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 Goslawski'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. Goslawski 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 Goslawski'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.
"Goslawski'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.