When on the morning of the following day Ladislaus awoke after a brief
feverish sleep, he was seized by grief and an insane rage at himself.
He recalled everything which had taken place. He remembered that his
parting with Hanka the day before was equivalent to being shown the
door; there returned to him as a wicked echo his own wretched and
dreadful words said in his passion at the time of separation, that if
her resistance flowed from fear that later he might break their
engagement, then let her know that it was an idle fear. And so he
imputed this resistance to miserable motives. And he, a man who prided
himself not only upon his good breeding but also upon a subtile sense
of honor and personal worthiness--he, Krzycki, could act the way he did
and say what he said. In the first moments after opening his eyes, it
seemed to him that this was a point-blank impossibility; some kind of a
continuation of the nightmare which throttled his slumber, which ought
to disappear with the light of day.
But that nightmare was a heavy reality. It was incumbent upon him to
take it into account and remedy it in some manner. He sat down to write
a letter, in which he smote himself upon the breast, complained, and
apologized. He said that no one was able to condemn him as he had
condemned himself, and if he dared to beg for forgiveness it was only
in hope that perhaps some voice, some echo of the better moments would
intercede for him in her heart and would procure for him forgiveness.
At the close he begged for an opportunity of repeating in person the
words of the letter and for an answer, even in case the sentence
pronounced against him was final.
But when the messenger who took the letter informed him upon his return
that there was no answer, he fell into genuine despair. As a really
spoiled child of life, unaccustomed to opposition and obstacles, and
one convinced that everything was due him, it began to appear to him
that this was more than he deserved; that he was the injured party. He
would not admit, however, that all was lost. He indulged in the hope
that Hanka might, before opening the letter, have announced that there
was no answer and that after reading it she would be moved, would
relent, and rescind her resolution. Sustained by this hope, he dressed
himself, strolled over the city for an hour in order to give Hanka time
to reckon with her heart, and afterwards rang the bell of her
residence.
But he was not received. Then it occurred to him to apply to Pani
Otocka. After a while, he nevertheless perceived that the causes of his
rupture with Hanka were of such a nature that it was impossible to
discuss them either with Pani Otocka or his mother. In his soul he now
began to accuse Hanka of downright cruelty, but at the same time the
greater the difficulties interposed between them the greater was his
grief. He could not, in any measure, be reconciled to the thought that
whatever he regarded as his own should be taken away from him; and as
is usual with weak persons, he began to commiserate himself.
From Pani Otocka he went to Gronski, regarding him as the only person
with whom he could speak frankly and whose mediation would be
effective. And here disappointment awaited him. Gronski had suffered
for several days with his eyes and was not allowed to read; this put
him into a bad humor, and for this reason he received Ladislaus more
indifferently than usual. Ladislaus became convinced that it was
difficult to speak of the rupture not only with Pani Otocka and his
mother, but even with a man and old friend who knew of his former
relations with Hanka. A feeling of shame plainly choked the words in
his throat, and he began to beat about the bush and palliate things,
talk in empty phrases about a misunderstanding and the necessity of a
friendly mediation, so that Gronski at last asked, with a shade of
impatience:
"Tell me plainly about what you had a falling out, and then I can tell
whether I will undertake to bring you together again."
And evidently he did not attach much importance to the matter for he
waved his hand and said:
"It would be best if you made it up between yourselves."
"No," replied Ladislaus; "this is more serious than you think, and we
ourselves cannot come to any agreement."
"Well, finally, what was it about?"
Shame, exertion, and constraint were depicted upon Ladislaus' face.
"In a moment of forgetfulness and ecstasy," he said, "I passed--that
is--I wanted to pass--certain limits--"
And he stopped abruptly.
Gronski began to look at him with amazed eyes and asked:
"And she?"
"Why, if anything had happened there would not have been any rupture
and I surely would not speak of it now. She ordered me to the door and
not to show myself there any more."
"May God bless her," exclaimed Gronski.
Silence ensued. Gronski walked with big paces over the room repeating
every little while, "It is unbelievable!" and again, "An unheard-of
thing!" and in addition his face became more and more severe and cold.
After which he sat down and, looking at Ladislaus, began to speak
deliberately:
"I have known many people even among our aristocracy, in whom beneath
the veneer of society, beneath high descent and all the pretensions of
elegant breeding were concealed the ordinary coarse, low, peasant
instincts. If this observation can be applied to you as a comfort,
accept it, for I have no other for you."
A sudden wave of anger swept over Ladislaus' heart and brain. For a
while he struggled with himself in order not to explode and answer
insult with insult; in the end he subdued himself and replied in a
hollow voice:
"I deserve it."
But Gronski, not disarmed by this confession, continued:
"No, my dear sir, I will not undertake your defence, for I should act
contrary to my convictions. To you less than to any one else was it
allowable to indulge yourself, even out of regard for the past. And
your fiancee must have so understood it, and besides she did not forget
her extraction. To you it was less permissible! She was a hundred times
right in showing you the door. The matter is really more serious than I
thought, and so serious that I do not see any help for it. You did not
respect Hanka, your future wife, and therefore yourself and your own
honor. In view of this how can she honor you and what can she think of
you?"
"I know," said Ladislaus in the same hollow voice, "and I have said all
this to myself in almost the same words. I wrote a letter to her
this morning, begging for forgiveness--there was no answer. I went to
her personally--I was not received. So I came to you as the last
refuge--for--for me there pleads only one thing--I acted badly,
brutally, and scurvily, but I have not ceased to love her. There is no
life for me without her, and though you may not believe it,
nevertheless it is so that under the frenzy which possessed me, under
that froth which blinded me and under which I to-day sink, lies the
feeling not only deep but pure--"
Gronski again began to measure with great steps the room for he was
somewhat touched by Ladislaus' words.
While the latter continued:
"If she will not read my letters and will not receive me, then I will
not be able to tell her that. Hence it is imperative that some one
should speak to her in my name. I cannot apply either to Mother or Pani
Zosia in this. I thought that you, sir--but since you decline, I now
have no one."
"Look, however, into the eyes of reality," said Gronski more gently,
"for it may be that her love for you was at once torn into shreds. In
such case from where will she take it when she no longer possesses it?"
"Let her tell me so; that at least is yet due to me."
Again silence fell.
"Listen," Gronski finally said, "I always was a friend of yours and of
your mother, but this mission which you want to intrust to me I cannot
undertake. I cannot among other reasons, because if your fiancee does
not reply to you, so likewise she may not reply to me. One look, one
word, will close my mouth and with this it would end. But try another
method. Panna Hanka comes quite often with Marynia to the rehearsals,
at which I am always present, and afterwards I escort both home. Come
with me. You may find an opportunity to speak with her. During the
return home I will take Marynia and you will remain with her. I think
that she will not repel you even though out of regard for Marynia, to
whom she would not wish to divulge what had passed between you.--Then
tell her what you have said to me and also beg her for an interview,
which, if it cannot be otherwise--will be final. It will be necessary
somehow to give to the world some plausible excuse for your rupture; so
I presume she will agree to that. If not, we will think of something
else."
Ladislaus began to wring his hands and said:
"Perhaps through Zosia we could ascertain whether this is forever."
"You understand that she may not have wished to discuss the cause of
your rupture even with Pani Zosia."
"I understand, I understand."
"But you now have a fever," said Gronski, "your hands are burning. Go,
try to cool off and calm yourself."