IV

At the supper the aged notary was occupied solely with music and

Marynia. To the others, with the exception of the lady of the house,

upon whom permission for the concert depended, he replied irascibly;

especially to Dolhanski, who several times tried to elicit from him

some information about the will. His angry and apoplectic face cleared

up only after Pani Krzycki announced that she would have no objections

to devoting the remainder of the evening to decorous music, and that

she herself would be glad to listen to Marynia, whom she had not heard

since the last charitable concert in Krynica.

Towards the close of the supper the old gentleman again began to get

impatient, remarking that it was a pity to waste time in eating, and

discussing even music, if light and frivolous, with profane individuals

who had no conception of the real art. He became more interested after

listening to the reasonings of Gronski, who began to talk about the

origin of music and refute the Darwinian theory that songs and the

sounds of the primitive string instruments arose in some misty era of

the human race from the amorous declarations and calls of men and women

in the forests. Gronski shared the opinion of those who against these

views cited the fact that among the most savage tribes no traces of

love-songs exist, but in their place are found war-songs and martial

music. The theory of calling through the forests appeared to the ladies

more poetical. Gronski placated them with the statement that this did

not lessen the civilizing importance of music, that it, with the dance,

was one of the first factors which promoted among the scattered tribes

of men a certain organization.

"The Papuans," he said, "who gather together for the performance of a

war or ceremonial dance in accordance with the rhythm of even their

wildest music, by that act alone submit to something, introduce some

kind of order, and form the first social ties."

"That means," observed Dolhanski, "that every nation owes its origin to

some primitive 'high-diddle-diddle, the cat and the fiddle.'"

"Of course it is so," angrily answered the old notary.

Afterwards turning to Gronski, he said: "Please proceed. We can at

least learn something."

"Yes, please proceed," repeated Marynia.

So Gronski began further to speak of the history of music; how through

the entire course of ages it served war, ceremonies of state, as well

as religious and secular, and how considerably later it outspread its

own wings, on which it soars as at present, like an eagle, over the

entire human race.

"A strange art," he concluded; "the most primitive; yet to-day resting

more than any other upon science; the most precisely confined within

certain technical requirements, as if bound by dams and dykes; yet the

most illimitable, the most mystical; overflowing the borders of

existence and life. Perhaps this gives it such incomprehensible power

over the human soul; speaking the least expressive of tongues and at

the same time the most idealistic. It is the most powerful spur to

action. Yes, to the Polish regiments in the battle of Gravelotte the

Prussian bands played 'Poland is not yet lost,' and everywhere you may

behold the same. Play to the Frenchmen the 'Marseillaise,' the Germans

'Wacht am Rhein,' how their hands begin to quiver! Even the eyes of

phlegmatic Englishmen and Americans sparkle when they hear 'Rule

Britania' or 'Yankee Doodle.' Strange art!--the most cosmopolitan and

at the same time the most national,--universal and individual."

"One thing you did not say and that is that of all arts it is the

purest," added Pani Otocka.

"Attempts have been made to illegitimatize it," answered Gronski, "but

licentiousness never can be rhythmical nor harmonical, and for that

reason from these attempts there was born an antichrist of music."

But Ladislaus, who was a trifle bored and would have preferred to talk

with the light-haired Miss Anney, spoke out with the evident desire to

close the discussion.

"Yes, it is plain that not only every nation but every man has his own

music. I, for instance, am always willing to hear a concert or an

opera, but I admit, that when sometimes the boys and girls at work in

the field sing until the pitchforks and harrows ring, that is the only

music for me."

"Slavonian, Lechite, Piast--come to my arms," drawled Dolhanski.

Ladislaus blushed a little from fear that the young Englishwoman and

his refined female relatives might judge him too rustical, but they

glanced at him with a certain sympathy. Only the beard of the old

classical notary drooped with his nose in a manner boding no good, and

from his lips he mumbled a half-distinct grumble:

"To some folks it is sufficient, when anything jingles in their ears."

But recollecting that it would not be agreeable to Pani Krzycki if

caustic remarks were directed against her son, he cast an uneasy look

at her and became silent.

The supper was finished. The company went to the salon in which

prevailed coolness and the slight scent of jasmine blown in from the

garden by the light evening breezes before the windows were closed. In

the glass doors appeared the big full moon, which but recently arose

slowly in the heaven, still ruddy after a bath in the evening twilight.

Pani Otocka sat at the piano; beside her the notary began to blow, as

if with anger, into the flute; while behind them stood Marynia with a

violin at her shoulder. Gronski with rapture gazed at her luxuriant

dark hair; her peaceful, arched eyebrows under a forehead plainly

immaculate; her small countenance; her slender, growing, childlike

form, and thought that this sight alone would suffice for music, or at

least that such a violinist might pass for its incarnation and symbol.

Ladislaus, although he had previously enlisted in the ranks of the

English faction, could not remove his eyes from her. After completing

his university education, he had accompanied his mother on a journey to

Italy. He visited various galleries and, though he lacked solid

artistic culture, nevertheless the thought crossed his mind that this

maiden with the bright and peaceful countenance, bending over the

violin, might have served the old masters as a model for Saint Cecilia

or for one of those angelic violin-players which he had seen in the

paintings of Fra Angelico.

The other listeners, like Pani Krzycki, her children, the instructress,

and Miss Anney, gazed at her as if at a miracle-working image. Only

one, Laskowicz, young Stas' tutor, did not share in the general

rapture. He was a medical student who, owing to the closing of the

university, was earning money by teaching for the further pursuit of

his studies, and he found himself, together with his inexorable hatred

for the "pampered" of this world, like Pilate in Credo, in this country

home. His convictions by this time were not a secret to anybody in

Jastrzeb; he was tolerated, however, with that improvident indulgence

of which the Polish nobility is only capable, upon the principle that

"the greatest radical must eat," and also in the hope that Stas was yet

too young to be infected with the "evil spirit" by his tutor.

To Laskowicz, when he looked at the gentle young lady, it seemed that

she was a flower which grew higher than the hands of a proletaire could

reach; therefore she was bred to the injury of the proletariat. This

was sufficient for him to look on both sides with reluctance and a

readiness to hate.

But, in the meanwhile, the moment for beginning the concert had

arrived. For some time Marynia had been drawing the bow over the

chords, turning the ringlets of the violin, and passing her fingers

over the notes, indicating something to her sister and the notary;

afterwards silence ensued, interrupted only by the indistinct talk of

the servants, assembled beyond the windows, who for the first time in

their lives were to hear the young lady play on the violin.

V

The first chords of the moonlight sonata are sounded and a vision

begins. Lo! a pale ray creeps stealthily through a crevice and touches

the forehead of a sleeper, as if it wanted to arouse thought;

afterwards the lips, as if it wished to waken words, and later the

bosom, as if it desired to stir the heart. But the weary body slumbered

in a heavy sleep. In its place the soul emerges from its embrace, like

a butterfly from a cocoon, and flies into space. The night is bright

and silent. Below, alders are dimly wrapped in muslin mists. On the

sylvan meadows nymphs dance their rites, accompanied by the playing of

a faun on a flute. About, stand with flaming azure eyes, stags, crowned

with antlers. On the heath, glow-worms glimmer; on the moss,

phosphorate toadstools, under whose canopies tiny elfs watch the

gambols. From the decaying vegetation and fens rise Jack-o'-lanterns

which flit about lightly and mysteriously, as if seeking something in

vain. The moon ascends each moment higher and higher, and bounteous dew

falls.

Over the vast fields rivers wind in silvery ribbons and tracks of the

roadways can be seen leading to towns and castles. Through the narrow

Gothic windows the moon's lustre invades silent castle-halls, where

lurk the ghosts of dead knights and maidens. At the feet of the

castles, cities slumber. In the calm light the roofs of houses whiten

and crosses on the towers glitter. From the blossoming orchards, with

the vapors rises the fragrance of flowers and grass. But lighter than

the fragrance and the moonlight the winged soul soars higher and

farther. The lowly habitations of men vanish; likewise vanish the

forests, vales, sparkling shields of ponds, and the white threads of

streams. Gradually lofty regions are attained.

And lo, the mountains! Amidst the crags sleeps the translucent buckler

of the lake. In the chasms lies concealed cool dusk. The needles of the

glaciers shine verdantly. On the declivities and rocky nests rest the

weary clouds and mists; and on the peaks, on the eternal snow the

moonlight reposes. Even the wind has fallen asleep. How still,

ethereal, and immense! Here the moon is the only sentinel of silence

and the human soul the only living entity. Free as a mountain eagle,

detached from the flesh, enamoured with the expanse, desolation, and

silence, happy, and sad with a supernal sorrow, dissolved in the

stillness, she hovers and courses above the precipices; and again flies

farther on, entirely abandoned to pleasure, flight, and speed.

And the mountains have already disappeared beneath her and lo! some

voices rise and reach from below as if summoning her to them. It is the

sea. It, alone, never sleeps; restless and vast, it dashes wave after

wave against the shore, as if it were an immense pulsation of life. Its

monstrous lungs heave and fall eternally and at times groan in

complaint of endless toil.

The ruffled expanse of the sea throbs with the opalescent lunar lustre

and the silvery laces of stars, and on those illuminated tracks, in the

distance appears, wakeful as the sea itself, a ship with sails and a

sanguinary light in the rounded windows.

But thou, oh soul, mountest higher and higher. Already the earth is

left somewhere at the bottom of the abyss. Thou, light as down, dost

pass feathery clouds, which have strayed upon the heights and dost

pierce space flooded with splendor--empty and cool. There thou liest

upon thine own wings and floatest about in luminous nothingness; higher

and higher; and now doth scintillate and change color over thee, in

gold and purple, the jewels of heaven, and thou dost frolic and swing

in the unattainable ether, serene, freed from the dross of matter as

if, beyond the limits of time and space, thou wert already partly

admitted into heaven.

The firmament of heaven grows each moment darker, but the moon, great

as the world, shines more and more brightly. Already we behold her

glistening plains, mangled, wild, studded by mountain peaks, perforated

with the blackness of craters, bleak, frosty, and lifeless. Thus in the

abyss of space appears this silvery, corpse-like wanderer, who speeds

around the earth as if condemned by a divine command to a perpetual

race. Above and about her, an immensity which the swooning brain is

incapable of comprehending. A new galaxy of stars twinkle sanguinarily

and powerfully, like distant fire-places. The music of spheres is

heard. Here Eternity fans with her breath and a supernal chill

prevails.

Return, over-indulged swan, return, oh soul, before some occult rapids

and whirlpools seize thee and tear thee forever from the earth.

Thou returnest from the pinnacle of all-existence, bathed in the waves

of infinity, purer and more perfect. Lo, thou furlest thy wings! Look,

in the depths beneath are those downy, light clouds, which now thou

greetest as thine own and kin. Below, the earth. The protuberances of

the mountains flash to the moon; at their feet sobs the sea. And now

lower, the vague outlines of forests, enveloped in mist. Again whiten

the cities, silent towers and roofs of villages sunk in sleep. The

night grows pale. On the moors, ostlers build fires and play on fifes.

The roosters crow. The day breaks. It is dawn.

The strains subsided and silence ensued. Marynia stood near the piano

with a countenance, composed as usual, but seemingly, awakened from a

dream.

The aged notary sat for a while with bowed head, moving his toothless

jaws; afterwards he rose, and when the young maid placed the violin

beside the key-board, he ardently kissed her hands; after which he

threw a challenging look at those present as if he sought the person

who would dare to protest against that mark of homage or deem it a

superfluous act. Nobody, however, protested because under the

enchantment of that music that happened with the listeners which always

happens with mankind, when fanned by the breath of genius. As sometimes

in a dream it seems to a person that having shoved himself off the

earth with his feet, he afterwards reels a long time in the air, so,

too, their bodies became lighter, less material, as if deprived of

those heavy and gross elements which bound them to the earth. Their

nerves became more susceptible and subtle and their souls more

volatile, approaching more closely those boundaries on which eternity

begins. It was an unconscious feeling; after the passage of which the

daily life was to encompass and drag them down. But during this

momentary exaltation there awakened within them, unknown to themselves,

a power of apprehending, appreciating, and feeling beauty, and in

general such things as in their customary moods they had not felt and

did not know that they could have felt.

Even the young and unfledged physician, Laskowicz, notwithstanding all

his prejudices, could not resist this influence. The moment when

Marynia stood up to play, he began to scrutinize her from his dark

corner in the salon and examine her form as an anatomist. He was

conscious that there was something brutal in this, but such a viewpoint

gave him satisfaction, as being proper for an investigator and a man of

his convictions. He started to persuade himself that this young lady of

the so called higher spheres was for him merely an object which one

should examine in the same manner as a corpse on the dissecting-table

is examined. So, when tuning her violin, she bent her head, he took a

mental inventory of the Latin names of all her cranial bones, repelling

the thought which, against his will, rushed to his head that this was,

however, an extraordinarily noble skull. Afterwards, during the first

moments after the beginning of the concert, he became occupied with the

nomenclature of the muscles of her hands, arms, breast, limbs, outlined

under her dress and whole figure. But as he was not only a medical

student and a socialist, but also a young man, this anatomical review

ended in the conclusion that this was a girl, not yet sufficiently

developed, but exceedingly pretty and attractive, resembling a spring

flower. From that moment he began, to a certain extent, to forgive her

connection with spheres living "from the wrongs of the proletariat,"

and could not get rid of the thought that if, as a result of some

unheard-of social upheaval, such "a saintly doll" became dependent upon

his favor or disfavor, then such a state of affairs would bring to him

an indescribably coy delight.

But when Beethoven placed his hands upon his head, there awakened

within him better and higher instincts. He saw during the performance

the lips and eyebrows of the young lady contract, and began to concede

that "she, however, felt something." In consequence of this, his

ill-will towards her began to melt away, although slowly and with

difficulty. He half confirmed, half conjectured that not only the hands

but also the soul played. He did not have sufficient culture for music

to appeal to him as it did, for instance, to Gronski, nevertheless

there awakened within him a certain dismal consciousness that this was

something, like the air, which all breasts can breathe, regardless of

whether they love or hate. Amazement seized him at the thought that

there were things lying beyond the swarm of human passions. At the

conclusion he so identified music with the figure of the playing girl

that when the old notary, at the end of the concert, kissed her hands,

he almost felt inclined to do the same.

In the meanwhile, Ladislaus said to Miss Anney:

"As long as Jastrzeb has been Jastrzeb, never yet has such music been

heard. I am not a connoisseur, but must admit that this has captivated

me. Besides, though I am often in the city, it has always so happened

that I never have had an opportunity of seeing a woman play on the

violin. And this is so beautiful that I now have an impression that

only women should play the violin."

"One gets such an impression when he hears Marynia play."

"Assuredly. I even begin to understand Pan Gronski. You, of course,

know that she is his adoration?"

"The greatest in the world. And mine and everybody's who knows

her,--and soon she will be yours."

"I do not deny that she will be, only I doubt whether she will be the

greatest."

A temporary pause in the conversation followed, after which Ladislaus,

not desiring that Miss Anney should take his words as an untimely

compliment, added:

"In any event, I owe her gratitude for music which is slightly

different from that which we hear every evening in spring and summer."

"What kind of music is that?"

"From dusk to moon-rise the orchestra of frogs, and afterwards the

concert of nightingales, which, after all, I do not hear, as, after

daily toil, I am sound asleep. The frog band has already commenced.

This also has its charm. If you care to hear it, let us go out upon the

veranda. The night is almost as warm as in summer."

Miss Anney rose and together they went on the veranda, which the

servants, who listened under the windows to Marynia's performance, had

already left, and only in the distance the blooming jasmines, shaded by

the dusk, whitened. From the pond came the croakings of the

confederation of frogs, drowsy and, at the same time, resembling choral

prayers.

Miss Anney for a while listened to these sounds and afterwards said:

"Yes, this also has its charm, particularly on a night like this."

"Are not nights the same in England?"

"No, not as quiet. There is hardly a corner there to which the

whistling of locomotives or the factory noises do not reach. I like

your villages for their quiet and their distance from the cities."

"So, then, this is not the first time that you have seen a Polish

village?"

"No. I have passed the last month with Zosia Otocka."

"I wish that our Jastrzeb would find favor in your eyes. It is too bad

that you chanced here upon a funeral. That is always sad. I saw that

you were even affected."

"It reminded me of something," answered Miss Anney.

Whereupon, evidently desiring to change the subject of the

conversation, she again began to peer into the depths of the garden.

"How everything blooms and smells agreeably here!"

"Those are jasmines and elders. Did you observe on the forest road,

riding to Jastrzeb, that the edges of the woods are planted with

elders? That is my work."

"I only observed it at the bridge, where an old building stands. What

kind of building is that?"

"That is an ancient mill. At one time there was a great deal of water

in the stream beside it, but later my uncle, Zarnowski, drained it off

to the fish-ponds in Rzeslewo and the mill stood still. Now it is a

ramshackle building in which for over ten years we have stored hay

instead of keeping it in hayricks. Folks say that the place is haunted,

but I myself circulated, in its time, that myth."

"Why?"

"First, so that they should not steal the hay, and again because it was

of much concern to me that no one should pry in there."

"What an invention!"

"I told them that near the bridge during night-time the horses get

frightened and that something in the mill laughs; which is true,

because owls laugh there."

"Perhaps it would have been better to have told them that something in

there weeps."

"Why?"

"For greater effect."

"I do not know. Laughter in the night in the solitude creates a greater

impression. People fear it more."

"And nobody peeps in there?"

"Not a soul. Now, if they only would not steal the hay, it would be all

the same to me, but at that time I was anxious to screen myself from

the eyes of men--"

Here Ladislaus bit his tongue, observing in the moonlight that Miss

Anney's eyebrows frowned slightly. He understood that in repeating

twice that it was important to him that no one should pry into the

mill, he committed a breach of etiquette and, what was worse, had

presented himself to the young English lady as some provincial boaster,

who gives the impression that often he has been forced to seek various

hiding-places. So desiring to erase the bad impression, he added

quickly:

"When a student, I wrote verses and for that reason sought solitude.

But now all that has passed away."

"That usually passes away," answered Miss Anney. And she turned to the

doors of the salon, but without unnecessary haste, as if she desired to

show Ladislaus that she accepted as good coin his explanations and that

her return was not a manifestation of displeasure. He remained a while,

angry at himself and yet more angry at Miss Anney for the simple reason

that the indiscretion was committed solely by him and he could not

blame her for anything.

"In any case," he said to himself, "that is some deucedly penetrating

Puritan."

And he began to repeat, with some indignation, her last words:

"That usually passes away."

"Did she," he thought, "intend to give me to understand that from such

grist as is in me nobody could bake any poetry. Perhaps it is true, and

I know that better than anyone else, but it is unnecessary for anybody

to corroborate the fact."

Under the influence of these thoughts he returned to the salon in not

quite good humor, but there the duties of host summoned him to his

feminine cousins and that evening he did not converse any more with

Miss Anney.