IX

Ladislaus Krzycki possessed such a happy nature that, having once lain

down to sleep, he could a few minutes later fall into a deep slumber

which would continue until the morning. That night, however, he could

not fall asleep because the impressions of the day, together with the

parting words of Dolhanski, had led him into a state of exasperation

and anger. He was angry at Rzeslewo; at the disturbances which were

taking place there; at Dolhanski because he had observed the impression

which the young girl had made upon him--and particularly because he

himself had afforded him an opportunity to comment upon it--and finally

at the innocent Miss Anney. After a time, rolling from side to side, he

opened an imaginary conversation with her, in which he assumed the role

of a man, who, indeed, does not deny that he is deeply under the spell,

nevertheless, can view matters soberly and sanely. Therefore he

admitted to Miss Anney that she was handsome and amiable; that she had

an immensely sympathetic voice, a strange, fascinating look, and a body

like marble--ah, what a body! Nevertheless, he made the explicit

reservation that she must not think that he loved her to distraction,

or was even smitten with her. He would concede anything to her that she

desired, but to admit that he was in love with her was as far removed

from his thoughts as love is from matrimony, of which, of course, there

could not be any talk. Above all, she was a foreigner, and Mother in

that respect had her prejudices, justly so; and he himself would prefer

to have at his side during the remainder of his life a Polish soul and

not a foreign one. True, there was something homelike in her, but after

all, she was not a Pole. "Identical blood has its own meaning; it

cannot be helped," he further told Miss Anney. "So, since you are an

Englishwoman, marry some Englishman or Scotchman, provided, however,

you do not require me to form the acquaintance of such an ape and

become intimate with him, for that is something I can dispense with

perfectly." And at that moment he was seized with such a sudden,

unexpected antipathy to that eventual Englishman "with projecting jaw"

and Scotchman "with bare knees," that he felt that upon a trivial

misunderstanding he could flog them. But through this attack of rage he

roused himself completely from that half-drowsy, half-wakeful condition

in which whimsical fancies mingle, and having recovered his senses, he

experienced a great relief in the thought that the betrothed person

beyond the sea was only a figment of his imagination, and at the same

time a wave of gratitude towards Miss Anney surged in his heart. "Here

I am, quarrelling with her and making reservations," he thought, "while

she is snugly nestling her bright head upon a pillow and peacefully

slumbering." Here again his blood began to frisk, but soon the perverse

musings vanished. This became easier for him, as he was encompassed by

a yearning for honest affection and for that future being, yet unnamed,

who was to share his life. Again he resumed his imaginary conversation

with Miss Anney, but this time in a meek spirit. He assured her, with a

certain melancholy, that he was not solicitous about her, as he well

knew that even if there were no obstacles she certainly would not have

him, but that he was anxious that his future life-companion should

resemble her a little; that she should have the same look and the same

magnetic strength to which, if he did not succumb it would be a

miracle. As to Miss Anney personally, plainly speaking, he owed only

gratitude. Of course, nowhere was it so well with him as at his beloved

Jastrzeb, but nevertheless he could not deny that in that exclusive den

it became lively and bright after her arrival; and that after her

departure it would become darker, more dreary and monotonous than ever

before. So for those bright moments he would willingly kiss her hand

and, if that seemed insufficient to her, then her feet. In the meantime

he begged her pardon for the mad thoughts which passed through his

brain when he brushed against her shoulder in the salon, for though he

was always of the opinion that responsiveness upon her part was worth

the sacrifice of life, yet at the same time he had to contend that

Dolhanski was a blockhead and cynic who meddled with matters which did

not concern him and who was unworthy of notice. Here renewed rage

against Dolhanski possessed him, and he continued for some time to toss

from side to side until finally the late hour, youth, hungry for sleep,

and weariness sprinkled his eyes with poppy.[3]

There was, however, in the Jastrzeb manor-house another who did not

sleep and who talked with a person not present, and that was Laskowicz.

After all that had taken place and what had been revealed in the past

few days, he was prepared for his farewell parting with the Krzycki

family, as he well knew that his further presence in Jastrzeb would be

intolerable. And nevertheless he desired at present to stay in it, even

though for a few days, in order that he might gaze longer upon Panna

Marynia and, as he called it, "further narcotize himself." Somehow,

from the first moment he had heard her play, she actually absorbed his

thoughts in a way that no woman up to that time had done. Foremost

among the prepared formulae which he, with dogmatic faith, had adopted

to judge mankind with, was the precept that a woman belonging to the

so-called pampered class was a thoughtless creature. In the meantime he

had to dissent at once from that formula as a soul had spoken to him

through the violin. Later he was astonished to find in that young lady

two entities, one of which manifested itself in music as a finished

artist, concentrated, filled with exaltation within herself, dissolved

in the waves of tones and playing as if she drew the bow over her own

nerves; the other appeared in every-day life in her customary relations

with people. The latter seemed at the first glance of the eye, if not

an insignificant, a common girl, full of simplicity and even gaiety,

who screamed like a cat when Dolhanski, for instance, said things

disagreeable to her; who jested with Gronski, telling him absurdities

about spirits or, to the great alarm of Gronski and her older sister,

fled into the garden for a boat ride on the pond. Laskowicz did not

fully comprehend the world and was not a subtle person; nevertheless,

he observed in the "common girl" something which made her, as it were,

a little divinity, haloed with a quiet worship. Evidently she herself

did not appear to be conscious of this and, viewing such a state of

affairs as something which was self-understood, she lived the life of a

flower or a bird. Confident that she will not suffer any harm from any

one, gentle, bright, living beyond the misery and wretchedness of life,

beyond its cares, beyond its chilling winds which dim the eyes with

tears, beyond the dust which defiles, she resembled a pure spring which

people look upon as blessed and whose translucency they fear to muddy.

It seemed that the environment did not exact of her anything more than

that she should exist, just as nothing more is demanded of a

masterpiece.

To Laskowicz, as often as he gazed at her, there came recollection of

his childhood days. He and his older brother, who, a few years before

falling into consumption had committed suicide on the Riviera, were the

sons of a woman who conducted near one of the churches in Warsaw a shop

for the sale of consecrated wax candles, medals, rosaries, and

pictures. Owing to this, both brothers were, in a way, bred upon the

church portals and were in constant relations with the priests. Once it

happened that the aged canon, the rector of the church, bought at an

auction an alabaster statuette of some saint, and for an unknown reason

took it for granted that it was not only the work, but the masterpiece

of Canova. The statuette, which, in reality, was pretty and finely

executed, after consecration, was placed in a separate niche near one

of the altars under the name of Saint Apollonia and from that time the

gentle old rector surrounded it with great worship as a holy relic and

with more particular care as the greatest church rarity. He led his

guests and more pious parishioners before it and commanded them to

admire the work and got angry if any one ventured to make any critical

observation. In fact, the admiration of the canon was shared by the

organist, the sexton, the church servants, and both boys. The thought

that Panna Marynia amidst her environment was such a Saint Apollonia

unwittingly suggested itself to Laskowicz. For that reason, after the

first impression he called her "a saintly doll." But he also recalled

that when in the course of time he lost his faith--and he lost it in

the gymnasium where, speaking parenthetically, he completed his studies

with the aid of the venerable canon--he often was beset with a desire

to demolish that alabaster statuette. At present he was consumed with a

greater desire, for it bordered upon a passion, to destroy this living

one. And yet he did not in the least bear her any hatred. On the

contrary, he could not resist the charm of this maiden, so loved by

all, any more than one can resist the charm of dawn or spring. It even

happened that what vexed and exasperated him also at the same time

attracted him towards her with an uncontrollable force. Consequently he

was drawn to her by her appurtenance to this world, the existence of

which he deemed a social injustice, crime, and wrong; she attracted him

in spite of his internal anguish, and even by the thought that beside

such a flower the proletariat was but manure. A lure for him was her

refined culture and her art, though he regarded such things as

superfluous and unnecessary for people of deflorated life; the

fascination was her utter dissimilarity to the women whom he met up to

the time of his arrival at the village, and her whole form was an

intoxication. Never before was he under the same roof with a being like

her; therefore he forgot himself and lost his head at the sight of her,

and though he had not yet familiarized himself with the power which

began to play in his bosom and had not christened it with the name of

love, the truth was that during the past few days he was aflame like a

volcano and loved her to distraction. He vaguely felt, however, that in

this passion there was something of the lust of a negro for a white

woman, and what was more, that in that particular love there was

apostasy to principles. So then in the same germ he poisoned her with

the virus of hatred and the wolfish propensity of annihilation.

And now he was summoning this "saintly doll" to come to him. Accepting,

indiscriminately, and also with all that exaggeration peculiar to

fanaticism and youth, everything which the books published as the

results of the latest researches or phenomena in the domain of science,

he believed that hypnotism was a secret and gigantic power which, when

applied, would become invincible. Holding himself on the strength of

experiments tried among his classmates as a hypnotizer, and considering

the delicate and impressionable young girl an excellent medium, he was

most firmly convinced that he could put her to sleep and command her

from a distance. Conscience, indeed, whispered to him that what he

contemplated doing was an abuse of science, but he silenced that voice,

persuading himself that it would at the same time be a triumph of a

proletaire over this world, for which it is not permissible to have any

pity, and that a man belonging to the camp which had declared a war of

life and death on the entire social structure and "had appraised at

their true worth" all current ideas has the right to and must be

heedless.

Above all, however, he yearned to subjugate this elegant and immaculate

maiden, to dominate not merely her body and soul, but also her will; to

transform her into something like himself; to draw her to himself, to

awaken within her the slumbering feminine instincts, to open before her

the closed doors of passion; to inflame her, to embrace her, to toy

with her, and afterwards keep her forever close to his bosom. And at

that thought he was beset by a strange joy like that which madmen feel

while profaning objects held in reverence and fear, and,

simultaneously, lust and love within him intensified. He felt that

after all that and for all of that, he would love this booty of his,

this sacrifice, to distraction.

But as he was a madman only about the heart of a maid, and not a

depraved man, he was at times possessed by a tenderness so great that

if his summons were productive of any results he might not pass the

bounds of transgression. But these were transient moments; after which,

straining the whole strength of his will and the sight of his closely

set eyes in the direction of Marynia's sleeping chamber he said and

commanded: "Rise!--do not light the candles--do not awaken your

sister--open the door quietly and walk in darkness on the path of my

thoughts until you come to me, to my arms, to my bosom!" And he

imagined that at any moment he would behold her, resembling that

alabaster statuette, entering with the mechanical step of a

somnambulist in a single gown, silvery, dreamy, with head tilted

backward, with closed eyes and opened lips drinking the lustre of the

moon which shone in the windows. Afterwards he listened in the silence

and, concentrating yet more powerfully his will, he repeated again with

emphasis as if each word was chiselled out of stone: "Rise! do not

light the candles--do not waken your sister--open the door--go on the

path of my thoughts--and come!"

Horrible indeed would have been the fate of the young lady were it not

for one fortunate circumstance, and that was that she never dreamt of

rising, opening the door, going on the path of his thoughts, etc. On

the contrary, she slept as peacefully as if an angel had bent over her

and with the movements of her wings had driven away from her

disquieting and feverish dreams. The little household fairies of

Jastrzeb, such as those about which she spoke to Gronski, also did not

disturb her repose. Perhaps some of them chased the moths from the

windows in order that they might not make any noise by striking the

window-panes; perhaps others, climbing the curtains and window sashes,

gazed at her from a distance with their keen little eyes and whispered

to each other: "Sleep, little maiden, who played for us on the

violin--sleep--hush--let us not waken her." And though a desire to turn

the pins of the violin and touch the chords with their tiny fingers may

have taken hold of them, they did not, however, do so, through honesty

and hospitality. Through the openings of the shutters the moonlight

streamed in, brightening the interior and slowly advancing on the

opposite wall. The silence was great; only somewhere beyond the house

the night-watch on the premises whistled; while within the house the

old standing clock, which measured the lives of several generations,

continued to speak with resignation the "Tick!--Tack!--Tick!" of the

seconds sinking into the past.

And Laskowicz in the course of time issued further commands from his

room which reached no one's knowledge. A strange thing! Inwardly

something was telling him with sober, almost absolute certainty that

the maid would not come and he nevertheless believed that she ought to

have come. Not until a long time elapsed, did the consciousness dawn

upon him that if she did not come, then he, together with his

hypnotism, played the role of an addle-pated fool. Finally fatigue,

disaffection, and anger at himself gripped him. Sleep irrevocably left

him. Hour flew after hour. In the east the sky was deepening and it was

becoming green. Soon the rosy lower border was striped with the

transparent riband of dawn. The young student, not undressing himself

at all, opened the window to breathe the bracing morning air. In the

garden the first chirp of the birds began, and from the direction of

the not distant pond, with the odor of the acacias, came the cries of

herons and the subdued, as if yet sleepy, quacks of the wild ducks.

After a while the sweep of the well creaked in the village.

It then occurred to Laskowicz that this was the last daybreak he was to

behold in Jastrzeb; that on the morrow he would wake in the city and

would not see either Panna Marynia or little Anusia whom only, of all

the inmates of that Jastrzeb mansion, he liked; and he felt a little

sorrow. But as he understood that, after the arrival of his party

associates at Rzeslewo and yesterday's visit of the steward Kapuscinski

to Krzycki, it was unavoidable, he preferred to tender his resignation

rather than suffer a dismissal. With this intention, he decided to

write a letter to Ladislaus and inform him that he had enough of

pedagogical work. He foresaw that eventually they would have to see

each other, if only at the payment of the salary, and as a dispute

about principles might arise which might go very far, he had a revolver

ready for certain contingencies. He deemed that, before that happened,

a dry, peremptory letter would be a step more consonant with his pride;

therefore, when it was quite bright, he sat down immediately to write.

Krzycki awoke, though not in the dusk, nevertheless with the rise of

the sun, for in the country he thus habituated himself to wake,

regardless of whether he retired to bed early or late. He felt in his

bones that he had had too little rest and, stretching out his arms, he

said to himself that he would be repaid only in case Miss Anney at some

time would learn that he lost that sleep for her sake and would pity

him, though slightly. Meanwhile he recalled to his mind all that he was

to do that day and formulated the following plan; he would rouse

himself, drive out the lassitude in his bones; afterwards, before

breakfast, would drive over to Rzeslewo and "look a little in the eyes

of those worthies;" and if possible talk with the peasants; later he

would return; after breakfast he would finish with Laskowicz and send

him away with the team which was to bring the physician; the balance of

his time, he would devote to the guests, to writing letters, and to the

farm. He positively determined to go to Rzeslewo, because, though he

agreed in his heart with Dolhanski that for the nonce he would be

unable to accomplish anything, nevertheless, he did not wish the ladies

to think that he stayed away through fear.

Having arranged everything in this manner, he carelessly put on his

clothes and, slipping his feet into his slippers, repaired to the

bath-room, without any foreboding that he would meet with an unusual

accident and that he was soon to see, not in truth such an alabaster

statuette as the one Laskowicz was raving about all night, but, at any

rate, something resembling Diana in a fountain. In the second in which

he opened the door he saw streams of water splashing and beheld under a

shower-sprinkler a nude, female figure, strewed with pearls of azure,

with head somewhat inclined, and hands raised to her hair, whose black

waves concealed her face. This lasted only a twinkle of the eye. A

suppressed scream and the slam of the closed door resounded

simultaneously. Krzycki rushed like the gale for his room; excited and

at the same time shocked, he clutched with shaking hand a decanter,

filled a glass of water, gulped it, and began to repeat confusedly:

"What has happened? Who is she? For God's sake, what has happened?" In

the first moments he conjectured that she might have been Pani Otocka,

or Marynia, and in such a case the misadventure would be appalling.

Those ladies would undoubtedly leave Jastrzeb at once and it would

perhaps be incumbent upon him to propose marriage to the one whom he

had seen in such paradisiacal shape. "But was it my fault?" he thought.

"Why didn't she lock the door? There was a bolt." He drank another

glass of water to cool his agitated blood and to think more calmly of

what he was to do and who that nymph was. Somehow after an interval he

reached the conclusion that she could not have been either of the

sisters. Firstly, why should they rise so early? and again, both were

slim, while this form was stouter and on the whole was built so,

that--Oh! Oh! Finally, he became satisfied that it surely must have

been no other than the brunette who obstructed his view of Miss Anney

during the mass and whom he met on the dark walk when returning with

Gronski from the hunt. If such was the case, nothing terrible had

happened, but rather the contrary. It occurred to his mind that those

blue window-panes were an excellent device, for in such a light the

spectacle was delightful. At the thought of this, he felt the necessity

of drinking a third glass of water. This, however, he did not do, but

instead, after an interval, went again to the bath-room, which now was

vacant, and after a cool bath dressed himself and hastened to the

stable. There he ordered a horse to be saddled and sped away on a

gallop for adjacent Rzeslewo.

The day was mild; the hour very early. But all nature was already awake

and bedewed, bathed in the sun, she appeared to simply cry out with

joy, just as village maids from an excess of life and health sing unto

forgetfulness, "Oj dana! Oj dana!" Birds carolled until the leaves on

the trees trembled. In the distant oak grove resounded the coo-cooing

of the cuckoo; yellow thrushes whistled amidst the boughs of lofty

trees; from the depths of the forest, sounding like the noise of a

sawmill, came the outcries of an old raven, watching a crowded nest,

while from time to time the shrieks of a jay, resembling a laugh, burst

forth.

Ladislaus rode out of the woods onto the open roadway. Here on one side

was a stretch of waving grain; on the other a meadow--from which odors

of turf and spring were wafted,--all overgrown with marigold and

rose-campion, quivering in the solar warmth and under the gentle breath

of the wind, as if in delight. This delight, this widespread joy and

luxuriance of life overflowed in the breast of Ladislaus. He felt

within himself such a vigor of youth and strength that he was prepared

to challenge to a hand-to-hand combat full hundreds of socialists and

at the same time press the whole world to his heart, especially women

under the age of thirty. The white vision of that Diana, enveloped in a

shell of blue pearls, again began to glide before his eyes, but he now

thought that if, instead of dark tresses on the bowed head of that

goddess, he had seen golden, he would have probably toppled over.

Amidst such sights and impressions he arrived at Rzeslewo, where,

however, in conformity with Dolhanski's prediction, he was unable to

accomplish anything. The "worthies" whom he wanted to look in the eyes

had left during the night time for the city; the husbandmen were in the

field, each upon his own patch of ground; the blinds of the rectory

were shut, as the rector for the last few days was feeling unwell. In

the manor out-building where the laborers dwelt there was not a sign of

a living soul. Later the old keeper of the stockyard informed him that

the hired help, after watering the stock, drove it out into the pasture

and went without asking the permission of any one to a church festival

at Brzesno, whither many of the husbandmen and tenants had also gone.

So, then, here was a strike of farm-hands and open contumacy, but

Krzycki was helpless. He only ordered the aged keeper of the stockyard

to tell the hired help that there would come to Rzeslewo to establish

order certain gentlemen before whom the vagabonds, who were there the

previous day, would abscond as soon as they heard of them; after which

he turned back and in half an hour was in Jastrzeb.

A servant told him that all were still asleep, excepting Laskowicz, who

had charged him with the delivery of a letter. Krzycki took it and went

with it to the office. Having read its contents, he rang for the

servant.

"Was he dressed when he gave you the letter?"

"Yes, sir, and was packing his things."

"Ask him if he can come to my office, and if he can, request him to

step in."

After a while, the young student entered the room.

Krzycki motioned to him to take a seat in the chair, which was near his

desk.

"Good day, sir! I learn from your letter that you wish to leave

Jastrzeb and that, at once. I presume that you have cogent reasons for

this step. I therefore regard any discussion of them as superfluous,

and will not detain you. Here you have what is due to you and the

horses will be ready at any time you desire."

But Laskowicz, who in money matters was extremely scrupulous, after

counting the money, said:

"You are paying me my whole salary, but as I am leaving before the

expiration of the term, I am not entitled to pay for the last month."

And somewhat discourteously he flung the unearned balance upon the

desk.

Krzycki's cheeks quivered slightly about the mustache, but as he had

pledged himself before Gronski that he would not create any disturbance

and had made the same promise to himself, he quietly replied:

"As you please."

"As for the departure," said Laskowicz, "I would prefer to leave at

once."

"As you please," repeated Krzycki. "In an hour I will send after the

physician for my mother and if it is convenient for you, you may go

with that team."

"Very well."

"Then the whole thing is settled. I will give orders at once."

Saying this, he rose and closed the desk, as if he wished to intimate

that the interview was over. Laskowicz glared at him with eyes blazing

with hatred. He did not seek any broil, but anticipating one, he stood

before Krzycki, bent like a bow. Meanwhile nothing approaching an

altercation occurred and the revolver, which he had ready for a certain

contingency, was of no service to him. There was no reference even to

the letter, though that was indited in harsh and rude terms.

Nevertheless there was something offensive in the cold tones in which

Krzycki spoke, something insulting in the eagerness with which he

accepted his offer of departure. To Laskowicz, who viewed everything

from his own standpoint, it seemed that the icy conversation

accentuated something else, namely, the attitude of a wealthy man who

owned Jastrzeb, a desk filled with money, horses, and equipages,

towards a poor, homeless fellow. But it did not occur to him at that

moment that he on his part had done nothing to improve their relations,

but on the contrary had done a great deal to make them worse, and that

from the time of his arrival he had shut himself, like a turtle in a

shell, in a doctrine inimical to these people. Everything conduced to

stir the bile within him to such a degree that he actually regretted

that the matter did not end in a personal encounter. But as in the

words of Krzycki there was nothing which gave him a pretext for one, he

abruptly left the room without any leave-taking and with redoubled

rancor.

Ladislaus rang to have the horses ready within an hour, and as it

happened to be Friday, he ordered the gardener to catch some fish;

after which he began to consider whether the affair with Laskowicz had

terminated in a desirable way. He was pleased and displeased with

himself. He felt a certain satisfaction and even pride in the fact that

he could be laconic and firm, cold but polite, and that he did not

stoop to any ruffianly dispute. But at the same time, notwithstanding

his pride, a certain disrelish remained, for which he could not account

as he was not sufficiently developed psychologically. He kept repeating

to himself that such scenes are always disagreeable, and so was the

whole business. In reality there was another reason for it. His whole

behavior, which appeared to him so temperate, sensible, and well-nigh

diplomatic, did not emanate from his temperament, but in direct

opposition to his not too deep, but open and impulsive nature. If he

had acted in keeping with it, he either would have come to blows with

the young student or else would have said something like this: "You

have strewn our path with thorns and have upset the minds of our

people, but since you are leaving, give me your hand and may you fare

well." The one or the other act would have been more consistent with

his character, and he would not have experienced that jarring which he

could not understand, but felt none the less.

But further reflections were interrupted by the servant with the

announcement that breakfast was ready and that the guests were at the

table. In fact, all had already assembled in the dining-room, through

which pervaded the odor of coffee and the hum of the samovar. At the

sight of the white dresses of the ladies and their fresh, well-rested

countenances, Ladislaus' soul gladdened to such an extent that he

immediately forgot all squabbles and vexations. By way of greeting, he

kissed Pani Otocka's hand; then, as if absent-mindedly, that of Miss

Anney, but so forcibly that she reddened like a cherry; after which he

squeezed Marynia's hand, saluted the gentlemen and began to cry

merrily:

"Coffee! coffee! From the rise of the sun I drank only two glasses of

water and I am as hungry as a wolf."

"Was that a cure? Did you have a fever?" asked Dolhanski.

"Perhaps I did have a fever, but nevertheless I had a horseback ride to

Rzeslewo and transacted a thousand matters."

"How is it in 'rustic-angelic' Rzeslewo," interrupted Dolhanski.

"There is nothing further that is disturbing. Those trouble makers whom

I wished to look at, in the eyes, are gone. But now above all things, I

want coffee and will not answer any more questions."

Marynia, as the substitute of Pani Krzycki, who remained in bed owing

to rheumatism, poured out the coffee for him, and he also kissed the

hand of his young cousin; whereat she was pleased as she fancied that

it added to her dignity.

"That is due me as a vice-hostess," she said, shaking her head.

"And especially taking age into consideration," added Dolhanski.

She did not show him her tongue only because she was too well-bred.

But Dolhanski, who suffered from catarrh of the stomach, gazed

enviously at Ladislaus, eating with such relish, and said:

"What an appetite! A genuine cannibal."

"Go also over the road a mile before breakfast and you will have the

same appetite. But cannibal or no cannibal, when I entered this room, I

was ready to devour even this bouquet of flowers which is before me."

"The time will come when the country nobility will not have anything

else to eat," replied Dolhanski.

But Marynia quickly seized the bouquet and, laughing, shoved it to the

other side of the table.

"After coffee there is no fear," cried Ladislaus. "But what beautiful

field flowers! Did you ladies pick them?"

"We are sleepy-heads," answered Pani Otocka; "they were gathered by

Aninka's servant."

Aninka was the pet name which both sisters gave Miss Anney.

Ladislaus turned a sharp glance towards the ladies, but as their faces

were perfectly calm, he thought:

"She gathered the flowers and did not mention the mishap."

And Miss Anney, turning the bouquet about and examining it, said:

"An apple-blossom is in the middle,--the good-for-nothing girl plucked

it from some little tree, for which she must be reprimanded; these are

spearwort, those primroses, and those pennyroyal, which are now coming

out."

"It is, however, astonishing that you speak Polish so well," observed

Dolhanski; "why, you even know the names of plants."

"I heard them from the lips of the village maids in Zalesin at

Zosia's," answered Miss Anney. "Besides, I evidently possess linguistic

abilities for I learned from them to speak in a rustic style."

"Truly," cried Ladislaus, "could you say something in peasant fashion.

Say something, Miss Anney! Do!" he entreated, folding his hands as if

in prayer.

She began to laugh and feigning shyness, bowed her head and putting the

back part of her hand to her forehead, as bashful peasants girls

usually do, said, drawling each word somewhat:

"I would do that only I do not dare--"

Laughter and bravos resounded; only Pani Zosia glanced at her with a

peculiar look and she, by becoming confused, enhanced her beauty to

such an extent that Ladislaus was completely captivated.

"Ah! now one could lose his head," he cried with unfeigned ardor. "I

pledge my word, one could lose his head."

And Gronski, who in common with the others fell into good humor, said

in a low voice:

"And even consummatum est."

But further conversation was interrupted by the rattle of the carriage

wheels which could be heard in the courtyard and ceased at the balcony.

"What is that?" asked Gronski.

"I am sending for the doctor for Mother," answered Ladislaus, rising.

"Whoever has any errands in the city may speak."

Dolhanski and Gronski also rose and went out with him into the

vestibule.

"I was about to ask you for a horse," said Gronski. "I know that you

have but one saddle for ladies in Jastrzeb, so I ordered another one

and must receive it in person at the post-office. I did not want to

speak about it before the ladies as it is to be a surprise."

"Good!" answered Krzycki, "but I will give you another carriage, for

Laskowicz is leaving by this one and you surely would prefer not to

ride with him."

"He?" cried Dolhanski. "You do not know him then. He is ready to ride

with old Aunt Beelzebub, if he could pull her by the tongue and do all

the talking and descanting."

"There is a little truth in that," said Gronski. "I am a veritable

chatterbox. Indeed, I will willingly go with Laskowicz and will try to

get him into a talkative mood for, after all, he does interest me. Did

you conclude with him this morning?"

"Yes. I must see Mother for a while and tell her about it. I finished

with him and in addition finished peaceably. I, at least, was perfectly

calm."

"So much the better. Go to your mother and I will go to my room for a

linen duster; for the dust on the road must be quite thick. I will be

back soon."

In fact he returned in a few minutes, dressed in a linen coat. About

the same time a servant brought down Laskowicz's trunk, and soon the

latter appeared, wrapped up in himself and gloomy as night, for the

thought that he would not behold his "alabaster statuette" filled him

with pain and sorrow; the more so, as after those hypnotic exertions,

when daylight restored him to his senses, he began to feel guilty of an

offence against her. Instead of swallowing with unnecessary haste his

breakfast in his room upstairs, he might have come downstairs and gazed

upon Pani Marynia for half an hour longer; but he had not wished to do

that because, in the first place, he had not cared to meet Krzycki and,

again, he felt that in such company he would enact the role of Pilate

in Credo. At that moment he regretted that he had not come down and

feasted his eyes with her form for the last time.

But a pleasant surprise awaited him when the young ladies, in the

company of Dolhanski and Ladislaus, came out on the balcony; and

afterwards little Anusia, with whom he was always on friendly terms,

having learned that he was leaving, ran with eyes overflowing with

tears, pouting lips, and a bunch of flowers in her chubby fist to bid

him good-bye. The young student took the flowers from her, kissed her

hand, and with heavy heart sat in the carriage beside Gronski, who in

the meantime was chatting with Pani Otocka.

Anusia descended the stairs of the balcony and stood close to the

carriage doors; upon perceiving which Marynia hastened after her and,

evidently fearing that the little girl might be jolted when the

carriage started to move, took her hand and began to comfort her.

"Of course he will not forget you," she said, bending over the little

girl, "he surely will write to you and when he becomes very lonesome,

will return."

After which, raising her eyes directly at Laskowicz:

"Is it not true, sir? You will not forget her?"

Laskowicz gazed into the depths of the pellucid pupils of her eyes, as

if he wished to penetrate them to the bottom, and being really moved,

replied with emphasis:

"I will not forget."

"Ah, you see," and Marynia pacified Anusia.

But at that moment Krzycki approached.

"Mother directed me to bid you God-speed." And he immediately shouted

to the driver: "Drive on."

The carriage moved, described a circle in the courtyard, and

disappeared on the avenue beyond the gate.

Miss Anney and the two sisters now went to Pani Krzycki, desiring to

keep her company at breakfast, which she on the days of her painful

suffering ate in bed. Ladislaus, recalling that he ordered some fish to

be caught, walked directly across the garden towards the pond to see

whether the catch was successful.

But before he reached the bank, at a turning of the shady yoked elm

lane, he unexpectedly met his morning's vision of "Diana in the

fountain."

At the sight of him the maid stood still; at first her countenance

flushed as if a live flame passed through it; after which she grew so

pale that the dark down above her lips became more marked, and she

stood motionless, with downcast eyes and heaving breast, bewildered and

abashed.

But he spoke out with perfect freedom:

"Good-day! good-day! Ah, what is your name?"

"Pauline," she murmured, not raising her eyes.

"A beautiful name." After which, he smiled somewhat roguishly and

added:

"But Panna Pauly--the next time--there is a bolt."

"I will drown myself," cried the maid in a hysterical voice.

And he began to speak in persuasive tones:

"Why? For what? Why, no one is to blame,--that was a pure accident. I

will not tell anybody about it and that I had seen such beauty; that

was only my luck."

And he proceeded to the fishing place.

She followed his shapely form with her tear-dimmed eyes and stood on

the spot for quite a while in reverie, for it seemed to her that by

reason of the secret known to them alone something had transpired

between them which would unite them forever.

And afterwards when she recollected how that charming young heir of

Jastrzeb had seen her, she shuddered from head to foot.

X

Gronski was a man of gentle and kindly disposition. Notwithstanding his

penchant for philosophical pessimism, he was not a pessimist in his

relations to men and life. Speaking in other words, in theory he often

thought like Ecclesiastes; in practice he preferred to tread in the

footsteps of Horace, or rather as Horace would have trodden had he been

a Christian. Continual communing with the ancient world gave him a

certain serenity, not divested indeed of melancholy, but peaceful and

harmonious. Owing to his high education and extensive reading, which

enabled him to come in contact with all ideas which found lodgment in

the human mind and familiarize himself with all forms of human life, he

was exceedingly tolerant, and the most extreme views did not lead him

into that condition which would cause him to screech like a frightened

peacock. This deep forbearance and this conviction that all that is

taking place has to occur, did not deprive him of energy of thoughts or

words; it deprived him, however, in some measure of the ability to act.

He was more of a spectator than an actor on the world's stage, but a

well-disposed spectator, acutely susceptible and extraordinarily

curious. He sometimes compared himself to a man sitting on the bank of

a river and watching its course, who knows indeed that it must roll on

and disappear in the sea, but who is nevertheless interested in the

movements of its waves, its currents, its whirlpools, mists rising from

its depths, and the play of light upon its waters. Besides his genuine

love of ancient languages and authors, Gronski was interested in

politics, science, literature, art, the contemporary social tendencies,

and finally in the private affairs of mankind; and this last to such an

extent that he was reluctantly charged with undue love of knowledge of

his fellow-men. From this general, lively curiosity flowed his

loquacity and desire to expatiate upon anything which passed before his

eyes. He was well aware of this, and jocosely justified himself before

his friends by citing Cicero, who according to him was one of the

greatest discoursers and meddlers whose memory is preserved by history.

Aside from these weaknesses, Gronski possessed a highly developed

capacity for sympathizing with human suffering and human thoughts, and

was on the whole a man of fine sentiment. Poland he loved sincerely as

he wished her to be; that is, noble, enlightened, cultured, as European

as possible, but not losing her Lechite traits, and holding in her hand

the flag with the white eagle. That eagle seemed to him to be one of

the noblest symbols on earth.

Within the compass of his personal feelings, as a man and aesthete, he

loved Marynia, but it was a love of a heavenly-blue hue, not scarlet.

At the beginning he admired within her, as he said, "the music and the

dove;" afterwards, not having any near relatives, he became attached to

her like an older brother to a little sister, or as a father to a

child. She, on her part, grateful for this attachment and at the same

time esteeming his mind and character, reciprocated with her whole

heart.

In the main, human sympathy and friendship encompassed Gronski, for

even strangers, even people separated from him by a chasm of belief and

convictions, even those whom he annoyed with his habit of pressing his

forefinger to his forehead and thinking aloud, esteemed him for his

ability to sympathize, his humanity and forbearance, which were like

the open doors of a hospitable house.

Laskowicz also felt this. If he was to ride with Dolhanski, for

instance, he would have preferred to go afoot and carry his luggage on

his back. But Dolhanski in Jastrzeb pretended not to see him at all,

while Gronski always greeted him amiably, and several times opened a

conversation with him which never was lengthy for the reason that

Laskowicz limited it and broke it off. Now, however, sitting beside

Gronski he was pleased with his company. He cherished in his soul a

hope that Gronski, speaking of the persons remaining in Jastrzeb, would

say something about Panna Marynia and he craved to hear her name.

Besides, he was moved by the leave-taking with little Anusia, for it

happened for the first time in his life that any one bidding him

farewell had tears in her eyes, and he was grateful to the chance which

afforded him an opportunity of exchanging a few words with Panna

Marynia before driving away. So his heart melted and he was willing to

talk sincerely, especially with a man against whom he felt no

antipathy.

Somehow they did not wait long, for they had barely reached the end of

the avenue when Gronski, with the kind and confidential anxiety of an

older man who does not understand what has taken place and is ready to

grumble, placed his hand upon his knee and said:

"My dear sir, what mischief have you stirred up in Rzeslewo? It may now

come to some serious collisions, and it is said that you people intend

to do the same everywhere."

"In Rzeslewo we did what the good of our idea demanded," answered

Laskowicz.

"But an agricultural school is involved and such schools are absolutely

necessary for the people. Why did you circulate the story among the

peasants that the land was to be divided among them?"

Laskowicz hesitated as to whether to leave the question unanswered, but

he was disarmed by Gronski's countenance, at once benevolent and

worried, so he replied:

"Every party must keep its eyes upon everything in order to know what

is occurring in the country and take advantage of its opportunities. In

the case of Rzeslewo I was the eye of the party, and in the further

course of time I acted in accordance with the directions sent to me. In

reality, we could not foresee how the deceased would dispose of his

estate. But that is all one. We do not need schools founded by the

classes with which we are at war and conducted in their spirit."

"You do not need them, but the people need them."

"The people can learn husbandry without the assistance of the nobility

as soon as they own something on which they can learn. The lands of the

nobles will be more beneficial to them than their schools. They have

tilled that soil of Rzeslewo for hundreds of years, and if you figure

at the rate of one penny for each day's labor, that land has been paid

for a hundred times more than it is worth."

"But you arouse merely a desire for land; you cannot give it. Besides,

permit me, sir, to say that in respect to your doctrine you are

illogical. For, of course, your aim is to nationalize the land. Now

such land as that of Rzeslewo, for instance, donated for school

purposes is, in a manner, nationalized; but a partition of it among the

peasants would disintegrate it into individual ownership by a number of

small holders."

"The nationalization of land is our ultimate object, therefore distant.

In the meantime we want to get the people into our camp, so we use such

means as will lead to that end. We cannot give the land, but the people

themselves can take it."

"The most you can accomplish is to get them to take it. Assume that in

Rzeslewo the husbandmen, tenants, and hired hands seize the land and

divide it between them. What follows? Do you not see the clashes, the

knouting, the courts and sanguinary executions which will overtake

them?"

"Do you not believe that this would be water for our mill? The more

there is of that, the sooner our end will be attained."

"And so I guessed rightly," said Gronski, recalling his statement to

Ladislaus and Dolhanski that the summoning of the police would be

playing into the hands of the agitators.

Laskowicz wanted to ask what Gronski had guessed rightly, but the

latter forestalled him and continued:

"There is another singular thing. If misfortune overtakes any one of

you, whether imprisonment, deportation, or death, then we, that is, the

people who do not belong to your ranks, the people against whom you

have declared war to the death, say: 'Too bad! such zeal! what a

pity--such misguided sacrifice! how deplorable,--such a young head!'

and we grieve for you. But you do not regret those people whose

defenders you proclaim yourself to be. You arrange industrial strikes

and pull the string until it breaks and later, when the manufacturers

tie it again it becomes shorter than ever before. Already thousands are

dying of starvation. And now you want an agricultural strike, after

which bread becomes dearer and scarcer. Who suffers by this? Again the

people. Truly at times it is impossible to resist the thought that you

love your doctrines more than the people."

To this Laskowicz answered in a harsh, hollow voice:

"That is war. There must be sacrifices."

Gronski involuntarily looked at him and, seeing his eyes set so closely

to each other, thought:

"No! Such eyes really can only look straight ahead and are incapable of

taking in a wider horizon."

For some time they rode in silence. A light southern breeze rose and

bore with the cloud of dust the odor of the horses' sweat. From

thickets on the wayside flew swarms of horse-flies, which pestered the

horses so much that the coachman brushed their backs with the whip and

swore.

Suddenly Gronski asked:

"Sacrifices! But to what divinity do you offer those sacrifices? What

is your aim and what do you want?"

"Daily bread and universal liberty."

"But in the meantime, instead of bread, you give them stones. As to

liberty, you will please, sir, take into consideration two thoughts.

The first can be expressed thus: Woe to the nations that love liberty

more than fatherland! Naturally I am not speaking of subjugated

nations, for in such a situation the conceptions of liberty and

fatherland become almost identical. But consider, sir, what really

caused the political downfall of Poland and what is blighting France,

which before our eyes is falling apart like a barrel without hoops? A

second thought which often comes to my mind is that liberty crossing

the boundaries set by national prosperity and safety is necessary only

for rogues. You certainly will regard this last opinion as the acme of

retrogression, but it is none the less the truth."

Laskowicz's face reflected suspicion and offence, but it was so

apparent that Gronski did not allude to him personally, and was only

enunciating a general view, that he did not break off further

conversation.

"Liberty of association and syndicates," he said, "by the aid of which

the proletariat is defending itself, do not endure any limitations.

You, sir, after all confuse the conceptions of the people and the

empire;--as a realist you are concerned above all about the empire."

And Gronski began to laugh:

"I, a realist?" he said. "I do not belong to the realists. They are not

foolish people and on the whole act in good faith, but they commit one

error. They go out to plough for the spring sowing in December; that is

when the ploughshares cannot break the frozen ground. Or if you prefer

another comparison, they buy their summer clothing during the severest

winter season. I do not know; perhaps the sun will at some time shine

and it will be warm, as everything in this world is possible, but in

the meantime the ears are frost-bitten and the moths destroy the

clothes."

And thinking only of the realists, he continued:

"Realists desire to reckon with this reality, which does not want to

reckon with them or anybody else. For assume, sir, for example, that

the name of a faction is Peter and this Peter in perfect sincerity

turns to Reality and says: 'Listen, oh Maiden! I am prepared to

acknowledge you and even love you, but in return permit me to stand on

my own feet, to breathe a little and stretch out my aching bones.' And

Reality with true Ural affability answers: 'Peter, my son Peter, you

are wandering from the subject, and I take away from you the right to

speak. I am not concerned about your acknowledging or loving me, but

only that you should unbutton yourself, divest yourself of certain

clothes which, speaking parenthetically, may be of service to me; that

you should again lie upon that bench and as to the rest trust in my

power and whip.' If any realist heard me he might dispute this, but in

his soul, he would concede the justness of the illustration."

"You will admit, then," exclaimed Laskowicz, with a certain triumph,

"that we alone are hitting this Reality on the head?"

"You are hitting her," answered Gronski, "but your fists rebound from

her stony head and land in the pit of your own community, which loses

its remnant of breath and swoons. By this, you even aid Reality."

And here recollecting what he had said about the anthills and

ant-eaters, he repeated it to Laskowicz.

But Laskowicz would not agree to the comparison, observing that it had

only a specious appearance of the truth, for the human conditions could

not be adjusted by conditions existing in an ant-hill.

"Whoever aspires to make the proletariat powerful by the same act gives

the nation new strength sufficient to repel all attacks and blows. Only

on this road can anything be gained, though only for the simple reason

that it will have allies in the proletariat of adjoining countries, who

from enemies will become friends."

"That would only be a coalition at the bottom," said Gronski.

"And for that reason irrepressible and effectual. For we are

continually hearing of Poland! Poland! But those who all the time are

repeating that combine with Poland various things which have outlived

their usefulness, such as religion, church, and conservatism, which

cover her with mould or with corpses which already are rotting. We

alone unite Poland with an idea, powerful, young, and vital, if only

for the reason that all youth is with us."

"In the first place, not all youth, nor even one half," answered

Gronski; "and again, the church has survived and will survive many a

social movement; and thirdly, your idea is as ancient as poverty itself

on this earth. If you desire, sir, to contend that the form which La

Salle and Marx gave it is new, then I will answer you thus: Your modern

socialism has too thick tufts of hair on its scalp, but when it begins

to get bald, none will scoff at it so much as the young."

"You are continually speaking in aphorisms, but fortunately aphorisms

are like paper lanterns hung on the trees of dialectics; in the dark

they can be seen; in the broad daylight they are extinct."

"Behold another aphorism, cut and dried," answered Gronski, laughing.

"No, sir, that which I said had another meaning. I wanted to say that

the socialist commonwealth, if you ever establish one, will be such a

surrender of human institutions, such a jamming of man into the

driving-wheels of the general mechanism, such a restraint and slavery

that even the present kingdom of Prussia, in comparison, would be a

temple of liberty. And in reality, a reaction would set in at once. The

press, literature, poetry, and art, in the name of individualism and

its freedom, would declare an inexorable war; and do you know, sir, who

would carry the banner of the opposition? Youth! That is as true as

that those lapwings are now flying over that meadow."

And here he pointed at a flock of lapwings, hovering over a field on

which cattle were grazing. After which he added:

"In France it is already beginning. Not long ago a few thousand

students paraded the streets of Paris, shouting: 'Down with the

Republic!'"

"That is merely swinging around in a circle," replied Laskowicz; "that

was a clash with radicalism and not with us. We also despise it. The

bourgeoisie imagine that radicalism in a certain emergency will shield

them from the revenge of the proletariat, but they are deceiving

themselves. In the meanwhile they are clearing the way for the

revolution."

"In this I admit you are right;" answered Gronski, "I saw in Cairo how

the _sais_ ran before the carriages of the pashas shouting, 'Out of the

way! Out of the way!' Radicalism is performing the same service for

you."

"Yes," corroborated Laskowicz, with a brightened countenance.

Gronski took off his spectacles to wipe off the dust and winked his

eyes.

"But amongst you there are also differences. The French socialism is

different, so is the German, and the English, and in their midst we

find opposing camps. For that reason I shall not speak of socialism in

general. I am only interested in the home product, of which you are an

agent; for, from what you have said, I infer that you belong to the

so-called Polish Socialistic party."

"Yes," answered Laskowicz with energy.

Gronski replaced the cleaned spectacles and unfurled all his sails:

"You claim, therefore, that in the name of Poland you have joined youth

with a powerful idea, through which you have infused into her veins new

blood. And I reply that this idea, whatever it may be, has degenerated

in your minds to the extent that it ceased to be a social idea and has

become a social disease. You have infected Poland with a disease and

nothing more. The new Polish edifice must be constructed with bricks

and stones and not with bombs and dynamite. And in you there is neither

brick nor stone. You are only a shriek of hatred. You have abandoned

the old gospels and are incapable of creating a new one; in consequence

of which you cannot offer any pledge of life. Your name is Error and

for that reason the resultant force of your activities will be contrary

to you presuppositions. By pulling the strings of strikes you lead the

people to naught else than to debility and wretchedness and from feeble

beggars you are not able to build a powerful Poland. That is the actual

fact. Besides, on one and the same head you cannot wear two caps unless

one is underneath. So I ask which is underneath? Is your socialism only

a means of building Poland? Or is your Poland only a bait and catchword

to gather the people into your camp? The socialists, who call

themselves socialists without any qualifications and do not insist that

the same entity can be fish and fowl at the same time, are, I admit,

more logical. But you mislead the people. The truth is that even if you

wanted to you could not do anything Polish, for there is nothing Polish

in you. The schools from which you graduated did not take away the

language, for they could not do that, but they molded your minds and

souls in such a manner that you are not Poles, but Russians despising

Russia. How Poland and Russia will fare by this is another matter, but

such is the case. To you it seems that you are making a revolution, but

it is an ape of a revolution, and in addition a foreign one. You are

the evil flower of a foreign spirit. It is enough to take your

periodicals, your writers, poets, and critics! Their whole mental

apparatus is foreign. Their real aim is not even socialism nor the

proletariat, but annihilation.--Firebrand in hand, and at the bottom of

their souls hopelessness and the great nihil! And of course we know

where it originated. The Galician socialism likewise is not an Apollo

Belvedere, but nevertheless it has different lineaments and less broad

cheek-bones. There is not in it this rabidness and also this despair

and sorrow which conflicts with the Latin culture. You are like certain

fruit: on one side green, on the other rotten. You are sick. That

sickness explains the limitless want of logic, based on this; that

crying against wars, you create war; decrying courts-martial, you

condemn without any trial; and denouncing capital punishment, you

thrust revolvers in the hands of the people and say, 'Kill.' This

disease also explains your insane outbreaks, your indifference to

consequences, and to the fate of those ill-fated men whom you make your

tools. Let them assassinate, let them rob the treasuries, but whether

later they will hang in the halter is a matter of little consequence to

you. Your nihil permits you to spit upon blood and ethics. You open

wide the doors to notorious scoundrels and allow them to represent not

their own villany, but your idea. You, generally speaking, carry ruin

with you and join Poland to that ruin. In your party there are, without

doubt, men of conviction and good faith, but blind, who in their

blindness are serving a different master than they imagine."

Gronski knew that he was speaking in vain, but whether from habit, or

because he wanted to relieve himself of all that had accumulated within

him, he talked until the rattle of the wheels on the city pavements

drowned his words. They parted rather coldly before the hotel, for

Gronski's views touched the young medical student to the quick. He did

not admit that Gronski was in the least right, but that such views

should be entertained filled him with rage and indignation. He indeed

said to himself, "It is not worth while answering, but our minds are

not foreign, and our idea is new. Society is like a person who, having

for many years lived in a house, is always reluctant to move into

another though that other is much better." Nevertheless the words of

Gronski stung him so deeply that at that moment he hated him as much as

he did Krzycki and would have given a great deal if he could trample

upon and crush the charges, so odious to him. Unfortunately for him he

lacked time for it, and besides, weariness after a sleepless night

began to overpower him more and more.

Gronski went to the post-office, received a package with the saddle,

and afterwards drove to the doctor's, but learning that the latter

would not be free for an hour, he left the carriage at his door and

went to visit the old notary and at the same time deliver to him an

invitation from Krzycki to visit Jastrzeb.

The notary was pleased to receive the invitation, as he had decided to

visit the Krzyckis without one, in order, as he said, to behold the

"eyes of his head" and hear her miracle-working violin. In the meantime

he began to speak about the events which had occurred in the city and

neighborhood. He was so impressed and affected by them that his

customary choler left him, and in his words there was an undertone of

bitter sorrow and heavy anxiety for the future of the community, which

seemed to have lost its head. Factory strikes and to some extent

agricultural strikes were spreading. In the city the lime-kilns had

ceased to burn and the cement works were at a standstill. The

workingmen, who, not having any savings, formerly lived from hand to

mouth, in the first moments lacked bread. After the example of Warsaw,

a local committee was organized for the purpose of collecting funds to

prevent starvation. But as a result, this peculiar situation was

created: the people most opposed to the cessation of work encouraged it

by furnishing food to the idle. "A veritable round of errors!" said the

worried old gentleman. "Do not give; then starvation follows and

despair hurls the workingman into the arms of the socialists; give, and

you also are playing into their hands, because they have something with

which to support the strike and can convince the people of their

omnipotence." He further related that outside of the committee the

socialists were collecting money, or rather were extorting it from the

timid by threats; that they called upon him but he told them that he

would give for bread but not for bombs. They then threatened him with

death, for which he had them thrown out of his office.

For a while he remained silent for the inborn choler assumed supremacy

over sorrow; he also began to roll his eyes angrily and moved his jaws

furiously, as if he wanted to eat all the socialists, together with

their red standard.

Afterwards, when his rage had spent itself, he continued:

"Day before yesterday they sent me a sentence of death which they

surely will execute, as they have declared war against the government

and they butcher their own countrymen. Well, that is a small matter!

Three days ago they killed a master tinner and two workingmen in the

cement factory. In Wilczodola, a few versts from here, they waylaid and

maimed Pan Baezynski and robbed the branch office of the governmental

whiskey monopoly besides. Szremski, that doctor for whom you came and

whose optimism sticks like a bone in my throat, says that it is but a

passing storm! Yes, everything does pass away, individuals as well as

whole nations. I fear that ours too is passing away; for we have become

a nation of bandits and banditism never can be a permanent institution.

Well! The people, after these acts of violence, have in reality become

tired of robbing for the benefit of their party and now prefer to rob

on their own account. Do I know whether we will arrive alive at

Krzyckis to-day? Bah! Krzycki ought to be more on his guard than any

one else. He passes for a rich man and for that reason they will keep

him in their eye. I will go to Jastrzeb for if I am to be assassinated,

before it takes place I want to hear once more our child-wonder. But in

truth, Krzycki, instead of inviting more guests, should dismiss those

who are staying there now. The doctor, if he had any sense, would find

an excuse for dispersing them all to-morrow."

"I heard that he is an excellent man," said Gronski.

"An excellent devil!" answered the notary. "You remember whom you have

among you, and it is only about her that I am concerned."

Gronski, though disquieted and distressed by Dzwonkowski's narrative,

could not refrain from laughing when he heard the last admonition, for

translated into plain words it meant, "May the deuce impale you all, if

only no evil befalls the little violinist." But whenever Marynia was

involved he himself was always willing to subscribe to similar

sentiments; therefore he began to pacify the aged official by telling

him that in Jastrzeb there were, counting the guests and manor people,

too many hands and too many arms to have any fears of an attack; and

that, besides, Pani Krzycki's probable departure would end the visit of

the guests. Further conversation was broken by the arrival of Doctor

Szremski who, having dashed in like a bomb, announced that he was free

for the remainder of the day and could ride with Gronski.

Gronski gazed at him with great interest, for even in Warsaw he heard

of him as an original and prominent personality, in the favorable

meaning of those words.

He was quite a young man, with tawny hair, swarthy like a gypsy, with a

countenance alive with fire, bubbling with health, somewhat loud and

brisk in his manners. In the city he played an uncommon role not only

because he had the largest medical practice, but because he belonged to

the most active men in any field. He entered into every project as if

to an attack, and thanks to a sober and an exceptional temper of mind,

whatever he did was done, on the whole, sensibly and well. He was, as

it were, a personification of that phenomenon, frequent in Poland,

where, when amidst a public not only trammelled but negligent and

indolent by nature, a man of energy and with an idea is found, he is

able to accomplish more than any German, Frenchman, or Englishman could

have done. He himself participated in every undertaking and compelled

others to work with such spirit that he was nicknamed "Doctor Spur." He

established secret schools, reading rooms, nurseries for the children,

economical associations, and for everything he gave money, of which he

earned a great deal, though he treated gratis throngs of the penniless.

The local socialists hated him, for by his popularity and influence

with the workingmen he frustrated their efforts. The authorities looked

at him with suspicion and with an evil eye. A man who loved his

country, organized life, spread enlightenment, and donated money for

public uses, must in their eyes be a suspicious character and deserved

at least deportation to a "distant province." Fortunately for him, the

governor's wife imagined that she was suffering from some nervous

ailment and the local captain of the gendarmery was actually troubled

with incipient aneurism of the aorta. So then the governor's wife, who

through her connections had made her husband governor and ruled the

province as she pleased, was of the opinion that if it were not for

this "l'homme qui rit" (as she called the doctor), eternal mourning

would have befallen the governor, and the captain of the gendarmes

feared alike the gubernatorial connections and the aneurism. He had

indeed prepared a report which he regarded as the masterpiece of his

life; and perhaps he became ill because he dared not send it to the

higher authorities. Sometimes in his dreams, he arrested the doctor,

subjected him to an examination, forced him to divulge his accomplices,

and dreamt also that the report might be used in case the governor and

himself were transferred to another province; but it was only a dream.

In reality the report reposed on the bottom of a drawer and the doctor,

who read it (for the captain showed it to him in proof of what he could

have done but did not do), laughed so ingenuously and was so confident

of himself that it occurred to the captain's mind that in reality there

was no joking with the governor's wife or the aneurism.

The doctor laughed because he was by nature unusually jovial. In

certain cases he could think and speak gravely, but at chance meetings

and at casual talks, in which there was no time for weighty discourse,

he preferred to slide over the surface of the subject, scatter jests,

and tell anecdotes, which later were repeated over the city, and which

he himself much enjoyed. His optimism and beaming countenance created

incurable optimism and hope and good thoughts wherever he appeared. He

joked with the sick about their sickness and with jokes dispelled their

fears. His mirth won the people and a well-grounded medical knowledge

and efficacious watchfulness over their health and lives assured him a

certain kind of sway over them. For this reason he did not mind the

"big fish," or in fact anybody. Such was the case with the notary whose

perpetual choler and irascibility were known all over the city, so that

social relations with him were maintained only by those who were

exceptionally interested in music. The doctor, who also cracked jokes

about music, sought his company, purposely to nettle him and afterwards

to tell about his outbreaks, to his own amusement and that of his

hearers.

And now he rushed in with the crash of a squall, became acquainted with

Gronski, asked about the health of Pani Krzycki and about the pretty

ladies staying in Jastrzeb of whom he had already heard; after which,

observing the distressed face of the notary, he exclaimed merrily:

"What a mien! Is it so bad with us in this world, or what? Seventy-five

years! A great thing! Truly it is not the age of strength, but it is

the strength of the age! Please show your pulse!"

Here, without further asking the notary, he grabbed his hand, and

pulling out his watch, began to count:

"One, two--one, two!--one, two! Bad! It is the pulse of one in love.

There are symptoms of a slight heartburn! Such is usually the case.

Such a machine cannot last more than twenty-five years,--at the most

thirty. Thank you!"

Saying this he dropped the old man's hand, whose mien brightened in

expectation, for he thought that twenty-five years added to what he had

already lived would make quite a respectable age.

Pretending, however, to scowl, he answered:

"Always those jokes! The doctor thinks that I care for those wretched

twenty-five years. It is not worth while living now. Of course you know

what is taking place. I have such a mien because I was just talking

with Pan Gronski about it. I also have a heartburn. Well, I ask what

will become of us if all the people should follow the socialists?"

But the doctor began to swing his arms and deny this categorically. Not

all the people, nor a half, nor a hundredth part. And even those who

say that they belong to the socialists say so under terror or through

misapprehension.

"I will give you gentlemen two examples," he said. "I live on a lower

floor and beneath me in the basement there is a locksmith's shop. This

morning I overheard fragments of a conversation between my servant and

the locksmith. The locksmith said, 'I am a socialist; there is nothing

more to be said about it.' 'Why is nothing more to be said?' said my

servant. 'Then you do not believe in God and do not love Poland.' 'And

why should I not believe in God and love Poland?' 'Because the

socialists do not believe in God and do not love Poland.' And the

locksmith replied, 'So? Then may sickness plague them.' That is the way

people belong to the socialists. I do not say all, but a great many.

Ha!"

And he began to laugh.

"The doctor always finds an anecdote," grumbled the notary; "but let us

tell the truth, thousands belong to them."

"Then why do they not elect one deputy in the kingdom?" retorted the

doctor. "Bombs explode loudly, so they can be heard better than any

other work. But how many thousands participated in the national parade?

Do these also belong to them? When in a factory ten men manage to hang

a red flag on the chimney it seems that the whole factory is red, but

that is not true."

"Why do not the others tear it down?"

"Simple reason! Because the police tear it down."

"And also because the socialists have revolvers and the others have

not," added Gronski.

"Undoubtedly," continued the doctor. "I have ten times closer relations

with the workingmen than any manager of a factory. I go into their

dwellings and know their home life. I know them. Socialism is engaged

in a struggle with the bureaucracy; so it seems to many that they

belong to it. But, to the outrages only the worst and most ignorant

element assents. The latter soon change into bandits, and that is not

surprising. Their consciences have been taken away from them and

revolvers are given to them. But the majority--the better and more

honest majority--have under the ribs Polish hearts; and for that reason

this demon, who wants to snatch and carry them away, called himself, as

a bait, Polish. Ah! they only need schools, enlightenment, a knowledge

of Polish history, in order not to allow themselves to be hoodwinked!

Ay, that is what they need! Ay, ay!"

And in his gesticulations, he seized the old man's arm and began to

turn him around.

"Schools, Pan Notary, schools; for the Lord's mercy!"

Blood rushed to the notary's head from indignation.

"Are you crazy!" he yelled. "Why do you jolt me like a pear?"

"True," said the doctor, leaving him alone. "True, but the extent to

which these poor fellows misapprehend things is enough to cause one to

weep and laugh at the same time."

"No, not to laugh," said Gronski.

"Do you know, sir, that at times, yes," exclaimed the doctor; "for

listen to my second instance. Last Sunday, being tired as a dog, I

drove out to the Gorczynski woods, just outside of the city, for a

little airing. In the woods from the opposite direction came more than

a dozen of workingmen who evidently were enjoying a May outing. I saw

one of them carrying a red flag on a newly whittled stick. He probably

brought it in his pocket and fastened it when they got to the woods.

'Good!' I thought to myself, 'Socialists!' And now, when they were

near, the one who carried the flag sang lustily to the tune of

'Bartoszu! Bartoszu!' that which I will repeat to you, and I pledge my

word, I will not add or subtract anything.

'Kosciuszko, though a cobbler,

Oj, soundly thrashed the Germans,

Oj, soundly thrashed the Germans;

Only, it is a great pity

For us, that he drowned.

Only it is a great pity

For us, that he drowned.'"

"Ah, honest simplicity!" exclaimed Gronski. "I would embrace him and

present him with a history of Poland of recent times."

"Wait, sir," shouted the doctor. "I stopped my socialists of strange

rites. It appeared that almost all were known to me and I said: 'For

the fear of God, citizens, Kosciuszko was not a cobbler, he never

thrashed the Germans, and he did not drown, only Prince Joseph

Poniatowski did. Come to me and I will give you a book about

Kosciuszko, Kilinski,[4] and Prince Joseph Poniatowski, for you have

made of them a bigos.[5] They began to thank me and then I asked: 'What

has become of the eagle on your flag? did he go hunting for mushrooms?'

They became confused. The flag-bearer started to explain why they had

no eagle. 'Why, may it please the doctor,' he said, 'they told us: Do

not take a flag with an eagle, for if they take the flag away from you,

they will insult the eagle and you will suffer shame and disgrace.'

Yes. In this manner they cheat the Polish heart of our own people."

But the notary did not want to part with his black spectacles.

"Well, what of it?" he asked. "Do you claim that if it was not for this

and that there would not be any socialism amongst us?"

"There is socialism over the entire world," rejoined the doctor,

"therefore there must be with us. Only if it was not for this and that,

there would not accompany it highway robbery, savagery, and blindness;

there would not be this modern socialism which has styled itself

Polish, though its pitch can be smelt a mile away."

"Bravo!" cried Gronski. "I said the same thing in other words to

another person on the road from Jastrzeb."

"Ay, Jastrzeb," said the doctor looking at his watch. "Here we are

talking and it is time that we started."

"Perhaps the notary can go with us," said Gronski. "The carriage has

seats for four."

"I can. Only I will take my flute with me. Well!" answered the notary.

"Well!" repeated Szremski, mimicking him. "Aha, the flute! Then there

will be a serenade in Jastrzeb, while here the socialists will rob the

office."

The notary who was going after his flute, suddenly turned around,

sniffed vehemently, and said:

"To-day they sent me a sentence of death."

"Bah! I already have received two of them," merrily answered the

doctor.

A quarter of an hour later they were on the road to Jastrzeb. On this

occasion, Gronski and the doctor drew so closely to each other and

talked so much, that, as Gronski said later, there was not a place in

which to stick a pin.