Chapter IX: Part 9

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."

XI

Swidwicki did not lie when he said that he did not know the name of the revolutionist to whom he promised an asylum, for in reality Pauly had made a secret of it. She so arranged it with Laskowicz on the way. The young student, learning that Swidwicki, to whom the girl was conducting him, was an acquaintance of Gronski and Pani Otocka, in the first moments became frightened inordinately. He recollected the letters which he had written to Panna Marynia, and his odious relations with Krzycki upon whom his party a short time previously perpetrated an attack. Personally he did not participate in it and the suggestion did not emanate from him, but on the other hand he did not have the slightest doubt that the committee issued the death sentence as a result of his reports designating Krzycki as the chief obstacle to their propaganda, and he remembered that he did nothing to prevent the attempt, and was even pleased in his soul that a man, hateful to him and at the same time a putative rival, would be removed from his path.

For a time he even felt, owing to this "washing of hands," a certain internal disgust; at the intelligence, however, that the attack was unsuccessful he experienced, as it were, a feeling of disappointment. And now he was going to seek shelter with a man who was a relative of Pani Otocka and who might have heard of the letters to Marynia and his relations with Krzycki. This was a turn of affairs, clearly fatal, which might frustrate the best intentions of Panna Pauly.

Considering all this he began to beg the girl not to mention his name, giving as a reason that in case the police should find him, Swidwicki would be less culpable.

Pauly admitted the full justness of this; after a while, however, she observed that if Pan Gronski should ever visit Swidwicki then everything would be disclosed.

"Yes," answered the student, "but I need that refuge for only a few days; after which I will look for another, or else my chiefs may dispatch me abroad."

"What chiefs?" asked Pauly.

"Those who desire liberty and bread for all, and who will not tolerate that some one should be raised above you, little lady, either in rank or money."

"I do not understand. How is that? I would not be a servant and would not have a mistress?"

"Yes."

Pauly was struck by the thought that in that case she would be nearer to her "young lord," but not having time to discuss this any longer, she repeated:

"I do not understand. Later, I will question you about it, but now let us proceed."

And they walked hurriedly ahead, in silence, until they reached Swidwicki's door. On the ringing of the bell, he opened it himself. With surprise but also with a smile he saw Pauly in the dark hallway and afterwards catching sight of Laskowicz, he asked:

"What is he here for? Who is he?"

"May we enter and may I speak with you in private?" asked the girl.

"If you please. The more private, the more agreeable it will be to me."

And they entered. The student remained in the first room. The master of the house conducted Pauly to another and closed the door after him.

Laskowicz began to examine the large room, full of disorder, with books, and engravings, and an abundance of bottles with white and blue labels. On the round table, near the window, piled with daily newspapers, stood a bottle with the legend: "Vin de Coca; Mariani," and a few ash trays with charred lighters for cigars and cigarettes. The furniture in the room was heavy and evidently when new was costly but it was now dirty. Hanging on the wall were pictures, among them a portrait of Pani Otocka, while yet a young unmarried lady. In one corner protruded the well known statue of the Neapolitan Psyche with mutilated skull.

The student placed the flower-pot with the Italian lilies on the table and began to eavesdrop. His life was involved, for if shelter was denied to him he undoubtedly would be arrested that day. Through the closed door came to him from time to time Swidwicki's outbursts of laughter, and the conversing voices, in which the voice of the girl sounded at times as if entreating, and at other moments angry and indignant. This lasted a long time. Finally the doors opened and the first to enter was Pauly, evidently angry, and with burning cheeks; after her came Swidwicki, who said:

"Very well. Since the beautiful Pauly so wishes it, I will not tell any one who brought to me this Sir Ananias, and will keep him under cover, but on condition that Pauly will prove a little grateful to me."

"I am grateful," answered the girl with irritation.

"These are the proofs," said Swidwicki, displaying marks on the back of his hands. "A cat could not scratch any better. But to only look at little Pauly, I will agree even to that. The next time we will have some candy."

"Good-by till we meet again."

"Till we meet. May it be as frequent as possible."

The girl took the pot with the flowers and left. Then Swidwicki thrust his hands into his pockets and began to stare at Laskowicz as if he had before him, not a human being, but some singular animal. Laskowicz looked at him in the same way, and during that short interval they acquired for each other a mutual dislike.

Finally Swidwicki asked:

"Ah, esteemed Sir Benefactor, of what party? Socialist, anarchist, or bandit? I beg of you! without ceremony! I do not ask your name, but it is necessary to be acquainted somehow."

"I belong to the Polish Socialist Party," answered the student with a certain pride.

"Aha! Then to the most stupid one. Excellent. That is as if some one said: To the atheistic-Catholic or to the national-cosmopolitan? I am truly delighted to bid you welcome."

Laskowicz was not in the least meek by nature, and besides he understood in a moment that he had before him a man with whom he would gain nothing by meekness; so, gazing straight into Swidwicki's eyes, he replied almost contemptuously:

"If you, sir, can be a Catholic and Pole, I can be a socialist and Pole."

But Swidwicki laughed.

"No, Sir Chieftain," he said, "Catholicism is a smell. One can be a cat and have a fainter or stronger odor, but one cannot be a cat and dog in one and the same person."

"I am no chieftain; only a third-class agent," retorted Laskowicz. "You, sir, have given me a refuge and yourself the right to mock me."

"Exactly, exactly! But for that I shall not require any gratitude. We can, after all, change the subject. Sit down, Sir Third-class Agent. What is new? How is His Majesty, the king."

"What king?"

"Why the one you serve and who to-day has the most courtiers; the one who, most of all, cannot endure the truth and most easily gulps adulation; the one, who in winter smells of whiskey and in summer of sour sweat,--that mangy, lousy, scabby, stinking, gracious, or rather, ungracious ruler of the day. King Rabble."

If Laskowicz had heard the most monstrous blasphemies against a holy object, which heretofore mankind venerated, he would not have been more horrified than at the words which passed Swidwicki's lips. For him it was as if he were struck on the head with a club, for it never crossed his mind that any one would have dared to utter anything like that. His eyes became dim, his jaws tightened convulsively, his hands began to tremble. In the first moments he was possessed by an irrepressible desire to shoot Swidwicki in the head with the revolver he carried with him and afterwards slam the door and go wherever his eyes would take him, or else to place the barrel to his ear and shatter his own head, but he lacked the strength. All night long he had toiled in the printing plant; after which he had fled over the roofs and through the streets like a wild animal. He was fatigued, hungry, and exhausted with the frightful experiences of that morning. So he suddenly staggered on his feet, became as pale as a corpse, and would have tumbled upon the ground if a chair had not stood close by, into which he sank heavily, as if dead.

"What is this? What in the devil ails you?" asked Swidwicki.

And he began to assist him. He poured out of a bottle the remainder of the cognac and forced him to drink it; afterwards he lifted him from the chair and led him to another room and almost forcibly put him in his own bed.

"What the devil!" he repeated; "how do you feel?"

"Better," answered Laskowicz.

Swidwicki glanced at his watch.

"In about ten minutes, the old woman who serves here ought to come. I will order her to bring something to eat. In the meanwhile lie quietly."

Laskowicz obeyed this advice, as he could not do otherwise. Lying there, however, he for a time knit his brow, and evidently his mind was laboring. Then he said:

"That king--about whom you inquired--is--starving--"

"May the devil take him!" replied Swidwicki. "The bourgeoisie will feed him, and for this he at the first opportunity will cut their throats. But do not take to heart too seriously whatever I say; for I say the same and stronger things to all parties. All! Do you understand, sir?"

The bell interrupted further conversation. Laskowicz trembled like an aspen leaf.

"That is my old woman. I recognize the ring," said Swidwicki. "She is earlier to-day than usual. Very well. I will order her to bring food at once."

In fact, after a quarter of an hour, food was placed on the table. Refreshed, Laskowicz came entirely to himself and did not think of forsaking his new shelter. Swidwicki began to open and rummage through various drawers. Finally, finding a passport, he handed it to Laskowicz and said:

"Before you, Sir Benefactor, become dictator of all Poland you will call yourself Zaranczko. You come from Bessarabia and have served with me a year. If they should catch you and, with you, me, repeat only one expression, '_Mamalyga_,[9] _mamalyga_.'"

In this manner Laskowicz was installed in Swidwicki's home.

XII

The morning after Marynia's birthday was unusually gloomy. The western wind drove heavy black clouds, which hung over the city, foretelling a storm. The atmosphere became oppressive and sultry. When Ladislaus entered the church it was completely dark within. In the Chapel of the Divine Mother a quiet votive mass commenced almost with his entry, and the flickering little flames of the candles, lighted before the altar, poorly illuminated the darkness. Ladislaus began to search with his eyes for Miss Anney and he recognized her by the light hair protruding from under her hat. She knelt in the first pew, her hands crossed in prayer and resting upon an open book. Seeing Ladislaus, she nodded her head and drew aside, to make room for him, not pausing in her prayers. He wanted to speak to her but did not dare, and only kneeling, drew somewhat towards himself the book so that they might pray from it together. It was, however, so dark that he could read nothing and after a while he became convinced that he could not pray at all. He was seized by great emotion, for he understood that a new epoch in his life had commenced, and that this moment, in which by the consent of Miss Anney he knelt at her side before the altar to mutually entreat God for blessing, signified more than any other avowals, and that it was the first sanctification of their loves and their joint future lives. He was possessed by a sense of his happiness, but at the same time by some kind of solemn apprehension at the thought that everything would soon cease to be only a dream, only a fancy, only a phantom of happiness, and become realized and accomplished. Through his mind glided the interrogatories,--How will he be able to bear this happiness, what will he do with it, and how will he acquit himself,--and from these questions there was bred in him a sense of immense responsibility, surcharged with fear. It was like certain worries which hitherto, as a free man, he had not known or at least had not met face to face. And he saw before him cares more direct and immediate. The moment of his interview with his mother was approaching; there were also some secret obstacles, which Gronski mentioned, and it was incumbent upon him to weigh everything, to plan, settle various matters, and set aside anticipated difficulties. In truth, now, if ever, it was worth while and necessary to trust to the Divine favor, invoke the All-provident aid, and deliver her to the care of the Future. Ladislaus observed that similar feelings and similar thoughts must have swayed Miss Anney as her countenance was calm, composed, grave, and even sad. The little flames of the candles were reflected in her upraised eyes and for a while it seemed to Ladislaus that he saw tears in those eyes. Apparently with the whole strength of her soul she committed him and herself to God. And thus they knelt beside each other, shoulder to shoulder, heart to heart, and already united, happy, and a little timorous. Ladislaus, having suppressed the whirlwind of thoughts, at last began to pray and said to God, "Do with me whatever Thou wilt, but grant her happiness and peace." And a prodigious overflowing wave of love deluged his bosom. His prayer became at the same time a solemn espousal and internal oath that he would never wrong that most precious being in the world, and that those eyes would never weep for his sake.

In the meantime the votive mass was nearing its close. When the priest turned from the altar, his words, in the half-empty chapel, were as if dreamy and like whispering amidst sighs--as usually happens at the early morning mass. But at times they were deafened by thunders, as the storm began outside. The windows of the chapel darkened yet more, and from time to time livid lightning illuminated the panes; after which the darkness grew yet denser, and on the altar the little flames of the candles twinkled uneasily. The priest turned around once more; "Dominus vobiscum!" after which, "Ite missa est." Afterwards he blessed the assembled and retired. The small number of faithful who heard the mass followed his example. Only they two remained. Then she began to say in a whisper, broken by emotion, "Under Thy protection we flee. Holy Mother of God," and the further words "Our entreaties deign not to spurn and from all evil deign to preserve us forever," were said jointly with Ladislaus, and in this manner the entire prayer concluded.

After this, silence fell between them, was broken only after a long while by Ladislaus.

"We will have to wait," he said in a low voice. "The storm is yet continuing."

"Very well," answered Miss Anney.

"My dear, dearest lady--"

But she placed her finger to her lips and silence again ensued. They did not, however, have to wait very long, for the summer storms come and pass away like birds. After the lapse of a quarter of an hour they left the church. The streets were flooded by the rain, but through the rifts of the scattered and rent clouds the sun shone brightly and, it seemed, moistly. Miss Anney's eyes winked under the flood of light and her countenance was as if she was awakened from a dream. But her composure and gravity did not pass away. Ladislaus, on the other hand, at the sight of the sun, and the bustle and life on the streets, was at once imbued with gayety and hope. He glanced once and again at his companion and she seemed to him as wonderful as a dream, charming as never before, and adorable simply beyond measure and bounds. He felt that he was capable of seizing her at that moment in his arms; of showing her to the sun, the clouds, the city, the human multitude, and exclaiming: "Behold my wealth, my treasure; this is the joy of my life!" But, conjecturing properly that Miss Anney would not assent to any manifestations like that, he subdued this impulse and directed his thoughts to more important matters.

"My adored lady," said he, "I must give utterance to words which burn my lips. When may I come to see you?"

"To-day at four," she replied; "I also have to tell you something upon which everything depends."

"Everything depends upon you, lady, and upon nothing else."

But her clear cheeks were suffused with confused blushes: her eyes shone as if with disagreeable uneasiness; and she replied:

"God grant--you do not know, sir--you do not know sir--" she repeated with emphasis. "We will be alone.--But now we must part."

Ladislaus escorted her to the carriage, kissed her hands and remained alone. Her words, corroborating that which Gronski had intimated as a result of his interviews with Pani Otocka, disquieted him, however, but only for a short time, as he was too much in love to suppose that it could change his love or swerve him from his purpose. At the mere thought of this he shrugged his shoulders.

"Women," he said to himself, "are always full of scruples and to actual difficulties they add chimerical ones."

After which, he returned home in the best of humor, and besides Gronski, found there Dolhanski.

"Behold," exclaimed Gronski, "lo, here is Dolhanski the bachelor. Congratulate him for he is going to marry."

"No?" Truly? asked Ladislaus, amused.

"With Panna Kajetana Wlocek," added Dolhanski, with sangfroid and extraordinary gravity.

"Then I tender my best wishes from the whole heart. When is the wedding?"

"Very soon, on account of the weather, famine, fire, and war, also similar exceptional circumstances. In a week. Without publication of the banns, on an _indult_. After the wedding, the same night a trip abroad."

"And you say all this seriously?"

"With the greatest seriousness in the world. Observe the exquisite consequences."

"Here Dolhanski spread out his fingers and began to enumerate:"

"Primo, my credit is resurrected, as a Hindoo fakir, who, buried in the ground for a whole month, awakes after exhumation to a new life; secundo: Gorek is without a copper coin of indebtedness and without society; tertio: my marriage settlement surpasses my expectations; quarto: my fiancee from good luck has grown so beautiful that you would not recognize her."

"What are you saying?" cried Ladislaus, ingenuously.

XIII

Promptly at four, Ladislaus appeared at Miss Anney's. She received him feelingly and for a greeting offered both hands which he began to press alternately to his lips and his forehead. Afterwards they sat beside each other and for a long time heard only the quickened beating of their own hearts and the faint sounds of the clock on the writing-desk. They reciprocally glanced at each other but neither was able to say the first word. After a while life could glow for them like a new dawn, glistening with joy and happiness, but, for the time being, it was heavy, embarrassing, the more embarrassing the longer the silence continued.

Finally, Ladislaus from a feeling, that, if he kept silent much longer, he would appear ridiculous, mustered enough courage and spoke in a broken voice, whose sounds appeared strange to him!

"From this morning I have a little hope--and nevertheless my heart beats as if I did not have any--I could not say a single word until I caught my breath--but that is nothing strange as my whole life is concerned.--Lady, you long ago, of course, surmised how deeply--how with my whole soul I love you,--you knew this long ago--is it not so?"

Here he again inhaled the air, took a deep breath, and continued:

"To-day in the church I said to myself this: 'If she will hear me, if she does not spurn me, if she consents to be my own for my whole life--my wife--then I vow solemnly to God before this altar that I will love and honor her; that I will never wrong her and will give her all the happiness which is in my power.' And I swear to you that this is the truth--It only depends upon you, lady, that it shall be so--upon your consent--upon your faith in me."

Saying this, he again raised Miss Anney's hands to his lips and imprinted upon them a long imploring kiss and she leaned towards him so that her hair lightly brushed his forehead, and quietly replied:

"I consent and believe with my whole soul--but this does not depend upon me alone."

"Only upon you, lady," exclaimed Ladislaus.

And believing that Miss Anney had his mother in mind, he began to say with a brightened face and deep joy in his voice:

"My mother desires my happiness above all things and I assure you that she will come here with me to beg of you; and with me she will thank you for this great, this ineffable boon, and in the meantime I on my knees thank--"

He wanted to drop on his knees before her and embrace her limbs with his arms, but she began to restrain him and say with feverish haste:

"No, no. Do not kneel, sir,--you must first hear me. I consent, but I must confess things upon which everything depends. Please calm yourself."

Ladislaus rose, again sat beside her and said, with anxious surprise:

"I listen, my dearest lady."

"And I must compose myself a little," replied Miss Anney.

After which she rose, and approaching the window, pressed her forehead against the pane.

For some time silence again ensued.

"What is it?" spoke out Krzycki.

Miss Anney withdrew her forehead from the pane. Her countenance was calmer, but her eyes were dimmed as if with tears. Approaching the table, she sat down opposite to Ladislaus.

"Before I relate what it is now necessary for me to state," she said, "I have a great favor to ask of you. And if you--love me truly--then you will not refuse--"

"Lady, if you demanded my life, I would not refuse it. I pledge you my word," he exclaimed.

"Very well. Give me your word. Then I will be certain."

"I pledge it in advance and swear upon our future happiness that I will comply with your every wish."

"Very well," repeated Miss Anney. "Then I first beg of you, by all you hold most precious, not to feel at all bound by anything you have said to me just now."

"I not feel bound? In what way? Of course, it may not be binding upon you, lady--but on me--"

"Well, then, I release you from all obligations and consider that nothing has been said. You promised me that you would not refuse me anything, but this is not all."

"Not all?"

"No, I am anxious that after what I shall tell you, you shall not give me any answer--and for a whole week shall not return to me and shall not try to see me."

"But in the name of God, what is it?" cried Ladislaus; "why should I suffer a week of torments? What does this mean?"

"And for me it also will be a torment," she answered in a soft voice. "But it is necessary, it is imperative. You will have to explain everything to yourself; weigh everything, unravel and decide everything--and form a resolution--afterwards you may return or may not return--and a week for all that will be rather too little."

And perceiving the agitation on Ladislaus' face, she hurriedly added, as if alarmed:

"Sir, you promised--you pledged me your word!"

Ladislaus drew his hand across the hair of his head; after which he began to rub his forehead with his palm.

"I gave the word," he said at last, "because you requested it, lady--but why?"

And Miss Anney turned pale to the eyes; for a while her lips quivered as though she struggled vainly to draw the words from her bosom, and only after an interval did she reply:

"Because--atone time I--did not bear the name of Anney."

"You did not bear the name of Anney?"

"I--am--Hanka Skibianka."

Ladislaus rose, staggered like a drunken man, and began to stare at her with a bewildered look.

And she added in almost a whisper:

"Little master!--'tis I--of the mill."

And tears coursed quietly over her pallid countenance.

PART III.

I