewhere."

His love for Ferdinand grew stronger and stronger, and he excused his obvious neglect of his father.

"Why should I force the boy to work at the mill, when I am sick of it myself? And why should he care if I am longing for his company? He must have young people to amuse himself with; and my amusement is—work!"

On the day following the fair the old mill-owner was, as usual, making the round of all the workshops and offices. Many of his employés had been in the town, and there was much gossip about the joke Ferdinand had played upon the neighbourhood. It was said that he had bought up all the dinners at the hotel, and that every nobleman had to bow to him before he could obtain anything to eat or to drink. At first Adler laughed, but when he had reckoned up what this joke was likely to cost him his face became sullen.

The vanloads of raw cotton were standing in the courtyard, and were being unloaded by extra hands. Adler looked on for a while, and then proceeded on his round of inspection, giving strict orders that no one was to smoke anywhere. When he turned into his office, he saw two women talking excitedly to the porter; seeing Adler, they ran away. But he paid no attention to them.

A clerk, looking strangely unnerved, came running out of the office; the book-keeper, the cashier and his assistant, were talking together in one corner of the room with obvious signs of excitement. At the sight of their chief they quickly returned to their desks, bending low over their books. Even this roused no suspicion in Adler. They had probably been at the fair and were discussing scandal of some sort.

In his private office Adler found himself face to face with a stranger. The man was impatient and restless. He was pacing quickly up and down the room. When the mill-owner entered, he stood still and asked, in an embarrassed tone:

"Pan Adler?"

"Yes; do you wish to see me?"

For a while the man was silent. His mouth twitched. The mill-owner looked at him searchingly, trying to guess who he was and what he wanted. He did not look like a candidate for a post at the mill, but rather like a rich young gentleman.

"I have an important affair to discuss with you," he said at last.

"Perhaps you would rather speak to me at my own house?" said Adler, realizing that with such an excited person it might be better to talk out of earshot of the clerks. He might have some claim on him.

The stranger hesitated for a moment, and then spoke quickly:

"All right; let us go to the house. I have been there already."

"Were you looking for me?"

"Yes; because—you see, Pan Adler, we have taken Ferdinand there."

The thought of a calamity of any kind was so far from Adler that he asked quite cheerfully:

"Was Ferdinand so drunk that you had to bring him home?"

"He is wounded," replied the stranger.

They were now in front of the house. Adler stopped.

"Who is wounded?" he asked.

"Ferdinand."

The old man did not comprehend.

"Has he broken his leg or his neck, or what do you mean?"

"It is a bullet wound."

"A bullet? How?"

"He has had a duel."

The mill-owner's red face now flushed the colour of brick. He threw down his hat in the portico and hurried through the open door. He did not ask who had wounded his son. What did that matter?

He found the servants and another stranger in the room. Pushing them aside, he stepped up to where Ferdinand was lying on the couch. The wounded man was without coat or waistcoat, and his face was so dreadfully changed that at first the father scarcely recognized his own son. The doctor was sitting at the head of the couch. Adler stared, and then fell upon a chair, leant forward with his hands on his knees, and asked in a stifled voice:

"What have you been doing, you scamp?"

Ferdinand gave him a look of indescribable sadness; then he took his father's hand and kissed it. He had not done this for a long time.

Adler shuddered and was silent. Ferdinand began to speak in a low voice and with pauses:

"I had to ... father ... I had to. Everyone spoke against us, the nobility, the newspapers, even the waiters. They were saying that I was squandering the money while you sweated the workpeople. Before long they would have spat in our faces."

"Do not exert yourself," whispered the doctor.

The old man listened with the greatest astonishment and sorrow. His thick lips were parted.

"Save me ... father...!" cried Ferdinand with raised voice. "I have promised ten thousand roubles to the doctor."

A cloud of displeasure flashed across Adler's face. "Why so much?" he asked mechanically.

"Because I am dying ... I feel I am dying."

The old man started up from his chair.

"You are mad!" he exclaimed. "You have done a foolish thing, but you are not going to die!"

"I am dying," the wounded man groaned.

Adler, in utter bewilderment, pulled his fingers till the joints cracked.

"He is mad! Good Lord! he is out of his mind! Tell him he is silly, doctor—he speaks of dying.... As if we should allow him to die! You have been promised ten thousand roubles: that is not enough," feverishly continued the old man. "I will give a hundred thousand for my son, if there is the slightest danger. But mind you, I am not going to pay if he is merely silly. What is his condition?"

"It is not exactly dangerous," replied the doctor; "yet we must be careful."

"Of course! Do you hear him, Ferdinand? Now, don't bother yourself and me.... Johann! Send a wire to Warsaw for all the best doctors. Send to Vienna and Berlin—to Paris, if necessary. Let the doctor give you the addresses of the most famous men. I will pay ... I have enough money...."

"Oh, I feel so terribly ill," Ferdinand groaned, tossing about on the couch. His father hurried to his side.

"Compose yourself," said the doctor.

"Father!" cried the dying man; "my father, I cannot see you any more!"

Blood appeared on his lips. His eyes were dilated with despair.

"Air!" he cried.

He jumped up, and with hands outstretched like a blind man he turned towards the window. Suddenly his arms dropped; he staggered and fell upon the couch, striking his head against the wall. Once more he turned towards his father, and opened his eyes with difficulty. Large tears stood in them. Adler, utterly overcome and trembling all over, sat down near him, and wiped the tears from his eyes and the froth from his lips with his large hands.

"Ferdinand ... Ferdinand," he whispered, "be quiet.... You shall live.... You shall have all I possess."

Suddenly he felt his son getting heavy on his arms and dropping.

"Doctor! Bring him round! He is fainting!"

"Pan Adler, you had better go out of the room," said the doctor.

"Why should I go out of the room when my son is in need of my help?"

"He is no longer in need of it!"

Adler looked at his son, gripped him tightly, shook him. A large patch of blood had appeared on the bandage which covered his chest.

Ferdinand was dead.

Frenzy seized the old man. He jumped up from the couch, kicked over the chair, knocked against the doctor, and ran out into the courtyard and from there into the road. On the road he met one of the van-drivers bringing in the cotton. He seized him by the shoulders.

"Do you know my son is dead?" he shouted.

He flung the man on the ground and ran on to the porter's lodge.

"Hallo, there! Call up all the men! Let them all come in front of my house!"

He ran back to his dead son's room as fast as he had run out of it, sat down, and looked and looked at him in silence for half an hour. Then he suddenly started up.

"What does this silence mean?" he asked. "Has the machinery broken down?"

"You ordered all the hands to be called up, sir," answered Johann, "so they stopped the machinery, and are now waiting in the yard."

"What for? There is no reason for them to wait! Let them go back to work, and weave and spin and make a noise...."

He clasped his head with both hands.

"My son!... My son!... My son!..."

Someone had sent for the pastor, and he now came hurrying into the room, weeping.

"Gottlieb!" he cried, "God has greatly afflicted you; but let us trust His mercy."

Adler gave him a lingering glance, then pointed to his son's dead body and said:

"Look, Martin! that is myself; it is not his corpse, it is my own. There lies my factory, my fortune, my hope. But no! ... he is alive!... Tell me that, and I shall be calm. How my heart aches!..."

The pastor led him away into the garden, the doctor and the seconds left, the servants dispersed.

"Do you know what is the worst of it?" continued Adler. "In a year's time, or perhaps sooner, the doctors will discover a way of curing such wounds; but what will be the good of that to me? I would have given everything now for such a discovery."

The pastor took his hand.

"Gottlieb, how long is it since you have prayed?"

"I don't know ... thirty—forty years."

"Do you remember your prayers?"

"I remember that I had a son."

"Your son is with the Lord."

Adler's head dropped.

"How greedy he is, this Lord!"

"Do not blaspheme. The time will come when you will meet Him."

"When?"

"When your hour strikes."

The old man looked thoughtful. Then he took his watch from his pocket, wound it up, listened to the ticking and said:

"My hour has struck already.... Now you go home, Martin; your wife and daughter and your church are waiting for you. Go and enjoy yourself, look after your services, drink your hock, and leave me alone. I am waiting for the collapse of the whole world, and I shall perish with it. I have no need of friends, and still less of a pastor. Your frightened face bores me."

"Gottlieb, be calm! Pray!"

"Go to the devil!"

Adler jumped up, slipped through the garden gate and ran into the fields. The pastor did not know what to do. He returned to the villa, feeling that Adler ought to be watched; but the servants were afraid of their master. He sent for the old book-keeper, and told him he feared the mill-owner had gone out of his mind and run away.

"Oh, that doesn't mean anything," said the book-keeper; "he will tire himself out and come back in a better frame of mind. He often does that when he is upset."

The hours passed and evening came, but the old cotton-spinner did not appear. Never had there been anything like the present excitement in the factory. Gosławski's death had shaken them, brought home to them the wrongs they were suffering, and set them against their merciless employer. But now their feelings were of a different kind.

The first impression that Ferdinand's sudden death made upon the mill hands was dismay and fright. They felt as if a thunderbolt had struck the factory and it were trembling in its foundations, as if the sun had stood still in the sky. Ferdinand dead? He—so young and strong, a man who had never had to work, never attended to a machine—the son of their almighty employer? Quicker than a miserable workman like Gosławski, he had perished, shot like a hare! To these poor, simple, dependent people Adler was a severe deity, and more powerful than the State. They were seized with fear. It seemed to them that this small landowner and country judge, Zapora, had committed a sacrilege in shooting Ferdinand. How dared he shoot him, before whom even the boldest of them had to give way?

And a strange thing happened. These same people who had daily cursed the mill-owner and his son now cursed his destroyer. Some of them shouted that this fiend ought to be shot like a dog. But had the "fiend" suddenly appeared in their midst, they would certainly have run away.

As the discussions went on, some of the foremen explained that Zapora had not murdered Ferdinand, but that there had been a fight, and Ferdinand had been the first to shoot. It even transpired that the cause had been a quarrel about the workpeople—that Ferdinand had been killed because he spent the money which had been got by wronging the people. God had punished Adler; their curses had been heard.

Thus within a few hours a legend was formed round the incident. The voice of human blood had gone up to the throne of the Almighty, and a miracle had been worked. They were filled with awe.

What would happen now? Would their employer cease to wrong them? Someone suggested that the machinery should be stopped under these unusual circumstances, but the old book-keeper fell upon him. Stop the machinery and irritate the boss even more, when he is not quite in his right mind? He himself had felt quite odd when the machinery had been stopped before, and they had all gone up to the house. When there is the clatter it makes one feel easier, and one thinks nothing has happened.

The others agreed.

In the evening Adler returned, and entered the office like a ghost. Nobody knew when he had come. He was covered with mud, as if he had been rolling on the ground. His eyes were bloodshot, and his short flaxen hair stood on end: he was gasping for breath. Hurriedly he ran through the offices, snapping his fingers. The frightened clerks pretended to go on with their work. A young man was reading a wire. Adler went up to him, and asked in a quiet though changed voice:

"What is that?"

"Cotton is still going up," the clerk replied. "To-day we have made six thousand——"

He did not finish. Adler had torn the message from his hands and thrown it in his face.

"You low vermin!" he shouted. "How dare you tell me such a thing! The very dogs run away from my grief with their tails between their legs, and you talk to me of six thousand roubles!... Can you bring back a day—even half a day—to me?"

Boehme came running into the office.

"Gottlieb," he cried, "the carriage is waiting; come to my house with me."

The mill-owner drew himself up to his full height and put both his hands in his pockets.

"Oh, you are there, St. Martin!" he said ironically. "No, I will not go with you to your house! I will say even more. Not a single farthing shall I leave to you or your Józio! Do you hear? I dare say you are a servant of the Lord, and His wisdom speaks through your tongue, but not a farthing will you get from me. My fortune belongs to my son."

"What are you talking about, Gottlieb?" the pastor said, shocked.

"I am talking plainly. This is a plot to put your son in here to order the factory people about.... You have killed my son, and you would like to kill me; but I am not one of those fools who want to spend their money on the salvation of their souls...."

"Gottlieb, you suspect me—me?"

Adler seized his hands and looked into his eyes with hatred.

"Do you remember, Boehme, that you threatened me with God's punishment? Formerly the Jesuits used to do the same to trick people's fortune out of them. But I was too clever!... I would not be tricked; therefore God has punished me. It is not long ago since you threw corks and sticks on the water, and said the wave would return. But my poor son will not return."

Adler had never been so eloquent as at the moment when his reason was leaving him. He seized the pastor by the shoulders and pushed him out of the door. Restlessly he began to walk up and down again, and at last left the office. The gloom of dusk swallowed him up, and the noise of the machinery drowned his footfalls.

The clerks were panic-stricken. No one thought of watching him—they had all lost their heads. They knew how to attend mechanically to their duties, but no one would have dared to take any responsibility.

Pastor Boehme dared not give orders either. To whom should he have given them? Who would have listened to him?

Events meanwhile took their course. One of the workmen noticed that the small door leading to the cotton warehouse was open. Before he could give notice to the foreman, it had been shut again. The workpeople whispered to one another about thieves and Ferdinand's repentant ghost. But the clerks rushed to the office to see what had become of the master-key, and found it gone.

No doubt Adler himself had taken it. But where was he? The porter had seen him pass through the gateway, but had not noticed him go out again, though he said he had been watching closely for him. Who would undertake to find him in the huge building?

This time the old book-keeper guessed the danger which threatened the factory. He called up the foremen, ordered that watchmen should be set outside the main doors, that the engines should be stopped and the hands withdrawn from the workshop. But before these orders could be carried out the sound of the alarm bell was heard from the warehouses. Smoke and flames were issuing from the openings. The hands, already demoralized, were seized with panic and left the workrooms in a crowd. So precipitate was their flight that they forgot to turn out the lights, left all the doors open, and did not stop the engines. But they had only just saved themselves when the fire began to break out in the warehouses containing the manufactured goods.

"What is this? Someone is setting fire to the mill!" they cried.

"It is the boss himself! He is setting fire to it!"

"Where is he?"

"Nobody knows."

The fire was breaking out in the spinning and weaving departments.

"Surely it is Adler himself who is setting the mill alight!"

"Why should we save it, when he is destroying it?"

"Who tells you to save it?"

"But what are we going to eat to-morrow?"

The shouts of men and the weeping of women and children rose from the dense crowd of hundreds of human beings, powerless in the face of this calamity. Rescue was, indeed, impossible. The people looked on stupefied while the fire spread rapidly.

The gloomy background of a dark autumn night threw into relief the burning buildings, lit by fierce, red flames, which burst from all the openings like torches and played over the crowd gathered in the courtyard below. Of the main building in the shape of a horseshoe, the left wing was on fire in the fourth story, and the right on the ground floor. The workrooms in the middle part of the building were brightly lighted by gas-lamps, so that the power-looms could be seen moving quickly to and fro. The walls of the warehouses had almost disappeared behind a thick veil of smoke and flames. Now the roof of the left wing was ablaze; on the right the fire had reached the first floor, and the flames were bursting from the windows. A continuous murmur, scarcely human, rose from the crowd below.

Suddenly it stopped. All eyes were turned towards the middle building, which was still untouched. On the second floor the shadow of a man was moving backwards and forwards among the looms. Wherever it stopped the room became lighter. The yarn, the wooden frames of the looms, the floors soaked with grease, caught fire with incredible rapidity. Within a few minutes the second floor was alight, and the shadow moved to the third floor, disappeared, and was seen again on the fourth.

"Look! It is he!" A shout burst from the terrified crowd.

Window-panes were blown out, and the glass fell clinking on to the pavement; floors collapsed under the heavy machinery. In the midst of the hellish noise, the rain of sparks and the clouds of smoke, the shadow of the man on the fourth floor was moving about like an inspector watching workmen. Sometimes it stopped at one of the many windows, and seemed to look out towards the house and the people.

The roof of the left wing broke down with a terrific crash. Sheaves of sparks rose to the sky. Two stories of the cotton warehouse fell in. The air became unbearably hot. Some of the machines began to move with a grinding noise, and finally rolled over. The big wheel of the power-engine, encountering no more resistance, turned with a crazy rapidity, uttering a weird kind of howl. Walls collapsed; the chimney fell, and bits of masonry rolled towards the receding crowd.

From the direction of the gasometer came the dull sound of an explosion. The gas went out; the middle part of the building was fully ablaze; the fire reigned supreme.

Prosperous and full of life an hour ago, the mill was now a raging furnace, in which its owner sought and found his grave....

The wave had returned....

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