The room in which Marynia died was changed into a funeral chamber. The
coffin stood in the middle, high, amidst burning candles and a whole
forest of plants and flowers, of which such a number were amassed that
they filled not only the chamber but even the anteroom and the
stairway. The coffin was still open and in the brightness of the day,
blended with the light of the wax-candles, Marynia could be seen
dressed in that same dress in which she was to have appeared at the
concert. The little metal cross which she held in her folded hands
glittered like a sparkling spot on a dark background of plants. Her
face was pensive, but without the slightest trace of suffering,--and at
the same time as if she was absorbed in listening to voices, sounds,
and tones, which were inaudible and incomprehensible to mortals.
Though the open windows there blew in from time to time a breeze,
extinguishing here and there the unsteady flames of the candles and
causing the leaves of the plants to rustle. On the acacias in front of
the house the sparrows chirped boisterously; one would think that they
were relating to each other feverishly what had happened; while at the
side of the catafalque a human stream flowed. There came with wreaths,
workingmen, for whose benefit the concert was to have been given, and
at the sight of the barbarously slain little lady, they left with fire
in their eyes and clenched fists. The intelligence of the monstrous and
reckless crime attracted whole throngs of students, who determined to
carry the coffin on their shoulders. In the meantime they moved slowly
and quietly about the catafalque, gazing with bosoms swelling with
sympathy and grief at the silvery profile of the girl, turned towards
heaven, and unconsciously they recalled the words of the poet:
"And now in pale satin enshrouded,
In silence, hands folded, she lies."
Horror, indignation, and at the same time curiosity aroused the city
from centre to circumference. Even the streets in front of the house
were thronged by great crowds--uneasy, being unable to explain to
themselves how such a thing happened--and, as if, alarmed by the
thought of what the future might bring forth, what other crimes might
be committed and what other victims the uncertain morrow might devour.
The remains of Marynia were to be conveyed to the railway and from
there to Zalesin where the tombs of the Otockis were located.
Immediately after noon the coffin was taken off the stretchers and
then, before its sealing, came for Pani Otocka and for Gronski the
dreadful moment of viewing for the last time in life that beloved being
who was for them a light and sun. If she had died of some sickness
their despair might not have been less, but it would have been more
intelligible to them. But she was murdered! They murdered this sweet
and innocent child, just at a time when she wanted to aid people and
when she rejoiced at the thought of that aid. Murdered was that
incarnate song, that fragrant flower, sent by God for the joy of
mankind! And in just this there was something which could not be
confined within the limits of despair, but reached into the borders of
madness. For lo, this is the last moment for beholding that love, that
youth, that maidenly charm, that white victim of crime and mistake; and
after that nothingness, darkness,--solitude.
But overstrained pain kills itself like a scorpion, it covers the
intellect with darkness, and commands the blood to congeal in the
veins. That happened with the sister of the slain. For a long time Dr.
Szremski was uncertain whether he would be able to restore her to life.
In the consternation and confusion it was hardly observed that into the
chamber there rushed an insane woman and, whining mournfully, she flung
herself upon the ground. Swidwicki led her away with the aid of the
students and intrusted her to their care.
In the meantime the coffin was sealed; the youths placed it on their
shoulders and the funeral party moved towards the railway. After them
marched a long procession, at the end of which empty carriages jogged
along. The ever-increasing swarm flowed along the middle of the streets
and sidewalks; and not until they reached the bridge did those who
joined the procession only through curiosity begin to return home.
Swidwicki approached Dr. Szremski, and for some time both walked in
silence, not perceiving that they were remaining more and more behind
the procession.
"You knew the deceased?" asked the doctor.
"Otocki was my relative."
"Ah, what a horrible mistake it was?"
But Swidwicki blurted out:
"That was no mistake. That is the logical result of the times, and in
those that are coming such accidents will become a customary, every-day
occurrence."
"How do you understand that?"
"The way it should be understood. That coffin has greater meaning than
it seems. That is an announcement! A mistake? No! That was only an
incident. Lo, to-day we are burying a harp, which wanted to play for
the people, but which the rabble trampled upon with their filthy
feet.--Wait, sir! Let things continue to proceed thus, and who knows
whether, after ten or twenty years, we will not thus bury learning,
art, culture, bah! even the entire civilization. And that not only here
but everywhere. There will be an endless series of such events.--To me,
after all, it is all one, but absolutely it is possible."
The doctor ruminated for some time in silence over Swidwicki's words;
finally he exclaimed:
"Ah, knowledge, knowledge, knowledge."
Swidwicki stood still, seized the doctor by the flap of his coat and
shaking his goat-like beard, said:
"Hear, sir, an atheist, or at least, a man who has nothing to do with
any religion: knowledge without religion breeds only thieves and
bandits."
The procession paused for a while on account of an obstruction on the
road; so conversing, they drew nearer to the coffin; nevertheless,
Swidwicki, though lowering his voice, did not cease to talk:
"Ay, sir--a great many people think the same as I do; only they
have not the courage to say it aloud. After all, I reiterate it is all
one to me,--we are lost past all help. With us there are only
whirlpools.--And these, not whirlpools upon a watery gulf, beneath
which is a calm depth, but whirlpools of sand. Now the whirlwind blows
from the East and the sterile sand buries our traditions, our
civilization, our culture--our whole Poland--and transforms her into a
wilderness upon which flowers perish and only jackals can live."
Here he pointed to Marynia's coffin:
"Lo, there is a flower which has withered. Do you know, sir, why I,
though a relative, seldom visited them? Because I felt ashamed before
her eyes."
They reached the station and went upon the roadway, from which could be
seen the coach, decorated with flowers and fir-tree boughs.
"Are you riding to Zalesin?" asked the doctor.
"I am. I want to gaze at Pani Otocka. God knows what now will become of
her. And see, sir, how Gronski looks. An old man--what? Now his Latin
and books will not help him."
"Who would not have felt this," answered the doctor. "Krzycki also
looks as if he were taken off the cross."
"Krzycki? But perhaps it is because his matrimonial plans are broken."
Further conversation was interrupted by the orchestra which began to
play Chopin's "Funeral March."