VIII

The very next day, towards evening, they strolled with their rifles and

a dog in the direction of the mill, and on the way Ladislaus began to

narrate all that he had learned the previous day.

"I was in Rzeslewo," he said, "but there you hear nothing good. The

peasants insist that the will was forged and that the gentry twisted it

about so that they could control, for their own benefit, the money and

the lands. I am almost certain that Laskowicz is pouring oil upon that

fire. But why? I cannot understand; nevertheless, that is the case. The

landless, in particular, are wrought up and say that if the fortune is

divided among them, they, themselves, will contribute for a school. In

reality, they have no conception of the kind of school Zarnowski

wanted, nor of the cost of establishing it."

"In view of this, what do you intend to do?" asked Gronski.

"I do not know. I will see. In the meantime I will try to convince

them. I also begged the rector to explain the matter to them and spoke

with a few of the older husbandmen. I seemed to have persuaded them;

but unfortunately with them it is thus: that everyone, taken singly, is

intelligent and even sensible, but when you talk to them together, it

is like trying to smash a stone wall with your head."

"That is nothing strange," answered Gronski; "take ten thousand doctors

of philosophy together and they become a mob which is ruled by

gesticulations."

"That may be," said Ladislaus, "but I did not wish to speak of the will

only. I also saw the old Rzeslewo overseer and learned a great many,

intensely curious things. Figure to yourself that our guesses were

wrong and that Hanka Skibianka is not the daughter of Uncle Zarnowski."

"And that seemed so certain! But what kind of proof have you of this?"

"Very simple. Skiba was a native of Galicia and emigrated to Rzeslewo

with his wife and daughter when the latter was five years old. As

Zarnowski, while well, stayed in the village like a wall, and at that

time for at least ten years had not travelled anywhere, it is evident

that he could not have been the father of that girl."

"That decides the matter. I cannot understand why he bequeathed to her

ten thousand roubles."

"There is an interesting history connected with that," replied

Ladislaus. "You must know that the deceased, though now it appears that

he loved the peasants, always kept them under very strict control. He

managed them according to the old system; that is, he abused them from

morning till night. They say that when he cursed in the corridor you

could hear him over half the village. A certain day he went into the

blacksmith's shop and, finding something out of order, began to berate

the blacksmith unmercifully. The smith bowed and listened in humility.

It happened that little Hanka at that time was in front of the smithy

and, seeing what was taking place, seized a little stick and started to

belabor Zarnowski with it all over the legs. 'You will scold Tata, will

you?' It is said that the deceased at first was dumbfounded, but

afterwards burst into such laughter that his anger against the

blacksmith passed away."

"That Hanka pleases me."

"So did she please Uncle. The very same day he sent a rouble to the

smith's wife and ordered her to bring the child to the manor-house.

From that time he became attached to her. He commanded the old

housekeeper to teach her to read, and attended to it himself. The child

likewise became devoted to him, and this continued for a number of

years. In the end people began to say that the master wanted to keep

the smith's daughter entirely at his residence and have her educated as

a lady, but this, it seems, was untrue. He wanted to bring her up as a

stout village lass and give her a dowry. The Skibas, whose only child

she was, declared that they would not surrender her for anything in the

world. Of course, I know only what the overseer told me, for our

relations with the deceased were broken on account of the mill from

which he drained the water for his ponds."

"And later the Skibas emigrated."

"Yes, but before that time Zarnowski began to fail in health and moved

to Warsaw, and subsequently resided abroad; so that their relations

relaxed. When the Skibas emigrated, the girl was seventeen. Uncle, on

his return to Rzeslewo to die, longed for her and waited for some news

of her. But as he had previously removed even his furniture from

Rzeslewo to the city, she evidently assumed that he never would return

and did not know where to write."

"The bequest proves best that he did not forget her," said Gronski,

"and from the whole will it appears that he was a man of better heart

than people thought."

"Surely," answered Ladislaus.

For an interval they walked in silence; then Krzycki resumed the

conversation.

"As for myself, I prefer that she is not the daughter of the deceased."

"Why? Has that any bearing on the bequest?"

"No. Under no circumstances will I accept that bequest. Never!"

"That is all very well, but tell me, why did you renounce it with such

vehemence that everybody was astonished?"

"There is one circumstance which neither Mother nor anybody else even

suspects, but which I will sincerely confess to you. In the proper time

I seduced that girl."

Gronski stood still, gazed at Ladislaus, and ejaculated:

"What's that?"

As he was not prone to treat such matters with levity and, besides, the

previous narrative of Krzycki had awakened within him a sympathy for

Hanka, he frowned and asked:

"For the fear of God! You seduced a child? And you say it was done in

the proper time?"

But Ladislaus replied quite calmly:

"Let us not stop, for the dog has gone too far ahead of us," and here

he pointed at the white spaniel running before them. "I did not seduce

a child, for at that time she was sixteen. It happened more than seven

years ago, while I was still a student and came to Jastrzeb on a

vacation."

"Were there any consequences?"

"As far as I know there were none. You will understand that having

returned the following vacation and not finding either her or the

Skibas, I did not ask about them, for on the thief's head the cap

burns.[2] But to-day I casually asked the overseer whether the Skibas

had not probably emigrated because some mishap had befallen their

daughter. He answered, 'No.'"

"Then it is better for her and for you."

"Certainly it is much better; for otherwise the matter would have been

brought to light and would reach Mother's ears."

"And in such case you would suffer much unpleasantness."

There was irony in Gronski's voice, but Ladislaus, absorbed in his own

thoughts, did not notice it and said:

"In such case, I would have unpleasantness because Mother in such

matters is exceedingly severe. So, to-day, after mature deliberation, I

am like a wolf, who will commit no injury in the neighborhood where he

keeps his nest, but at that time I was more headstrong and less

careful."

"May the deuce take you!" exclaimed Gronski.

"For what?"

"Nothing; speak on."

"I have not much more to say. Recurring to the will, you now understand

why I could not accept it."

"Perhaps I do, but tell me 'thy exquisite reason,' as Shakespeare

says."

"Well, as to the seduction of a girl, that does happen in villages, but

to seduce a girl and appropriate to one's own use that which had been

provided for her,--why, that would be too much. And perhaps she may be

suffering, in want, somewhere in America."

"Everything is possible," answered Gronski.

"So that if the advertisements, which I will make, do not reach her

notice, in such case, I would be using her money, while she would die

of starvation. No. Everything has its limits. I am not extraordinarily

scrupulous, but there are some things which I plainly cannot do."

"Tell me, but sincerely, do you entertain towards her any sentiment?"

"I will tell you candidly that I completely forgot her. Now I have

recalled her and, in truth, I cannot have any ill-will towards her. On

the contrary, that kind of recollection cannot, of course, be

disagreeable, unless it is linked with remorse. But we were mere

children--and a pure accident brought us together."

"Then permit me to ask one more question. If the deceased bequeathed to

her the whole of Rzeslewo, and the funds, and if she did not within two

years appear to claim them, would you renounce such a bequest?"

"I cannot answer a question to which I have not given any

consideration. I would not want to represent myself to you any better

or any worse than I am. But this much is certain: I would publish the

advertisements, and would publish them for the two years. But after

all, of what importance to you can my answer be?"

And here he abruptly paused, for from the direction of the adjacent

birch grove some strange sound reached them, resembling a snort, and at

the same time, above the tops of the birch and the lime-trees, there

appeared upon the background of the twilight a gray bird, flying in a

straight line to the underwood on the opposite side of the meadow.

"Woodcock!" cried Krzycki, and he bounded forward.

Gronski, following him, thought:

"He certainly never read Nietzsche, and yet in his veins, together with

the blood, there courses some noble super-humanity. If anybody betrayed

his sister, he would have shot him in the head like a dog, but as a

village girl is concerned, he does not feel the slightest uneasiness."

Later they stopped at the edge of the birch grove. For a time intense

silence prevailed; after which a strange voice resounded again above

their heads and another woodcock appeared. Gronski fired and missed;

Krzycki bettered--and they saw how, with descending flight, the fowl

fell in the underwood farther off. The white dog for a while lingered

in the dusk of the thicket and returned carrying the dead bird in his

mouth.

"She was already wounded when I fired," said Ladislaus. "It is your

bird."

"You are a gracious host," answered Gronski.

And again silence ensued, which even the rustle of leaves did not

disturb, as there was not a breath of air. But after a time two

woodcocks snorted above their heads, one following the other, at which

Gronski could not shoot, but Ladislaus winged both cleanly. Finally a

more reckless one took pity on Gronski for she flew accommodatingly

over him, as if she desired to save him any inconvenience. He himself

felt ashamed at the thrill of pleasure he experienced when, after

firing, he saw the bird hit the ground; and agreeable to his

incorrigible habit of meditation upon every phenomenon, he came to the

conclusion that his strange sensation could be attributed to the

aboriginal times, when man and his family were dependent for

subsistence upon skill in hunting. Thanks to this reasoning, he did not

shoot at another bird that flew nearer the edge of the underwood and

with which the flight evidently ended, as they waited for others in

vain. In the meanwhile it grew dark, and after an interval the white

spaniel emerged from the nightfall, and after him came Ladislaus.

"We had a bootless chase," he said, "but that is nothing. In any case,

there are four morsels for the ladies. Tomorrow we will try for more."

"This was but a slight interruption in your confessions," answered

Gronski, slinging his rifle over his shoulder.

"My confessions?" said Ladislaus. "Aha!--yes."

"You said that a mere accident brought you together."

"That actually was the case. But we must now go ahead and you will

kindly follow in my footsteps, as it is damp here in some places. This

way we will reach the bridge and at the bridge we will have the road."

Not until they were on the road did he commence his narrative:

"It all began and ended in the mill, which even at that time served as

a storage place for hay; and it did not continue more than a fortnight.

It occurred thus: I once went out with a rifle to hunt for roebucks,

for here roebucks come out in the evening at the clearing on the

stream. It was very cloudy that day, but as it appeared to be clear in

the west, I thought that the clouds would pass away. I took a position

of a few hundred--and even more--steps from the mill, for nearer there

was lying on the meadow, linen, which might scare the bucks; and about

a half hour later I actually killed a buck. But in the meanwhile it

began to rain, and in a short while there was such a downpour as I had

never seen in Jastrzeb. I seized my buck by the hind legs and began to

scamper off with all my might for the mill. On the way I noticed that

some one had carried away the linen. I rushed into the mill and buried

myself up to the ears in the hay, when I heard somebody breathing close

by me. I asked: 'Who is that?' A thin voice answered me, 'I.' 'What

kind of an I?' 'Hanka.' 'What are you doing here?' 'I came for the

linen.' Then it began to thunder so much that I thought the mill would

fall to pieces;--and not until it had subsided somewhat did I learn by

the aid of continuous questions that my female companion was from

Rzeslewo; that her family name was Skibianka, and that she finished her

sixteenth year on St. Anne's Day. Then, and I give you my word, without

any sinister will or intent, but only as a jest and because it is

customary to talk that way with village maids, I said to her: 'Will you

give me a kiss?' She did not answer, but as at that moment a thunder

clap pealed, she nestled closer to me--perhaps from fright. And I

kissed her on the very lips and, as I live, I had the same impression

as if I had kissed a fragrant flower. So I repeated it twice, three

times, and so on, and she returned the tenth or twentieth. When the

storm passed away and it became necessary for us to part, I had her

arms about my neck and at the same time my cheeks were wet with her

tears,--for she cried, but I do not know whether from the loss of

innocence or because I was leaving."

Here, in spite of himself, the song of Ophelia, when insane, flitted

through Krzycki's memory.

Ladislaus continued:

"On our departure she said that she knew I was the young lord of

Jastrzeb; that she saw me every Sunday in Rzeslewo and gazed upon me as

upon some miracle-working painting."

"Ah, you certainly are handsome to the point of nauseousness,"

interrupted Gronski, with a certain irritation.

"Bah!--I have already three or four gray hairs."

"Surely, from birth. How often did you meet thereafter?"

"Before I left her, I asked her whether she could not slip away the

following evening. She answered that she could, because in the evening

she always gathered the linen, which was being bleached upon the

meadow, for fear that some one might steal it, and that besides, in

summer time she did not sleep in the cabin with her parents, but on the

hay in the barn. After that we met every day. I had to conceal myself

from the night watch, so I slunk out of the window into the garden,

though this was an unnecessary precaution, for the watch slept so

soundly that one time I carried off the trumpet and staff belonging to

one of them. It was amusing also that, seeing Hanka only in the night

time, I did not know how she really looked; though in the moonlight she

appeared to me to be pretty."

"And in church?"

"Our collator's pew is near the altar, while the girls knelt in the

rear. There are so many of the same red and yellow shawls, studded with

so many flowers, that it is difficult to distinguish one from the

other. At times it seemed to me that I saw her in the distance, but I

could not see her perfectly. The vacation soon ended, and when I

returned the following season the Skibas were gone."

"Did you bid her farewell?"

"I admit that I did not. I preferred to avoid that."

"And did you ever long for her?"

"Yes. In Warsaw I longed for her intensely, and during the first month

I was deeply in love with her. After my return to Jastrzeb, when I

again saw the mill the feeling revived, but at the same time I was

content that everything should drop, as it were, into the water and

that Mother should not know anything about it."

Conversing in this manner, they turned from the side road to the shady

walk leading to the manor-house, whose low lights, from a distance of

about a verst, at times glistened through the boughs of the linden, and

then again hid themselves, screened by the thick foliage. The night was

starry and fair. It was, however, quite dark, for the moon had not yet

risen and the copper glow upon the eastern sky announced its near

approach. There was not the slightest breath of air. The great

nocturnal stillness was broken by the barks of dogs, barely audible,

from the distant slumbering village. Involuntarily, Gronski and

Ladislaus began to speak in lower tones. However, everything was not

asleep, for a few hundred paces from the walk, on the meadow near the

river, firelights were intermittingly flashing.

"Those are peasants pasturing the horses and catching crawfish by the

lights of the resinous wood," said Krzycki. "I even hear one of them

riding away."

And in fact at that moment they heard on the meadows the clatter of the

horse's hoofs, deadened by the grass, and immediately afterwards the

loud voice of a herdsman resounded, who, amidst the nocturnal quiet,

shouted in a drawling tone:

"Wojtek--Bring with you some more fagots, for these are not

sufficient."

The night rider, having reached the road, soon passed by the chatting

friends like a shadow. He, however, recognized the young heir, as in

riding by them he pulled off his cap and saluted:

"Praised be the Lord!"

"Now and forever."

And for some time they walked in silence.

Ladislaus began to whistle quietly and to shout at the dog, but

Gronski, who was cogitating upon what had occurred in the mill, said:

"Do you know that if you were an Englishman, for instance, your idyl

would have ended, in all probability, differently, and you would

throughout your life have had a chaste remembrance, in which there

would be great poetry."

"We eat less fish, therefore have a temperament differing from the

Englishmen. As to poetry, perhaps there also was a little of it in our

affair."

"It is not so much different temperament as different usages, and in

that is the relief. They have a soul, healthier and at the same time,

more independent, and do not borrow their morality from French books."

After which he meditated for a while and then continued:

"You say that in your relations there was a little poetry. Certainly,

but looking at it only from Hanka's side, not yours. In her, really,

there is something poetical, for, deducing from your own words, she

loved you truly."

"That is certain," said Ladislaus. "Who knows whether I ever in my life

will be loved as much?"

"I think that you will not. For that reason, I am astonished that this

stone should drop into the depth of your forgetfulness and that you

should have so completely effaced it."

These words touched Krzycki somewhat, so he replied:

"Candidly speaking, I related all this to you for the purpose of

explaining why I do not accept the bequest, and, in the naivete of my

soul, I thought that you would praise me. But you are only seeking sore

spots. Indeed, I would, after all, have preferred that this had not

happened, but, since it happened, it is best not to think of it. For if

I had as many millions as there are girls seduced every year in the

villages, I could purchase not only Rzeslewo, but one half of the

county. I can assure you that they themselves do not look upon it as a

tragedy, neither do such things end in misfortune. It would plainly be

laughable if I took this to heart more than Hanka who in all

probability did not take it to heart and does not."

"How do you know?"

"That is usually the case. But if it were the reverse, what can I do?

Surely I will not journey across the ocean to seek her. In a book that

might perhaps appear very romantic, but in reality I have an estate

which I cannot abandon and a family which it is not permissible for me

to sacrifice. Such a Hanka, with whom, speaking parenthetically, you

have soured me by recalling, may be the most honest girl, but to marry

her--of course I could not marry her; therefore what, after all, can I

do?"

"I do not know; but you must agree that there is a certain moral

unsavoriness in the situation in which a man, after committing a wrong,

afterwards asks himself or others, 'What can I do?'"

"Oh, that was only a facon de parler," replied Krzycki, "for, on the

whole, I know perfectly. I will publish the advertisements and with

that everything will end. The penance, which the priest at the proper

time imposed upon me, I have performed, and I do not intend to make any

further atonement."

To this Gronski said:

"Sero molunt deorum molae. Do you understand what that means in Polish?"

"Having assumed the management of Jastrzeb, I sowed all my latinity

over its soil, but it has not taken root."

"That means: The mills of the gods grind late."

Krzycki began to laugh and, pointing his hand in the direction of the

old mill, said:

"That one will not grind anything any more; I guarantee that."

Further conversation was interrupted by their meeting near the gates

two indistinct forms, with which they almost collided, for though the

moon had already ascended, in the old linden walk it was completely

dark.

Ladislaus thought that they were the lady visitors enjoying an evening

stroll, but for certainty asked, "Who is there?"

"We," answered an unknown feminine voice.

"And who in particular?"

"Servants of Pani Otocka and Miss Anney."

The young man recalled the young girl whose dark head obstructed his

view of the lustrous hair of the English woman during the May mass.

"Aha!" he said. "Do not you young girls fear to walk in the darkness? A

were-wolf might carry off one of you."

"We are not scared," answered the same voice.

"And perhaps I am a were-wolf?"

"A were-wolf does not look like that."

Both girls began to laugh and withdrew a few steps; at the same time a

bright ray darted through the leaves and illumined the white forehead,

black eyebrows, and the whites of the eyes of one of them, which

glittered greenishly.

Krzycki, who was flattered by the words that a werewolf did not look

like that, gazed at those eyes and said:

"Good-night!"

"Good-night!"

The ladies, with Dolhanski, were already in the dining-room, as the

service of the supper awaited only the hunters who, after their return,

withdrew to change their apparel. Marynia sat at one end of the table

with the children and conversed a little with them and a little with

Laskowicz, who was relating something to her with great animation,

gazing all the time at her with intense fixedness and also with

wariness that no one should observe him. Gronski, however, did observe

him and, as the young student had interested and disquieted him from

the time he learned of his agitation among the Rzeslewo peasants, he

desired to participate in the conversation. But Marynia at that moment

having heard the conclusion, joined the other ladies, who, having

previously heard from the balcony the shooting in the direction of the

old mill, inquired about the results of the hunt. It appearing that

neither Miss Anney nor the two sisters had ever seen woodcocks except

upon a platter, the old servant upon Krzycki's order brought the four

lifeless victims. They viewed them with curiosity, expressed tardy

commiseration for their tragic fate, and asked about their manner of

life. Ladislaus, whom the animal world had interested from early years,

began to relate at the supper the strange habits of those birds and

their mysterious flights. While thus occupied he paid particular

attention to Pani Otocka, for he was, for the first time, struck by her

uncommonly fine stature. On the whole, he preferred other, less subtile

kinds of beauty, and prized, above all else, buxom women. He observed,

however, that on that night Pani Otocka looked extraordinarily

handsome. Her unusually delicate complexion appeared yet more delicate

in her black lace-stitched dress, and in her eyes, in the outlines of

her lips, in the expression of her countenance, and in her whole form

there was something so maidenly that whoever was not aware of her

widowhood would have taken her for a maid of a good country family.

Ladislaus, from the first arrival of these ladies, had indeed enlisted

on the side of Miss Anney, but at the present moment he had to concede

in his soul that the Englishwoman was not a specimen of so refined a

race and, what was worse, she seemed to him that day less beautiful

than this "subtile cousin."

But at the same time he made a strange discovery, namely: that this

observation not only did not lessen his sympathy for the light-haired

lady, but in some manner moved him strongly and inclined him to a

greater friendship for her; as if by that comparison with Pani Otocka

he had done an undeserved wrong to the Englishwoman, for which he ought

to apologize to her. "I must be on my guard," he thought, "otherwise I

will fall." He began to search for the celestial flow in her eyes and,

finding it, drank its dim azure, drop by drop.

In the meantime Pani Krzycki, desirous of learning the earliest plans

of the sisters, began to ask Pani Otocka whether they were going to

travel abroad, and where.

"The doctor," she said, "sends me to mineral baths on account of my

rheumatism, but I would be delighted to spend one more summer with you

somewhere."

"And to us your sojourn at Krynica left the most agreeable memories,"

replied Pani Otocka; "particularly, as we are in perfect health, we

willingly would remain in the village and more willingly would invite

Aunt to us, with her entire household, were it not that the times are

so troublous and it is unknown what may happen on the morrow. But if it

will quiet down. Aunt, after her recovery, must certainly pay us a

visit."

Saying this, she ardently kissed the hand of Pani Krzycki who said:

"How good you are and how lovable! I would with all my heart go to you,

only, with my health, I must not obey the heart but various hidden

ailments. Besides, the times are really troublous and I understand it

is rather dangerous for ladies to remain alone in the villages. Have

you any reliable people in Zalesin?"

"I do not fear my own people as they were very much attached to my

husband, and now that attachment has passed to me. My husband taught

them, above all things, patriotism, and at the same time introduced

improvements which did not exist elsewhere. We have an orphanage,

hospital, baths, stores, and fruit nurseries for the distribution of

small trees. He even caused artesian wells to be sunk to provide enough

healthful water for the village."

Dolhanski, hearing this, leaned towards Krzycki and whispered:

"A capitalist's fantasy. He regarded his wife and Zalesin as two

playthings which he fondled, and played the role of a philanthropist

because he could afford it."

But Pani Krzycki again began to ask:

"Who now is in charge of Zalesin?"

And the young widow, having cast off a momentary sad recollection,

answered with a smile:

"In the neighborhood they say Dworski rules Zalesin.--He is the old

accountant of my husband and is very devoted to us.--I rule Dworski,

and Marynia rules me."

"And that is the truth," interjected Miss Anney, "with this addition,

and me also."

To this Marynia shook her head and said:

"Oh, Aunt, if you only knew how they sometimes twit me!"

"Somehow I do not see that, but I think that the time will come when

somebody will rule you also."

"It has already come," broke out Marynia.

"So? That is curious. Who is that despot?"

And the little violinist, pointing with a quick movement of her little

finger at Gronski, said:

"That gentleman."

"Now I understand," said Dolhanski, "why, after our return from the

notary, he had a teapot full of hot water over his head."

Gronski shrugged his shoulders, like a man who had been charged with

unheard-of things, and exclaimed:

"I? A despot? Why, I am a victim, the most hypnotized of all."

"Then Pan Laskowicz is the hypnotizer, not I," answered the young miss,

"for he himself at supper was telling me about hypnotism and explaining

what it is."

Gronski looked toward the other end of the table, in the direction of

the student, and saw his eyes, strained, refractory, and glistening,

fastened upon Marynia.

"Aha!" he thought, "he actually is trying his powers upon her."

He frowned and, addressing her, said:

"Nobody in truth knows what hypnotism is. We see its manifestations and

nothing more. But how did Laskowicz explain it to you?"

"He told me what I already had heard before; that the person put to

sleep must perform everything which the operator commands, and even

when awakened must submit to the operator's will."

"That is untrue," said Gronski.

"And I think likewise. He claimed also that he could put me to sleep

very easily, but I feel that he cannot."

"Excellent! Do such things interest you?"

"Hypnotism a little. But if it is to be anything mysterious, then I

prefer to hear about spirits; especially do I like to hear the stories

which one of our neighbors relates about fairies. He says they are

called sprites, and indulge in all kinds of tricks in old houses, and

they can be seen at night time through the windows in rooms where the

fire is burning in the hearth. There they join hands and dance before

the fire."

"Those are gay fairies."

"And not malicious, though mischievous. Our aged neighbor piously

believes in them and quarrels about them with the rector. He says his

house is full of them and that they are continually playing pranks:

sometimes pulling the coils of the clock to make it ring; sometimes

hiding his slippers and other things; making noise during the night;

hitching crickets to nut-shells and driving with them over the rooms;

in the kitchen they skim the milk and throw peas into the fire to make

them pop. If you do not vex them, they are benevolent, driving away

spiders and mice, and watching that the mushrooms do not soil the

floor. This neighbor of ours at one time was a man of great education,

but in his old age has become queer, and he tells us this in all

seriousness. We, naturally, laugh at it, but I confess that I very much

wish that such a world did exist;--strange and mysterious! There would

be in it something so good and nice, and less sadness."

Here she began to look off with dreamy eyes and afterwards continued:

"I remember also that whenever we discussed Boecklin's pictures, those

fauns, nymphs, and dryads which he painted, I always regretted that all

that did not exist in reality. And sometimes it seemed to me that they

might exist, only we do not see them. For, in truth, who knows what

happens in the woods at noontime or night time, when no one is there;

or in the mists during the moonlight or upon the ponds? Belief in such

a world is not wholly childish, since we believe in angels."

"I also believe in fairies, nymphs, dryads, and angels," answered

Gronski.

"Really?" she asked, "for you always speak to me as to a child."

And he answered her only mentally:

"I speak as with a child, but I idolize."

But further conversation was interrupted by the servant, who informed

Ladislaus that the steward of Rzeslewo had arrived and desired to see

the "bright young lord" on a very important matter. Krzycki apologized

to the company and with the expression, customary with country

husbandmen, "What is up now?" left the room. As the supper was almost

finished, they all began to move, after the example of the lady of the

house, who, however, for a while endeavored in vain to rise, for the

rheumatism during the past two days afflicted her more and more.

Similar attacks occurred often and in such cases her son usually

conducted her from room to room. But in this instance Miss Anney, who

sat nearest to her, came to her assistance and, taking her in her arms,

lifted her easily, skillfully, and without any exertion.

"I thank you, I thank you," said Pani Krzycki, "for otherwise I would

have to wait for Laudie. Ah, my God, how good it is to be strong!"

"Oh, in me you have a veritable Samson," answered Miss Anney in her

pleasant, subdued voice.

But at that moment Ladislaus, who evidently recalled that he had to

escort his mother, rushed into the room and, seeing what was taking

place, exclaimed:

"Permit me, Miss Anney. That is my duty. You will fatigue yourself."

"Not the least."

"Ah, Laudie," said Pani Krzycki, "to tell the truth, I do not know

which one of you two is the stronger."

"Is it truly so?" he asked, looking with rapt eyes upon the slender

form of the girl.

And she began to wink with her eyes in token that such was the fact,

but at the same time blushed as if ashamed of her unwomanly strength.

Ladislaus, however, assisted her to seat his mother at the table in the

small salon, at which she was accustomed to amuse herself in the

evenings by laying out cards to forecast fortunes. On this occasion he

unintentionally brushed his shoulder against Miss Anney's shoulder and,

when he felt those steel-like young muscles, a violent thrill suddenly

penetrated through him and at the same time he was possessed by a

perception of some elementary, unheard-of, blissful power. If he were

Gronski and ever in his life had read Lucretius' hymn to Venus, he

would have been able to know and name that power. But as he was only a

twenty-seven-year-old, healthy nobleman, he only thought that the

moments in which he would be free to hug such a girl to his bosom would

be worth the sacrifice of Jastrzeb, Rzeslewo, and even life.

But in the meanwhile he had to return to the steward of Rzeslewo, who

waited for him in the office upon an urgent matter. Their talk lasted

so long that when Ladislaus reappeared in the small salon, the young

ladies had already withdrawn to their rooms. Only his mother, who was

purposely waiting, desirous of knowing what was the matter, remained,

with Gronski and with Dolhanski, who was playing baccarat with himself.

"What is the news?" asked Pani Krzycki.

"Absolutely nothing good. Only let Mamma not get alarmed, for we are of

course here in Jastrzeb and not in Rzeslewo; and eventually we can

brush this aside with our hands. But nevertheless, strange things are

occurring there and Kapuscinski, in any event, did right to come here."

"For the Lord's sake, who is Kapuscinski?" exclaimed Dolhanski,

dropping the monocle from his eye.

"The steward of Rzeslewo. He says that some unknown persons, probably

from Warsaw, appeared there and are acting like gray geese in the

skies. They issue commands, summon the peasants, incite them, promising

them the lands and even order them to take possession of the stock.

They predict it will be the same in all Poland as it is in Rzeslewo--"

"And what of the peasants? what of the peasants?" interrupted Pani

Krzycki.

"Some believe them, while others do not. The more sensible, who attempt

to resist, are threatened with death. The manor farm-hands will not

obey Kapuscinski and say that they will only pasture and feed the

cattle, but will not touch any other work. About fifteen of the tenants

are preparing to go to the woods with hatchets and they declare that,

if the foresters interfere with their right to cut wood, they will give

them a good drubbing. Kapuscinski has lost his head completely and came

to me, as one of the executors of the will, for advice."

"And what did you tell him?"

"As he declared to me that he was not certain of his life in Rzeslewo,

I advised him by all means to pass the night with us in Jastrzeb. I

wanted first to consult Mother and you, for in fact, advice under the

circumstances is difficult to give and the situation is grave. Of

course such a situation cannot continue very long, and sooner or later

the peasants themselves will suffer the most by it. This we must

positively prevent. I will candidly state that for the past two days, I

have been considering whether it would not be better if I renounced the

curatorship of the new school and Rzeslewo matters in general. I

hesitated only because it is a public service, but in truth, I have so

much work to attend to here in Jastrzeb, that I do not know on what I

shall lay my hands first. But now, since it is necessary to rescue the

peasants, and since a certain amount of danger is connected with it, I

cannot retreat."

"I will fear about you, but I understand you," said Pani Krzycki.

"I think that by all means, I should drive over to-morrow morning to

Rzeslewo, but if I do not secure a hearing there, then what is to be

done?"

"You will not get any," said Dolhanski, not pausing in his distribution

of the cards.

"If you go, I will go with you," announced Pani Krzycki.

"Ah, that would be the only thing needful! Let Mamma only think that in

such a case I would be terribly hampered and certainly would not gain

anything."

After which he kissed her hand and said:

"No, no! Mamma does not understand that matters would be worse and, if

Mamma insists, then I would rather not go at all."

Gronski propped his head upon his hand and thought that it was easier

to analyze at a desk the various phases of life than to offer sound

advice in the presence of urgent events. Dolhanski at last stopped

playing baccarat with himself and said:

"The position we are placed in passes all comprehension. But were we in

any other country, the police would be summoned and the matter would

end in a day."

To this Ladislaus replied with some anger:

"As for that, permit me! I will not summon the police; not only not

against those peasants, but not even against those forbidden figures

who now haunt Rzeslewo. No, never!"

"Very well; long live an epoch of true freedom!"

"Who knows," said Gronski, "but that the summoning of the police would

just suit these gentlemen?"

"In what way?"

"Because they themselves, at the proper season, would disappear, but

later would incite the people again and would cry all over Poland,

'Behold! who appeals to the police against peasants.'"

"That is a pertinent observation," said Ladislaus; "now I understand

various things which I did not comprehend before."

"From the opening of the will," said Dolhanski, "Rzeslewo and its

inhabitants did not concern me in the least. However, one thought

occurred to me while dealing the cards. Laudie will drive over to

Rzeslewo to-morrow on a fruitless errand. He may receive only a sound

beating, without benefiting anybody--"

"It has never yet come to that, and that is something I do not fear.

Our family has lived in Jastrzeb from time immemorial, and the peasants

of this neighborhood would not raise their hands against a Krzycki--"

"Above all, do not interrupt me," said Dolhanski. "If you do not get a

sound thrashing--and I assume that you may not--then you will not

secure a hearing, as you yourself foresaw a little while ago. If we

two, that is, Gronski and myself, went over there, we would not effect

anything because they have seen us at the funeral, and the estimable

Slavonians of Rzeslewo look upon us as men who have a personal interest

in the matter. It will be necessary that some one unknown go there, who

will not argue, but who will act as if he had the right and power and

will command the peasants to behave peaceably. Since you are so much

concerned about them, that will be the only way. So, then, since by

virtue of the unfathomable decrees of Providence there exist in this

beloved land of ours National Democrats, whom, parenthetically

speaking, I cannot endure any more than the seven-spot of clubs, but

who, in all probability, have fists as sweaty and as heavy as the

socialists,--could you not settle this matter with their assistance?"

"Of course, naturally, naturally!" exclaimed Gronski; "the peasants,

after all, have great confidence in the National party."

"I also belong to that party with my whole heart," said Krzycki, "but,

sitting, like a stone, in Jastrzeb, I do not know to whom to apply."

"In any case, not to me," said Dolhanski.

But Gronski, though he did not belong to any faction, thoroughly knew

the city and easily suggested the addresses and the manner in which the

party could be notified. He afterwards said:

"And now I will give you one word of advice, the same which you,

Laudie, gave Kapuscinski, namely, that we go to sleep, for you,

especially, madam,"--here he addressed the lady of the house--"were

entitled to that long ago. Is it agreed?"

"Agreed," answered Ladislaus; "but wait a few minutes. After conducting

Mother, I will accompany you upstairs."

Within a quarter of an hour he returned, but instead of bidding his

guests the promised "good-night" he drew closer to them and resumed the

interrupted conversation.

"I did not wish to relate everything before Mother," he said, "in order

not to alarm her. But in fact the matter is much worse. So, speaking

first of what concerns us, imagine for yourself that those strangers

immediately after their arrival asked first of all about Laskowicz, and

that Laskowicz was in Rzeslewo this afternoon and returned here an hour

before we came back from the hunt. Now it is positively certain that we

have in our midst an agitator."

"Then throw him out," interrupted Dolhanski. "If I were in your place,

I would have done that long ago, if only for the reason that he has

eyes set closely to each other, like a baboon. In a man that indicates

fanaticism and stupidity."

"Unquestionably I will be done with him to-morrow, and I would end with

him even to-day, notwithstanding the late hour, were it not that I

desire first to calm down and not create any foolish disturbance. I do

not like this, and I would not advise those apostles to peer into

Jastrzeb. As I live, I would not advise it."

"Have they any intention of paying you a visit?"

"Certainly. If not to me personally, then to my farmhands. They

announced in Rzeslewo that they would cause an agrarian strike in the

entire vicinity."

"Then my advice, to drive out one wedge with another, is the most

feasible."

"Assuredly. I will adopt that course without delay."

"I know," said Gronski, "that they want to inaugurate agrarian strikes

throughout the whole country. They will not succeed as the peasant

element will repel their efforts. They, like most people from the

cities, do not take into account the relation of man to the soil.

Nevertheless, there will be considerable losses and the confusion will

increase, and this is what they chiefly care for. Ah! Shakespeare's

'sun of foolery' not only shines in our land, but is in the zenith."

"If we are talking of that kind of a sun, we can, like a former king of

Spain, say that it never sets in our possessions."

But Gronski spoke farther:

"Socialism--good! That, of course, is a thing more ancient than

Menenius Agrippa. That river has flown for ages. At times, when covered

by other ideas, it coursed underground, and later emerged into the

broad daylight. At times it subsides, then swells and overflows. At

present we have a flood, very menacing, which may submerge not only

factories, cities, and countries, but even civilization. Above all, it

threatens France, where comfort and money have displaced all other

ideas. Socialism is the inevitable result of that. Capital wedded to

demagogism cannot breed any other child; and if that child has the head

of a monster and mole, so much the worse for the father. It

demonstrates that superfluous wealth may be a national danger. But this

is not strange. Privilege is an injustice against which men have fought

for centuries. Formerly the princes, clergy, and nobility were vested

with it. To-day nobody has any; money possesses all. In truth, Labor

has stepped forth to combat with it."

"This begins to smell to me like an apology for socialism," observed

Dolhanski.

"No. It is not an apology. For, above all things, viewing this matter

from above, what is this new current but one more delusion in the human

chase after happiness? For myself, I only contend that socialism has

come, or rather, it has gathered strength, because it was bound to

grow. I care only about its looks and whether it could not have a

different face. And here my criticism begins. I do not deem socialism a

sin in the socialists, but only that the idea in their school assumes

the lineaments of an malignant idiot. I accuse our socialists of

incredible stupidity; like that of the ants who wrangled with and bit

the working ants, while the ant-eater was lying on the ant-hill and

swallowing them by thousands."

"True," cried Ladislaus.

"And, of course," concluded Gronski, "on our ant-hills there lie a

whole herd of ant-eaters."

Here Dolhanski again dropped the monocle from his eye.

"That you may not retire to sleep under a disagreeable impression," he

said, "I will tell you an anecdote which will illustrate what Gronski

has said. During the last exposition in Paris, one of the black kings

of French Congo, having heard of it, announced his wish to see it. The

Colonial government, which was anxious to send as many exotic figures

as possible to Paris, not only consented, but sent to this monarch a

few shirts with the information that in France such articles of attire

were indispensable. Naturally the shirts excited general admiration and

surprise. The King summoned ministers, priests, and leaders of parties

for a consultation as to how such a machine was to be put on. After

long debates, which undoubtedly could not be held without bitter

clashes between the native rationalists and the native nationalists and

progressionists, all doubts were finally set at rest. The king pulled

the sleeves of the shirt over his legs, so that the cuffs were at his

ankles. The bottom edge of the shirt, which in this instance became the

top, was fastened under his arm-pits by a string in such a manner that

the bosom was on his back and the opening was at his neck--somewhat

lower. Delighted with this solution of the difficulty, the ruler

acknowledged that the attire, if not entirely, was, at least in certain

respects, very practical and, above all, extraordinarily striking."

"Good," said Gronski, laughing, "but what connection has that with what

I had previously said?"

"Greater than may appear to you," replied Dolhanski; "for the fact is

that the various Slavonians are prepared to bear liberty and the

socialists socialism in the same manner as that negro king wore his

European shirt."

Saying this, he replaced the monocle in his eye and announced that as

in virtuous Jastrzeb and in such company there could not be any talk of

a "night card party," he would take his leave and go to sleep. The

others decided to follow his example. Ladislaus took the lamp and began

to light the way for the guests. On the stairs he turned to them with a

countenance which depicted ill humor and said:

"May the deuce take it, but all these disturbances must occur at a time

when we have in Jastrzeb such lovely ladies."

"Beware," answered Dolkanski, "and know that nothing can be concealed

from my eyes. When you assisted Miss Anney to conduct your mother, you

looked like an electrical machine. If anybody drew a wire through

you, you could illuminate not only the mansion but the adjoining

out-buildings."

Ladislaus raised the lamp higher so that the light would not fall upon

his countenance, for he felt at that moment that he blushed like a

student.