IX

On account of Marynia's birthday, Miss Anney with her maid went to buy

flowers. The day before, Gronski told her that he saw in one of the

stores Italian rosy lilies, such as are sold in whole bundles in the

vicinity of Lucca and Pisa, but which are cultivated but little in the

conservatories of Warsaw and seldom imported into the country. As

Marynia had inquired about them with great curiosity. Miss Anney

decided to purchase for her all that could be found in the store. The

previous evening she bantered Gronski, telling him that she would

forestall him in the purchase, for he, as a known sleepy-head, would be

unable to leave his home early enough. Determined to play a joke upon

him, she left the house at eight in the morning, so as to be present at

the opening of the store. She had, besides, a letter prepared, with the

words "They are already bought," which she intended to send to Gronski

by Pauly, and exulted at the thought that Gronski would receive it at

his morning coffee.

In fact everything went according to her plans, for she was the first

buyer at the store. She was disappointed only in this: that there were

too few lilies. There was only one flower-pot, containing about a dozen

stalks with flowers. So the decoration of Marynia's whole room with

them was out of the question. But for just this reason Miss Anney

eagerly bought the one sample and, paying the price asked for it,

directed that it be sent to the Otocka residence. She was annoyed,

however, when informed in the store that the gardener delivering

flowers could not come until noon-time, for she desired that Marynia

should have them before she rose from bed.

"In that case," she said, turning to Pauly, "call a hack and we will

take the flower-pot with us."

But Pauly, who, though she behaved quite indifferently and even

refractorily in respect to her mistress and also to Pani Otocka, had a

sort of exceptional adoration, bordering on sympathy, for Marynia,

replied:

"Let Madame permit me to carry these flowers alone. In the hack they

will be shaken up and may fall off."

"But you are to go with the letter to Pan Gronski and, besides, you

will tire yourself with the flower-pot."

"Pan Gronski's residence is on the way; and what if I do tire myself a

little for the golden little lady. May I not do that much for her?"

Miss Anney understood that a refusal would cause her great vexation,

therefore she said:

"Very well. You are an honest soul. But if it should be too heavy for

you, take a hack. I will go to church."

And she went to church to pray for Ladislaus, who was that day to leave

the house for the first time and pass the evening at Pani Otocka's,

owing to Marynia's birthday. She expected that the following day he

would visit her and she wanted also to commit that day to divine

protection.

Pauline, taking the lilies, went in an opposite direction towards

Gronski's residence. After a few score of steps the flower-pot filled

with earth began to grow heavy; so, shifting it from one arm to the

other, she thought:

"If it was for any one else, I would throw everything upon the ground,

but she is such a bird that it is hard not to love her--I would carry

for her even two such flowerpots and I would not do her any harm.--Even

in case--he loved her alone."

And at this gloomy thought her countenance darkened yet more. In her

heart, capable only of extreme feelings, began a struggle between her

strange adoration for Marynia and her blind and passionate love for

Krzycki; it was accompanied by the terrible and hopeless consciousness

that under no circumstance could he be hers, as he was a young lord,

heir, almost prince royal, and she a simple girl for sewing, setting

the parlor in order, and household work. To this was added immediately

a feeling of a prodigious wrong. Why, she might have been born also a

"little lady" and not brought up in an orphan asylum, under the care of

sisters of charity, but in a rich lordly home. Why was it not so,

instead of the vile work of the servant's station awaiting her till

death?

And here it occurred to her mind that there is now, however, a kind of

people, a kind of "party," which wants to take away property from the

rich, distribute it among the poor, level all people, so that there

will be no rich men and paupers, no servants and lords, no wrong of any

kind in the world; and in the place thereof, all ranks will be one and

the same, and liberty will be identical. She had heard of this from the

servants in the house, from the craftsmen, from the salesmen in the

stores to which she went to make purchases, and also through

overhearing the conversations of the "gentility." It surprised her that

these people were called socialists, for heretofore a "socialist" and a

madman roaming over the streets with knife in hand meant to her one and

the same thing. For a time after the attack upon Krzycki, when the

report was spread that the socialists did it, she even felt for them

such furious and blind hatred that she was willing to poison them or

bake them upon live fires. Later, when the servants in Jastrzeb began

to repeat that the young heir was waylaid not by them, but by people of

Rzeslewo, this hatred became extinguished. But subsequently, when the

girl learned more accurately what the socialists aimed at and who they

were, she was but little interested in them. She partly regarded their

ideas as foolish and partly thought of other things more personal, and

finally, she distinguished in Poland only "her own" and "not her own,"

loving, not knowing why, the first, and hating indiscriminately all the

others. It was not until the last few days that it began to dawn in her

head that among her own there existed terrible and painful differences;

that for some there was wealth, for others poverty; that for a few

there was enjoyment and for others toil; for some, laughter, for

others, tears; for some, happiness, for others, woe and injury.

This became clear to her, particularly at that moment when with greater

suffering than ever before she became aware that this young gentleman,

to whom her soul and body were urged, was simply an inaccessible star,

on which she was barely permitted to gaze. And although nothing had

happened that day which particularly irritated her and nothing had

altered, she was possessed by a despair such as she never felt before.

But the course of her gloomy meditations was finally interrupted by an

external incident. Notwithstanding the early hour, she observed on the

corner of the precinct a large crowd of people, agitated by some

uneasiness. Their faces were turned towards the depth of a cross

street, as if something unusual was taking place there. Some rushed

forward while others retreated with evident fear. Some, arguing

heatedly and pointing at something with their hands, looked upwards to

the roofs of the houses. From all directions flocked new crowds of

workingmen and striplings. Among the hack-drivers standing on the

corner an unusual commotion prevailed: the drivers, in groups of

varying numbers, wheeled their horses about in different directions as

though they wished to blockade the street. Suddenly shrill cries

resounded and then shots. In one moment an indescribable confusion

arose. The throng swung to and fro and began to scamper; the cries

sounded shriller and shriller each moment. It was evident that they

were pursuing somebody. The girl, with her lilies, stood as if

thunderstruck, not knowing what to do. Then, suddenly from amidst the

hacks, a man dashed out, bent forward with lowered head, and at full

speed ran towards her. On the way he flung away his cap and snatched a

hat from the head of a stripling who, understanding the situation in

the twinkle of an eye, did not even quiver. The hack-drivers began yet

more zealously to block the street, evidently with a view to make the

pursuit more difficult. But right behind them again rattled the

revolver shots, and amidst the general cries and tumult already could

be heard the shrill sounds of the police whistles and the hoarse,

bellowing shouts of "Catch him! catch him!" A blind, excessive fright

now seized Pauly, and she began to run, squeezing unconsciously to her

bosom the flower-pot with the lilies, as if she wanted to save her own

child.

But she had barely run a dozen or more steps when a panting, low voice

began to cry close behind her:

"Lady, give me the flowers! For the mercy of God, lady, give me the

flowers! Save!"

The girl turned about suddenly with consternation, and indescribable

amazement was reflected in her eyes, for she recognized Laskowicz.

He, having violently wrested from her the flower-pot, to which, not

knowing what she was doing, she clung with all her strength, whispered

further:

"Perhaps they will not recognize me. I will tell them that I am a

gardener. Save me, little lady! Perhaps they will not recognize. I am

out of breath!"

She wanted to run farther but he restrained her.

In the meantime, from among the chaos of hacks, a dozen or more

policemen and civil agents emerged. The majority of the mob moved at a

running pace in a direction opposite to the one in which Laskowicz and

the girl were going, and undoubtedly they intentionally moved that way

in order to deceive the pursuers. To better hoodwink the police, cries

of "Catch him!" resounded among the laborers. Some workingman began to

whistle shrilly on his fingers, imitating the sound of a police

whistle. Accordingly the policemen and agents plunged headlong after

the dense mob. At the intersection of the streets only a few stood

still, and these, after a moment's irresolution, set off in the other

direction, but they ran at full speed by the girl and the man with the

light hat, carrying flowers. Rushing ahead they seized a few

workingmen, but other workingmen rescued them in a moment. Pauly and

Laskowicz walked farther.

"They missed me," said the student. "Here no one would betray. They

missed! Those flowers and another's hat fooled them. I thank you,

little lady; I thank you from my whole soul, and until my death I will

never be able to sufficiently repay you."

But she, not having yet entirely recovered from her amazement, began to

ask:

"What happened? Where did you come from?"

"From the roof; they pounced upon us in a printing plant. The others

will get a year or two and nothing more will happen to them--but for

me, there would be the halter."

"How did you manage to escape?"

"When we got on the roof, I slid down the gutter-pipe. I might have

broken my neck. It was not until I reached the street that they

observed me. They fired shots at me, but luckily I was not hit, for the

blood would have betrayed me. Whoever was alive helped me, and I was

hidden by the hacks. They did not see how I changed a cap for a hat.

But if it was not for my female associate it would have been all over

with me."

"What female associate?"

"I speak of you, little lady, thus. Amongst us such is the custom."

"Then do not call me that, for I am no female associate."

"That is a pity. But this is not the time to speak of that. Once more I

thank you for the rescue, though it is for a short time."

"Why for a short time?"

"Because I do not know what to do with myself, where to go, and where

to hide. Every night I sleep in a different place but they are seeking

for me everywhere."

"That is true. They were searching for you in Jastrzeb. Do you know

that there was a police-search there?"

"Was there?"

"Yes. Gendarmes, police, and soldiers came. They almost put everybody

under arrest."

"Oh, they would not arrest them--"

The clatter of horses' hoofs and the rattle of the horseshoes over the

stony pavements interrupted for a while their conversation. From a side

street ahead rode out a Cossack patrol, consisting of several scores of

men. They rode slowly, with carabines resting upon their thighs and

looked about cautiously. At the sight of them, Pauly became somewhat

pale, while Laskowicz began to whisper:

"That is nothing. They see that I am carrying flowers from the store.

They will take me for a gardener and will ride by."

In fact they did pass by.

"They are now arresting every moment people on the streets in whole

crowds," said Laskowicz. "To some one else that would be a small

matter; but if I once fall into their clutches, I will never be able to

get out again."

"Well, what do you intend to do?"

"Carry these flowers for you, little lady."

"And after that?"

"I do not know."

"Of course you must have some acquaintances who will hide you."

"I have, I have! But the police have their eyes upon all my

acquaintances. Every night there is a search. For the last two nights I

slept in a printing establishment, but today they discovered the

printing press."

A moment of silence followed.

After which Laskowicz again spoke in a gloomy voice:

"There is now no help for me. I will deliver these flowers and go

wherever my eyes will take me."

But in the heart of the girl suddenly there awoke a great pity for him.

Before that she was indifferent to him. At present she only saw in him

a Polish student hunted, like a mad dog, by people whom she of old

despised.

Therefore on her energetic and obstinate countenance, inflexible

determination was depicted.

"Come what may, I will not desert you," she said, knitting her dark

brows.

Laskowicz was suddenly seized with a desire to kiss her hand and would

have done so if they were not on the street. He was moved not only by

the hope of escape, but also by the fact that this girl, who hardly

knew him, who did not belong to his camp, was ready to expose herself

to the greatest dangers in order to come to his aid.

"What can the little lady do? Where will she hide me?" he asked

quietly.

But she walked on with brows knitted by the strain of continuous

thinking, and finally said:

"I know. Let us go."

He shifted the flower-pot to the left hand. "I must tell you," he said

with lowered voice, "that the least punishment for concealing me is

Siberia. I must tell you that! And I might cause your destruction, but

in the first moments--the little lady understands--the instinct of

preservation--there was no time for reflection."

The little lady did not very well understand what the instinct of

preservation was, but instead understood something else. This was that

if she brought him, as she intended, to Gronski's, she would expose to

danger not only Gronski but also Krzycki.

And under the influence of this thought she stood as if stupefied.

"In such a case, I do not know what I can do," she said.

"Ah, you see, little lady," answered the student, as if in sorrow,

while she, on her part, again began to rack her brains. It never

occurred to her to conduct Laskowicz to Miss Anney's or Pani Otocka's.

She felt that here masculine help was necessary and that it was

imperative to find some one who would not fear and for whom she,

herself, did not care. Therefore she mentally reviewed the whole array

of Miss Anney's and Pani Otocka's acquaintances.--Pan Dolhanski?

No!--He might be afraid or else send them to the devil and sneer at

them. Dr. Szremski? He had probably left the city. Ah, were it not for

this "young lord" she would conduct this poor fellow to Pan Gronski,

for even if he did not receive him, at the worst he would give good

advice, or would direct them to somebody. And suddenly it came to her

mind that if Siberia threatened the person who concealed Laskowicz, Pan

Gronski would not direct them to anybody; but if he could, he would

direct them to only one man, whom she also knew. And on this thought,

she dusted her dress with her hands and, turning to Laskowicz, said:

"I know now! Let us try."

After which, standing for a while, she continued:

"Let us enter this house, here, at once. You will wait with the flowers

in the hallway and I will deliver the letter upstairs and return. Do

not fear anything, for the doorkeeper here knows me and he is a good

man. After that I may lead you somewhere."

Saying this, she entered the gate and, leaving Laskowicz below, rang,

after a moment, Gronski's bell.

Gronski, rising that day earlier than usual, was already dressed and

sat with Krzycki having tea. When Pauly handed him the letter, he read

it and, laughing, showed it to Ladislaus; after which he rose and went

to his writing desk to write an answer. During this time Ladislaus

began to question her about the health of his mother and the younger

ladies.

"I thank you, the ladies are well, but my lady has already gone down

town."

"So early? And is not your lady afraid to go alone about the city?"

"My lady went with me and bought flowers for Panna Marynia and after

that she went to church."

"To what church did she go?"

"I do not know."

Panna Pauly knew well, but she was hurt by his asking her about her

mistress; while he, conjecturing this, ceased to question her further,

for he had previously resolved to converse with her as little as

possible.

So, silence--a little embarrassing--ensued between them, and continued

until Gronski returned with the letter.

"Here is the answer," he said; "let the little lady bow for us to the

ladies and say that to-day we both will be there, for Pan Krzycki's

imprisonment is now ended."

"I thank you," replied Pauly, "but I have yet a favor,--I would like to

learn the address of Pan Swidwicki?"

Gronski looked at her with astonishment.

"Did the ladies request you to ask?"

"No--I just wanted to know--"

"Panna Pauly," said Gronski, "Pan Swidwicki lives at No. 5 Oboznej, but

it is not very safe for young girls to go to him."

She colored to the ears from fear that the "young lord" might think

something bad about her.

And she hesitated for a while whether she should tell that Laskowicz

was in the hallway and that it was necessary to hide him, as otherwise

destruction awaited him. But again she recollected that Laskowicz had

been sought in Jastrzeb and that Krzycki, on account of that had been

almost arrested. A fear possessed her that perhaps Gronski himself

might want to hide the student and in such case would jeopardize the

young lord. She looked once or twice at the shapely form of Krzycki and

decided to remain silent.

But Gronski spoke further:

"I do not advise you to go to him. I do not advise it. It is said that

you once gave him a tongue-lashing."

And she, raising her head, answered at once haughtily and indignantly:

"Then I will give him a tongue-lashing a second time; but I have some

business with him."

And bowing, she left. Gronski shrugged his shoulders and said:

"I cannot understand what she is concerned about. There is something

strange in that girl, and I tell you that your future lady gives

evidence of holy patience, that she has not dismissed her before this.

She always says that she is a violent character but has a golden heart,

and that may be possible. I know, however, from Pani Otocka that the

golden heart enacts for her such scenes as no one else would tolerate."

X

In the evening of Marynia's birthday, Ladislaus and Miss Anney for a

time found themselves at some distance from the rest of the company, at

a cottage piano, decorated with flowers. His eyes shone with joy and

happiness. He felt fortunate that his imprisonment had ended and that

he could again gaze upon this, his lady, whom he loved with the whole

strength of a young heart.

"I know," he told her, "that you were this morning in the city and

bought flowers. I learned this from your maid, who brought the letter

to Pan Gronski. Afterwards you went to church. I asked her to which

one, as I wanted to go there, but the maid did not know."

"That is strange, for she knows that I always go to the Holy Cross, and

at times I even take her with me. I am there, daily, at the morning

mass."

"She told me that she did not know," answered Ladislaus. "Will you be

there to-morrow?"

"Yes; unless the weather should be very inclement."

Ladislaus lowered his voice:

"I ask because I have a great and heartfelt prayer. Permit me to come

there at the same hour and before the same altar."

Blushes suffused Miss Anney's countenance and her breast began to move

more quickly. She inclined her head somewhat and placing the edge of

the fan to her lips answered in a low voice:

"I have not the right to forbid nor to permit. The church is open to

all the pious."

"Yes. But I want to kneel a while beside you--together, and not with

customary humility; but for a special purpose. As to my piety, I will

candidly state that I believe in God, ah! especially now--I believe

in God and in His goodness; but heretofore I have not been very

pious--just like all others. When, however, a whole life is concerned,

then even a man, totally unbelieving, is ready to kneel and pray. To

kneel beside you, that alone is an immense boon, for it is as if one

had beside him an angel. And I want to beg for something else: and that

is that we should together, at the same time, say 'Under Thy protection

we flee, Holy Mother of God.'"

Ladislaus became pale from emotion and on his forehead beads of

perspiration appeared. For a time he remained silent, to permit the too

violent beating of his heart to subside. After which he again spoke:

"'We flee'--that will mean us both. Nothing more, dear, dearest lady,

nothing more. After that I will go, and in the afternoon, if you

permit, I will come to your residence and will tell you everything

which has collected within me from the time I first saw you in

Jastrzeb. In your hands, lady, lies my fate, but I must, I must divulge

it all; otherwise my bosom will burst. But if you, lady, will agree to

a joint prayer of 'Under Thy protection,' before that time, then I

shall be so happy that I do not know how I will survive until

to-morrow."

And she looked at him guilelessly and straight in his eyes with the

celestial streak of the hazy pupils of her eyes and answered:

"Come to church to-morrow."

And Ladislaus whispered:

"And not to be able to fall at your feet at this moment--not to be able

to fall at your feet!"

But Miss Anney tapped lightly, as if reluctantly, his hand, resting on

the piano with her own, which was incased in a white glove, and walked

away, for, not forgetting herself to the same extent as Ladislaus, she

noticed that they were observed. Owing to Marynia's birthday there

assembled that evening at Pani Otocka's quite a considerable gathering

of acquaintances. The notary, Dzwonkowski, appeared; also, an old

neighbor from the vicinity of Zalesin; and besides these Dolhanski and

both Wlocek ladies, who after a previous exchange of visits, were

invited by Pani Otocka. Gronski actually appeared the earliest and well

nigh played the role of host, in which part he was assisted by the

former teacher of Marynia, the violinist Bochener, not less in love

with her, and finally Swidwicki, who on that day was exceptionally

sober. Pani Otocka was occupied with the Wlocek ladies; Gronski

conversed with Swidwicki in so far as he did not direct his eyes after

Marynia, who, in her white dress, adorned with violets, slender, almost

lithesome, actually looked like an alabaster statuette. But she, and

with her Pani Krzycki, began to look with especial attention at

Ladislaus and Miss Anney. The little ears of Marynia reddened from

curiosity, while on Pani Krzycki's countenance there appeared

uneasiness, and, as if it were, a shadow of dissatisfaction.

But Miss Anney, breaking off her conversation with Ladislaus,

approached directly towards his mother and sat down in a chair beside

her.

"Pan Ladislaus is so happy," she said, "that his confinement is ended."

"I see," answered Pani Krzycki, "but I fear that conversation fatigues

him yet. What did he say to you with such animation?"

For a moment, Miss Anney inclined her head and began to smooth out with

her fingers the folds of her bright dress as if troubled, but later,

having evidently formed a sudden resolution, she raised her frank eyes

straight at Pani Krzycki, just as she had previously at Ladislaus, and

replied:

"He said such pleasant and loving things; that he wants to go to church

to-morrow and say 'Under Thy protection'--together with me--"

In her eyes there were no interrogatories, nor uneasiness, nor

challenge, but great goodness and truth.

Pani Krzycki, on the other hand, was put out of countenance by the

candor of the reply, so that at first she was silent. It seemed to her

that what heretofore was a doubtful, blurred, and indistinct

supposition, lightened up and plainly emerged upon the surface, but she

tried to disbelieve it; so, after a certain hesitation, she replied:

"Laudie otherwise would be ungrateful. He owes you so much--and I

also."

Miss Anney understood perfectly that Pani Krzycki wanted to give her to

understand that the motive of Ladislaus' words was only gratitude, but

she had no time to reply to the remark, as at that time across the arm

of her chair the slender form of Marynia was leaning:

"Aninka, may I trouble you to step over here for a moment?"

"Certainly," answered Miss Anney.

And rising, she left. Pani Krzycki eyed her and sighed. There was in

that beautiful form so much youth, health, radiance, so many golden

tresses, glances, so much bloom, warmth, and womanly fascination, that

an older and experienced woman, like Pani Krzycki, was forced to admit

in her soul that it would have been rather incomprehensible if

Ladislaus had remained indifferent to all those charms.

And sighing for the second time, she thought:

"Why did Zosia bring her to Jastrzeb?"

And she began to seek with her eyes Pani Otocka, who at that moment was

approaching the door to greet an elderly gentleman with a white leonine

mane and the same kind of white beard who, evidently being almost

blind, stood on the threshold and gazed over the salon through his

gold-rimmed spectacles.

Finally espying Pani Otocka, he seized both her hands and commenced to

kiss them with great ardor, while she greeted him with that shy grace,

peculiarly her own, which made her resemble a young village maid.

"How sweet she is and how lovable!" Pani Krzycki said to herself.

But her further meditations and regrets were interrupted by Swidwicki,

who, taking the chair vacated by Miss Anney, said:

"But your son, benefactress, is a genuine Uhlan from under Somo-Sierra.

What a race! what a type! I, who everywhere fancy beauty as a setter

does partridges, observed this at once to Gronski. Only put a sabre in

his hand and place him on horseback. Or at some exhibition! plainly on

exhibition, as a notable specimen of the race. Ah, what blood with

milk! The women must rave over him!"

Pani Krzycki, notwithstanding her internal worries, was pleased to hear

these words, for Ladislaus' shapeliness was from his childhood days a

source of pride and joy for her. But in reality, she did not deem it

proper to admit this before Swidwicki.

"I do not attach any importance to that," she answered, "and I thank

God that it is not the only thing that can be said of my son."

And Swidwicki snapped his fingers and said:

"You do attach importance to it, madame, you do, and so do I, and those

ladies only pretend that they do not--that young Englishwoman as well

as even that translucent little porcelain maid; though apparently she

thinks of nought but music.... Perhaps the least of all Pani Zosia, but

only because from a certain time she too sedulously reads Plato."

"Zosia--Plato!" exclaimed Pani Krzycki.

"I suspect so, and even am certain for otherwise she would not be so

Platonic."

"Why, she is not versed in Greek."

"But Gronski is, and he can translate for her."

Pani Krzycki gazed with astonishment at Swidwicki and broke off the

conversation. Becoming acquainted with him only that evening and having

no idea that he was a man who, for a quip, for a wretched play on words

and from habit, was ready always and everywhere to talk stuff and

nonsense in the most reckless manner, she could not understand why he

said that to her. Nevertheless his words were for her, as it were, a

ray illuminating things which heretofore she had not observed. She

found new proofs that her heartfelt and secret wishes would always

remain a dream without substance--and she sighed for the third time.

"Ah, then it is so," she thought to herself in her soul.

"Yes, yes," Swidwicki continued. "My cousin is very Platonic and in

addition a trifle anaemic."

In his laughter there was a kind of bitterness and even malice, so that

Pani Krzycki again looked at him with astonishment.

In the meantime Marynia led Miss Anney to another chamber. Her ears

each moment became redder and her eyes sparkled with a perfectly

childish curiosity. So pressing her little nose to Miss Anney's cheek,

she began to whisper:

"Tell me! Did he propose to you at the piano? Did he propose? Tell me

now."

And Miss Anney, embraced her neck with her arms and kissing her

cordially, whispered in her ear:

"Almost."

"What?--at the piano! I guessed it at once! Ho, ho! I am thoroughly

conversant with such matters. But how was that? Almost? How, almost?"

"For I know that he loves me--"

"Laudie? What did he say to you?"

"He did not even have to say it."

"I understand, I understand perfectly."

Miss Anney, though her eyes were moist, began to laugh, and, hugging

the little violinist again, said:

"Let us now return to the salon."

"Let us return," answered Marynia.

On the way she said with delighted countenance:

"You and Zosia, thought that I saw nothing, and I--oho!"

In the salon they chanced upon a political discussion. The tall elderly

gentleman with the white mane, who was a colleague and friend of the

late Otocki and at the same time editor of one of the principal dailies

in Warsaw, said:

"They think that this is a new state of affairs, which henceforth is

bound to continue, but it is an attack of hysteria, after which

exhaustion and prostration will follow. I have lived long in the world

and often have witnessed similar phenomena. Yes, it is so. It is a

stupid and wicked revolution."

If Swidwicki had heard from some madman that this was a wise and

salutary revolution, he undoubtedly would have been of the opinion of

the old editor, but, as he esteemed lightly journalists in general, he

was particularly angered at the thought that the amiable old gentleman

passed in certain circles as a political authority; so he began at once

to dispute.

"Only the bottomless naivete of the conservatives," he said, "is

capable of demanding from a revolution reason and goodness. It

is the same as demanding, for instance, of a conflagration that it

should be gentle and sensible. Every revolution is the child of the

passions--unreason and rage--and not of love. Its aim is to blow up the

old forms of folly and evil and forcibly introduce into life the new."

"And how do you picture to yourself the new?"

"In reality as also foolish and wicked--but new. Upon such transitions

our history is based, and even the annals of mankind in general."

"That is the philosophy of despair."

"Or of laughter."

"If of laughter, then it is egoism."

"Yes, that is so. My partisanship begins with me and ends with me."

Gronski impatiently smacked his lips; while the editor took off his

spectacles and, winking with his eyes, began to wipe them with a

handkerchief.

"I beg pardon," he said with great phlegm. "Your party affiliations may

be very interesting but I wanted to speak of others."

"Less interesting--"

But the old journalist turned to Gronski.

"Our socialists," he said, "have undertaken the reconstruction of a new

house, forgetting that we live huddled together in only a few rooms,

and that in the others dwell strangers who will not assent to it; or

rather, on the contrary, they will permit the demolition of those few

rooms, but will not allow their reconstruction."

"Then it is better to blow up the whole structure with dynamite,"

interjected Swidwicki.

But this remark was passed over in silence; after which Gronski said:

"One thing directly astonishes me, and that is that the conservatives

turn with the greatest rage not against the revolutionists, but against

the national patriots, who do not desire a revolution and who alone

have sufficient strength to prevent it. I understand that a foreign

bureaucracy does this, but why should our patres conscripti clear the

way in this for them?"

The editor replaced the spectacles, wetted his finger in the tea

seeking the cup, afterwards raised it to his lips, drank, and replied:

"The reason of that is their greater blindness and sense."

"Please explain!" exclaimed Swidwicki, who was a little impressed by

this reply.

And the neighbor from Zalesin, who eagerly listened to the words of the

journalist, asked:

"How is that, sir benefactor? I do not understand."

"Yes, it is so," answered the editor. "Their greater blindness is due

to the narrower horizon, to the lack of ability to look ahead into the

future, into those times and ages which are yet to come, for which it

is a hundred times more important that the great Sacred Fire.[8] should

not be extinguished than that any immediate paltry benefits should be

obtained. It is necessary to have a sense of coming events, and this

they do not possess. They are a little like Esau who relinquished his

heritage for a pot of lentils. And for us it is not allowable to

relinquish anything. Absolutely nothing! On the other hand, when

concerned about isolated moments, about ranks and connections in a

given instant of time, the conservatives are a hundred times more

sensible, adroit--commit far less errors in details and view matters

more soberly. I speak of this with entire impartiality for I myself am

a nonpartisan."

"Who is right neither in the present time nor will be in the future,"

interposed Swidwicki. "After all, I agree that the difference between

the views of politicians favoring reconciliation and sentimental

patriots and zealots in general lies in this, that from political

moderation you can immediately coin money, though at times counterfeit,

but from sentimental politics,--only in the future. History confirms at

every stage that what one hundred, fifty, or twenty years ago appeared

to be political or social insanity, to-day has entered into being. And

it will be ever thus in the further course of time."

"That may be," said Gronski, "but it is only just so far as radicalism

of ideas or the furies of feeling do not strike terror in a great,

stupid, immediate act. For if this occurs a crime is perpetrated, and

error is born which menaces the future. This happens frequently."

"And I assume that this is just what the conservatives fear," answered

the journalist, "an excessively warm patriotism--and it must be

admitted, often improvident and absurd in its manifestations--strikes

them with terror. Formerly they feared that the peasants, who read 'The

Pole' might take to their scythes. At present they have gooseflesh when

some zealot breaks out with a word about the future kingdom of Poland."

"Kingdom of Poland!" said Swidwicki, snorting ironically. "I will tell

you gentlemen an anecdote. A certain Russian official became insane and

suffered from a mania of greatness. In reality his delusion lay in

this, that he attained the highest position in heaven as well as on

earth. And whom do you suppose that he imagined himself to be?"

"Well! God?"

"More."

"I confess that my imagination reels," answered Gronski.

"Ah, you see! In the meantime he invented a position still higher, for

he represented himself as the 'presiding officer' of the Holy Trinity.

Understand? That there was a committee consisting of God, the Father,

the Son, and the Holy Ghost--and he was its chairman. Is not that

more?"

"True, but why do you cite that anecdote?"

"As a proof that for diseased brains there are no impossibilities and

that only such brains can think of a kingdom of Poland."

Gronski remained silent for a while, and then said: "Twenty millions of

people are something tangible, and permit me to say that the

chairmanship of the Holy Trinity is a greater impossibility. What do

you know about the future and who can divine it? The most you can say

is that in view of the present conditions the thought of creating

anything like it by force, through revolution, would be a mistake, and

even a crime. But our nation will be devoured only when it allows

itself to be devoured. But if it does not? If through great and noble

efforts it shall bring forth enlightenment, social discipline,

prosperity, science, literature, art, wealth, sanitation, a quiet

internal strength, then what? And who to-day can tell what shape in the

future the political and social conditions will assume? Who can vouch

that the systems of government of the present day may not entirely

change, that they will not fall and will not be adjudged as idiotic and

criminal as to-day we regard tortures? Who can divine what governments

will arise in that great sea which is humanity? The man who, for

instance, in the time of Cicero would have said that social economy

could exist without slavery would have been deemed crazy, and,

nevertheless, to-day slavery does not exist. And in our political

relations something similar might take place. To-day's conditions of

coercion might change into voluntary and free unions. I do not know

whether it will be so, but you do not know that it will not be so. In

view of this, I see the necessity of quiet and iron labor, but I do not

see the necessity of the repudiation or renunciation of any ideals--and

I will tell you too that the Pole who does not bear that great ideal,

at the bottom of his soul, is in a measure a renegade; and I do not

understand why he does not renounce everything."

"Write that in verse and in Latin," answered Swidwicki with impatience,

"for in that manner you will upset the heads of a less number of men."

"Then our present day antagonists may themselves say to us: 'Arrange

matters to suit yourselves.' At the present moment it may seem a naive

fancy, but the future carries in its bosom such surprises, as not only

the shortsighted politicians have not dreamed of, but even philosophers

who can look ahead."

After which, having evidently sufficient of this discussion, he added:

"But enough of this. I suspend the argument and pause. To-day we must

occupy ourselves not with politics, but with the young lady whose

birthday we celebrate and whom undoubtedly such things weary."

Saying this, he turned to Marynia, standing at Miss Anney's side, but

she, shaking her little head, replied at once with great ardor:

"On the contrary! I am of the same opinion as Pan Gronski."

And she blushed to her ears, for all began to laugh, while Swidwicki

replied:

"If that is so, then everything is settled."

Ladislaus smiled at Marynia's embarrassment, though in truth he did not

know what it all was about, as his whole soul surged in his enamoured

eyes, gazing at Miss Anney. She stood between two chairs, calm,

smiling, white in her light dress, cheery as the summer dawn, and only

after the close of the discussion rosier than usual, and he plainly

devoured her with his gaze. His thoughts and heart raged within him. He

looked at her radiant countenance, on her bare arms, chiseled as if out

of warm marble, at her developed strong breast, on the sinuous pliant

lines of her figure, on her knees turned towards him and outlined under

her light dress, and he was seized by a whirlwind of desires, which

struggled with the feeling of worship and respect which he entertained

for this maiden, pure as a tear. His pulse commenced to beat strangely

and on his forehead appeared a braid of veins. At the thought that she

was to be his wife and that all these treasures would be his, he was

enveloped by a fire of blood, and at the same time by some kind of

debility so great that at times he was uncertain whether he would be

able to lift the chair. At the same time he quarrelled with himself. He

became indignant from his whole soul at that "animal" which he could

not subdue within himself, and upbraided himself to the last words

because he did not love her--"that angel"--as he should love her, that

is with the love which only kneels and idolizes. So, in thought, he

fell on his knees before his loved one, embraced her limbs, and

implored forgiveness, but when he imagined that his lips kissed her

feet, again lust seized him by the hair. And in this struggle he felt

not only unworthy of her, not only "a beast," but at the same time a

half-baked and ludicrous blunderer, deprived of that reason, peace, and

self-control which a true man should possess.

He was also possessed by astonishment that everything which could

promise delight should also at the same time torment him. Fortunately,

his further torments and meditations were interrupted by music, with

which an evening at Pani Otocka's had to conclude. Bochener sat at the

piano, the irascible notary began to blow in his flute, and Marynia

stood aside with the violin, and if those present were not accustomed

to the sight of her, they would have been astonished at the change

which took place in her. The beautiful but childish face of a delighted

and inquisitive girl assumed in a single moment an expression of

gravity and profound calm. Her eyes became thoughtful and sad. On the

red background of the salon her slim form appeared like a design of the

best style on a painted church window. There was something in her

plainly hieratic.

A trio began. The gentle tones began to rock Ladislaus' agitated soul.

His senses gradually fell asleep and his desires were extinguished. His

love metamorphosed into a great winged angel who carried his loved one

in his arms as if a child, and soared with her in the immeasurable

space before an altar composed of the lustre of the evening twilight

and the nocturnal lights of stars.

The hour was late, when Gronski, Swidwicki, and Ladislaus left Pani

Otocka's. On the streets they met few pedestrians, but every few paces,

they encountered the military and police patrol, which stopped them and

asked for passports. This time Swidwicki did not pretend to be

intoxicated, for he fell into a bad humor just because at Pani Otocka's

he had to content himself with two glasses of wine. So, showing the

policeman the passport, he pointed to his dress-suit and white cravat

and asked them surlily whether socialists or bandits dressed in that

manner.

"If only lightning would smite the one and the other," he said,

striking the sidewalk with his cane. "In addition, everything is

closed, not only the restaurants in the hotels, but even the

pharmacies, in which in an extreme case, vin de coca or alcohol can be

procured. The pharmacies are striking! We have lived to see that! The

doctors also ought to strike and then the grave-diggers will

unwillingly have to strike also. May the devil seize all! At home I

have not a single bottle; so throughout the entire night I will not be

able to sleep a wink and to-morrow I will be as if taken off the

cross--"

"Come with us," said Gronski, "perhaps we may find a bottle of

something and black coffee."

"You have saved not only my life but that of my 'associate,' especially

if two bottles are found."

"We will seek. But what kind of associate are you speaking of?"

"True, you yet know nothing. I will relate it over a glass."

It was not far to Gronski's residence, so soon they were seated

around a table on which was found a bottle of noble Chambertin and a

coffee-percolator with black coffee, steaming in a delicious manner.

Swidwicki regained his spirits.

"Those ladies," he said, "are real angels, and for the reason that it

is there, as if in Paradise, where happiness consists in gazing upon

eternal brightness and listening to the archangel choir."

Here he addressed Krzycki:

"I observed that this suffices for you and Gronski--but for me it is

absolutely too little."

"Only do not begin to sharpen your tongue on those ladies," replied

Gronski, "for I shall order the bottle removed instanter."

Swidwicki hugged it with both hands.

"I idolize--all three," he exclaimed with comic precipitancy.

"Of what kind of associate were you speaking?"

Swidwicki swallowed the wine and, closing his eyes, for a while

appraised its value.

"I have with me from this morning some kind of gallows-bird, for whom

the police are looking and, if they find him with me, they will

probably hang us both."

"You, however, have given him shelter?"

"I gave him shelter because he was brought by one whom I could not

refuse."

"I will wager that it was some woman."

"That is true. I can add that she is comely and one of those who excite

in me a responsive electric current. But I cannot tell you her name, as

she begged me to keep that secret."

"I do not ask," said Gronski, "but as to the current I have no doubt,

as otherwise you would fear to place yourself in jeopardy."

To this Swidwicki said:

"Know this, that I do not fear anything in the world, and this gives me

in this enslaved country such an unheard of independence as is not

enjoyed by any one else."

Saying this, he drained the glass to the bottom and exclaimed:

"Long live liberty--but only my own."

"Nevertheless, all this demonstrates that you have a little good in

your heart."

"Not in the least. I did that, firstly, because I expect a reward,

on which, after all, in such virtuous company, I prefer not to

dilate--unless after a second bottle--and again, because I will have

some one upon whom I can vent my spleen and assert my ascendency. I

assure you that my gallows-bird will not sleep upon roses--and who

knows whether after a week he will not prefer the gallows to my

hospitality?"

"That is possible. But in the meantime?"

"In the meantime I bought for him Allen's Waters in order to bleach the

black tufts of hair on his head into a light color. 'Are te

biondegiante'--as during Titian's time. I feel also a little

satisfaction at the thought that the police will stand on their heads

to find him and will not get him."

"But if they find him?"

"I doubt it. Do you remember that for a certain time I had a footman, a

native of Bessarabia, whom you knew? Over two months ago he robbed me

and ran away. He has already written to me from New York with a

proposition which I will not repeat to you. A superb type! Perfectly

modern. But before his escape he begged me to return to him his

passport, as now they are asking about passports every moment. But I

mislaid it in some book and could not find it. But recently--two or

three days ago--I accidentally found it, so that my gallows-bird will

have not only blond hair but also a passport."

"And will he not rob you like his predecessor?"

"I told him that he ought to do that, but he became indignant. It seems

to me that he is boiling with indignation from morning until night, and

if in the end he should steal from me it would be from indignation that

I could suppose anything like that of him. That little patroness who

shoved him on my neck vouches also that he is honest, but did not even

tell me his name. Clever girl! For she says thus: 'If they find him,

then you can excuse yourself on the plea that you did not know who he

was.' And she is right--though when some marks of gratitude are

concerned, she scratches like a cat. For her, I expose myself to the

halter, and when I wanted from her a little of that--then I almost got

it in the snout."

Gronski knit his brows and began to sharply eye Swidwicki; after which,

he said:

"Miss Anney's servant asked me this morning about your residence. Tell

me, what does that mean?"

Swidwicki again drank the wine.

"Ah, she also called--she was there. Pani Otocka sent through her an

invitation."

"Pani Otocka sent you an invitation through Pauly. Tell that to some

one else."

"About what are you concerned?" asked Swidwicki, with jovial

effrontery. "She ordered her to send the invitation through a messenger

but the messengers since last night are on a strike. Now everybody

strikes. Girls also,--with the exception of the 'female associates,'

particularly the old and ugly ones. These, if they strike, then sans le

vouloir."

The reply appeared to Gronski to be satisfactory, as in reality

messengers had been absent from the streets since the previous day.

Then Swidwicki turned the conversation into another direction.

"I received him," he said, "not to save an ass, but because I am bored

and it just suited me. Some wise Italian once said that the divinity

which holds everything in this world in restraint is called la

paura,--fear; and the Italian was right. If the people did not fear,

nothing would remain--not a single social form of life! On this ladder

of fear there are numerous rounds and the highest is the fear of death.

Death! That is a real divinity! Reges rego, leges lego, judice judico!

And I confess that I, whose life has been passed in toppling from

pedestals various divinities, had the most difficulty in overcoming

this divinity. But I overcame it and so completely that I made it my

dog."

"What did you do?"

"A dog, which as often as it pleases me, I stroke over the hair,

as for instance now, when I received that revolutionary booby. But that

is yet nothing! See under what terror people live: the executioner's

axe, the gallows, the bullet, cancer, consumption, typhoid fever,

tabes--suffering, pain, whole months and years of torture--and why?

Before the fear of death. And I jeer at that. Me, hangman will not

execute, cancer will not gnaw, consumption will not consume, pain will

not break, torture will not debase, for I shout, in a given moment, at

this divinity before which all tremble, as at a spaniel: 'Lie down!'"

After which he laughed and said:

"And that mad booby of mine, however, hid himself as if before death.

Tell me what would happen if people actually did not fear?"

"They would not be themselves," answered Gronski. "They desire life,

not death."