Chapter IV: Part 4

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: