PART III (continued 2)

"Ah! So you are not a Pole but only a Volhynian with Polish culture? Very well! Then, in the first place I will tell you that you have repudiated your father, grandfather, and great-grandfather; that you have spat upon their graves; that you have renounced your traditions, your right of existence, that you have grown smaller, that you have deserted your own people and have gone to those who do not want you, who do not invite you and who treat you with contempt; that you hang in the air and you will look prettily under such conditions in your Volhynia. Again, I will tell you that you are not yet a turncoat, since that which you are doing, you do through stupid politics which in consequence of your ignorance you regard as wise, but you have paved the way for future turncoats. Your grandson or great-grandson will renounce Polish culture. And finally, if you say that you are not a Pole, but only a Volhynian, why do you not go back farther, even as far as Darwin? You could with equal justice say that you are not a Pole, but an orang-outang or a pithecanthrope with Polish culture? What? Bah! But you still say that you do not want to Polonize any one? How can you Polonize? Whether with a whip, with prison, by religious compulsion, with school, or with a gag on the native tongue? Tell me! But, if not denying your nationality you would shine with the example of your public Polish virtues, if you would give someone your Polish hunger for liberty, your Polish ability to understand the sufferings of others, your Polish love, your Polish hope, your faith in a better future, and through these reconcile him to Poland, then would you regard such a Polonization as premature, and bad politics? But in such case, I ask you, you dunce, have you anything better to offer, and why are you staying there where you settled? You don't know? And in the end you will not even know who you are. That I will tell you. You, Brother, are a weak character and above all have a weak head."

Here he turned to Gronski:

"This is what I have to say to my brother and why I am riding to him. There is to be some kind of an assembly there, so I will say this, in other words, publicly."

"If you would only go as quickly as possible," exclaimed the notary.

And the doctor began to laugh.

"But as I have yet time, I will first attend Panna Marynia's concert."

"By all means," said Gronski, "ride, sir. Poland is not only being cut from the outside by inimical scissors, but she is beginning to be rent asunder internally. Ride, sir, and tell them that publicly. Perhaps some may be found who will be frightened at their amenableness to the future."

"I think that such will be found. For, in the main, I assume that they, or at least a majority of them, thus far feel in the old way, and only speak as they do in order to loosen, even though for a moment, the noose which presses on their throats. But in this they are mistaken. The result will be that they will be despised and trampled upon, both from above and below."

"When are you going?"

"The assembly meets in about ten days, so I actually will stay here about a week, for I have various matters to attend to in Warsaw. In the meantime, I will visit my acquaintances, and among others Pani Otocka, and the Krzyckis. How is Krzycki?"

"As well as a fish--and he is going to marry."

"Well, well. I will wager that it is with that beautiful Englishwoman? A pure flower!"

"Yes. But it seems that this is not an English flower, only genuinely Polish, from a village meadow."

"For the Lord's sake. What are you saying?"

"That is no longer any secret. Her name is Hanka Skibianka."

Here Gronski related the whole history of Miss Anney, omitting only that Ladislaus knew her while she was Hanka.

And they listened with astonishment, while the doctor slapped his knees with his palms and cried:

"Ah! If I had known that; ah, if I had known that!"

"Well, what would have happened? asked the notary testily.

"What would have happened? I would have been in love with her not only under the ears but above. As it was, I only missed by a hair being in love with her. Ah, lucky but undeserving Krzycki! But such is my ill-luck. Let only one catch my fancy--lackaday! either some one takes her, or she is in love with somebody else. But it cannot be helped! I must see Miss Anney and tender her my best wishes. For after all Krzycki is a good boy. Such as he will not rebuild Poland, but a good boy, nevertheless. And such a comely rascal, that he ravishes the eye. I would like to see them together. That will be a couple--what!"

"If you wish to see them, and have the time," said Gronski, "then it will not be difficult, for we arranged yesterday at Pani Otocka's that to-day we will all be present at the rehearsal for the concert. I can take you gentlemen to-day to the rehearsal, and afterwards, the whole party can go to breakfast."

"Exactly," exclaimed the notary, "that is just what I came to ask you to do. I have dropped out of the old relations and I did not know to whom to apply--well!"

Gronski glanced at his watch.

"If that is the case, all right; but we have still time. In the hall at this moment there is some kind of meeting or lecture, and such meetings usually drag beyond the designated time. After that, before they ventilate the hall and replace the chairs, a half hour will elapse. I have not omitted any rehearsal, so I know how things go."

"And I will not omit any," said the notary.

Nevertheless, he grew so impatient that they left too early. Before the building stood about a dozen persons, evidently waiting for those in the hall; while from within there reached them a buzzing noise, at times shouts, applause, and the sound of the stamping of feet.

"What kind of meeting is it?" asked the doctor.

"Really, I do not know," answered Gronski. "Now we are full of that. There are political meetings, social conferences, literary lectures, and God knows what else."

"I envy Warsaw," exclaimed the doctor.

"There is not much to envy. At times it chances that something deserves attention, but oftener such absurdities take place that one feels ashamed."

"Oh, they are already leaving," observed the notary; "but why are they shouting so?"

"Let us wait; that is some kind of a brawl," said Gronski.

In fact it evidently was a brawl, for from the roomy vestibule there rushed out on the wide stairs between ten, and twenty men, without caps or hats, who in the twinkling of an eye, formed a disorderly heap. In this heap, hands, canes, and umbrellas moved violently, and these motions were accompanied by a shrill shriek. Afterwards from the gyrating mob, shoved by tens of arms, shot out, as if from a sling, somebody, with bare head and tattered coat, who, leaping from the stairs, turned a somersault at the doctor's feet in such a manner as almost to tumble him and the notary on the ground.

"Swidwicki!" exclaimed Gronski with astonishment.

Swidwicki rose, and shaking his fist menacingly at the crowd, which, having ejected him outdoors, was again returning to the hall, began to say with a panting voice:

"Ah, it is you! They have warmed my hide--they have warmed my hide! They have broken my ribs a little, and torn my coat. But that is nothing! I also have crooked a few straight noses and have straightened out a few crooked ones. This is the second time that this has happened to me--ouch!"

"Come with me. You cannot stay thus, with bare head and in such a coat."

"No, no!" answered Swidwicki. "Ouch! Let me recover my breath. Hey! Messenger!"

And beckoning to a messenger, he said to him:

"Citizen! Here are two pieces of coin and a wardrobe check. Go to the vestibule and fetch me my hat and topcoat."

"But for the Lord's sake what happened?"

"Directly, directly," said Swidwicki; "but let me first dress. After that we will go to some confectioner's shop--ouch! For as soon as the meeting closes, they will begin to go out and, finding me here, they will be ready to administer a new drubbing to me and to you gentlemen to boot."

"So that was a meeting?"

"A meeting, conference, discussion, lecture--whatever you wish. Panna Sicklawer spoke on 'Imparting knowledge.' On the platform sat Pan Citronenduft, Panna Bywalkiewicz, Panna Anserowicz, Panna Kostropacka, the editor Czubacki, and others. The hall was packed to suffocation. Ouch! I enjoyed myself like a king."

"We see," observed Gronski.

"You think not? But introduce me to these gentlemen. For I am the hero of the day."

"Hero Swidwicki, gentlemen; Notary Dzwonkowski and Dr. Szremski," said Gronski.

Swidwicki squeezed the palms of Gronski's astonished companions; after which when the messenger brought the hat, cane, and top-coat he dressed himself and said:

"With this cane I would be ready to wait for them here--but for to-day I have had enough. The meeting will last twenty minutes or longer. Let us go to some confectioner's shop, for I feel a pain in my legs and cannot stand."

They went to a confectioner's. Swidwicki ordered for himself one and then a second glass of cognac, after which he began to talk:

"That was an instructive meeting. Panna Sicklawer, I tell you gentlemen, is a Cicero in petticoats. When she started to impart knowledge to various meek creatures of the masculine gender and various magpies of fourteen years, of whom the audience mainly consisted, even I grew warm. The meek creatures applauded or else cried 'shame' when there was a talk of parents, and the magpies blushed so violently and fidgeted in their seats so much, that they seemed to sit on needles, and everything went along smoothly. Remarks were made by Pan Citronenduft, Panna Gotower and some maid, a native of far away Kars, whose name as well as I could hear it, had a Grecian or Spanish sound,--Nieodtego. The maturer portion of the auditors was also carried away by the enthusiasm, and I, though Gronski doubts it, enjoyed myself like a king. For you see, gentlemen, that I, from principle, have nothing against imparting knowledge,--nothing. Quite the reverse! Only, I am of the opinion, if an affair is to be jolly let it be really jolly. So then, after a few addresses, I rose, asked leave to speak and announced that I desired to recite a poem in honor of the gathering. They agreed to it and I received applause in advance. Then I began to declaim--indeed, not an original poem, but my own parody on the fable: 'Once wanton little Thad.' But this did not continue long; it appeared that my Thaddy proved himself to be so wanton, that he was too wanton, even for them. They did not like also this; that in staring at Panna Nieodtego, I closed one eye. They began to shout 'Silence!' 'Fie!' 'Away with him! This is jeering!' And here my ideal fable began to change into a real epic. For when in reply to the shout 'This is jeering,' I said, 'Well what did you think it was?' there was a universal roar of 'Put him out!' At least fifty hands grappled my shoulders and neck; a nice rumpus followed. They struck me, I struck back. Finally, they dumped me into the corridor: from the corridor on to the stairs, and into the street. The rest you gentlemen know. I repeat for the third time that I enjoyed myself like a king."

"That to me is at least courage," said the doctor; "it is necessary to stop such things, even by a scandal; so you did well, sir; you are a brave nationalist."

"I, a nationalist," exclaimed Swidwicki, "why, the day before yesterday I was thrown out of a meeting of the National Democrats. Indeed, a little more politely, but I was ejected."

Gronski began to laugh.

"So this is your new sport?"

But with this their conversation ended as their attention was attracted by the crowd returning from the lecture. Before the window flowed a black human stream, among which were a large number of striplings, and young girls with cheeks covered with blushes.

When the stream finally passed by, there appeared after an interval the bright, vernal forms of Hanka, Marynia, and Pani Otocka, in the company of Krzycki.

VIII

Upon the so called "happiest period" in Krzycki's life certain small shadows fell, and this for various reasons. If on the one hand his love for Hanka grew with each day, on the other there began various petty annoyances which his mother had foreseen. They were things almost imperceptible, about which one could not pick a quarrel, but which nevertheless stung. Thus it happened that the ladies of Gorek came to Pani Krzycki to invite her to the wedding of Kajetana to Pan Dolhanski, which wedding through a special dispensation of the church was to take place in a few days. Pani Krzycki in tendering them her good wishes announced that they could also do the same to her, owing to the betrothal of her son to Miss Anney. Then both, one after the other, began to heartily embrace her, which, though apparently a sign of their good wishes, looked more like condolence, the more so as Pani Wlocek did not utter anything besides the words, "It is God's will," while Kajetana raised her eyes as piously as if she wanted to supplicate the Powers on high to comfort the heartbroken mother. Ladislaus laughed after their departure, but in his soul he wished that both would break their necks. When, however, a few days later it appeared that out of the entire circle of acquaintances only Hanka did not receive an invitation from these ladies, he wanted to start a brawl with Dolhanski: and his mother was barely able to restrain him with the declaration that neither she herself, nor Zosia, nor Marynia would attend the wedding. Krzycki was even angered because some of his acquaintances, in contrast to the ladies of Gorek, tendered to him their good wishes with excessive ardor, as if he had performed an heroic act. His marriage, as well as the antecedents of Hanka, became the subject of every conversation in "society." Out in the world, great political changes could take place, bombs could explode, strikes could break out, but in the salons for a few days only Hanka was spoken of, various flabby dames, with eyes half closed, in a questioning tone, drawling through their teeth, "Anka--Skubanka^[12]--n'est ce pas?" But while the good wishes of those who tendered them to Krzycki with such excessive ardor sprang from appreciation of the heroism with which he dared to take as wife "Skubanka," Hanka's marriage settlement and the hope of "plucking" the millionaire in the future played an important rôle. This marriage settlement, which, agreeably with Pani Krzycki's anticipations, was, for local conditions, quite considerable, but by no means reached the millions, grew in public opinion with almost every hour, so that it attained almost fabulous proportions, and intensified the universal curiosity to the extent that when Hanka in the company of her two young female friends together with Pani Krzycki and her fiancé appeared at the races, all the lorgnettes were directed at their carriage. The flabby dames from "high life," gazing at her radiant countenance, sparkling with happiness and health, indeed said that they could at once surmise that "this is something a little different," and contended that in the present days this "high life" ought to open its delicate bosom to a person possessing such means for "doing good." As to her comeliness, however, the opinion prevailed that she was not sufficiently pretty for one to lose his head and that Krzycki was marrying for money. His defence was undertaken only by the ladies from Gorek, who, meeting now many people, made it everywhere understood that their young neighbor did not always seek merely money, and that only when he was disappointed in other fancies, did he come to the conclusion that it was better to have money than nothing.

Thus did things shape themselves externally. But on the sky of the betrothed pair appeared tiny clouds which, as Ladislaus' love became inflamed, appeared even with greater frequency. Hanka, habituated to English customs, did not at all hesitate to receive her fiancé at her home and pass with him long hours alone; to stroll with him over the city, to drive from the city without a chaperon, and even call him by his Christian name. She said to herself that in great and sincere love there also should be room for friendship and that it was necessary before one became a wife to be a sincere friend and comrade. She thought that Ladislaus would understand this and not only would love her all the more but also cherish her all the more. Once she had read in an English book that one might love and not cherish, and that in such a case love grows embittered to the degree that it may become perpetual unhappiness. So, desiring to avoid this and place her future life upon immovable foundations, she wished to win, besides love, the deepest possible friendship.

But here the misunderstandings between the engaged couple began. That golden-hair, that good friend, gazing with a heavenly light, that rose-colored, gay comrade who dressed herself in a light dress and spring hat, was so charming that Ladislaus cherished indeed without limit, but at every tête-à-tête lost his head. To Hanka it appeared that her betrothed, though he was enamoured to distraction and at the same time was a friend, should be the kind of a man upon whose shoulders she could at every moment press her head with perfect confidence that he would not abuse her trust and would not take advantage of their seclusion nor of any temporary weakness, nor of the gray hour, nor of the fact that love disarms and weakens a woman. He, on the contrary, perhaps because he lost his head, acted as if he thought that friendship and the relations of a comrade only added to the rights of betrothal. From this there was generated a mutual vigilance; in him a watchfulness for everything of which he might take advantage; in her a wariness of that which she ought to avoid. This vigilance, at first silent, soon lapsed into quarrels. They were followed by apologies, which would have intensified the love of both were it not that Ladislaus apologized too passionately. And this misunderstanding was in reality deeper than both thought, for when Hanka, remembering what once had taken place between them, believed that he should on that account be more continent, he, in moments when blinded by desire, seemed to fancy that very past, together with the burnt bridges, justified him in everything. From these causes, the enchanted edifice of their happiness from time to time became defaced and would have been defaced yet more strongly were it not for this, that in Ladislaus there was material for everything and there came upon him moments entirely different. Sometimes on clear nights when they sat on the balcony leading to the garden of Hanka's residence, and when from the neighboring balcony came the song of Marynia's violin, and the moonlight seemed to sleep quietly on the opposite walls, it also put to slumber Ladislaus' senses. His soul, lulled to sleep by the sight of the beloved being, bleaching like a white angel in the dusk,--intoxicated with the fragrance of leaves and flowers, winged by music, was dissolved into a kind of universal but sweet and chaste feeling, which enveloped Hanka and bore her towards the stars. The impressionable soul of the girl at such times was susceptible of this and was simply submerged in happiness.

But these were transitory moments of tranquillity of mind. A moment later, while Ladislaus was bidding her good-night and when he kissed her hands and forehead, quickly there was awakened in him the eternal hungry desire, and he sought her lips and hugged her breast to his own; he lost his memory, and, when she broke away from his arms, he said that he did not promise her that he would be an English Quaker; and they parted, if not angry, as if both were humiliated and sad.

And that sadness fraternized with love.

But it often happened that Ladislaus disarmed Hanka with his great frankness which in reality was his chief attribute.

"You, my Hanusia," he said to her once, after serious quarrel, "would want that I should mount a ladder and stay on the highest round, for a time--Good!--I can! But to stay there forever I could not do any more than I could walk on stilts all the time. Do not imagine that I am something more than I am. I am an ordinary mortal, who only differs from others in this, that he loves you above everything."

"No, Laudie," answered Hanka, "I do not at all desire that you should be some great personage, for I remember that the Englishmen say that an honest man is the noblest work of God."

"I did a little mischief once, but I think I am honest."

"Yes, but remember that not he is honest who does not do evil, but he who does good. In that everything is contained."

"I agree to that. You will teach me that."

"And you me."

"Ha I we will keep house in Jastrzeb and will do all we can. There is much work to be done there and of the kind for which I am fitted. To be a good husbandman, to be good to the people, to instruct them; to teach, love, and enlighten; to be also a good citizen of the country and in case of necessity to die for it--for this, I give my word I am fit. Yes, it is so. And now you have me. But taking everything together, no evil will befall you with me, Hanusia,--I love you too much for any evil to befall you. Only, my golden one, my love, my rosy lady, do not command me to sit on the ladder, for that I cannot do."

His simplicity and sincerity propitiated Hanka. The thought of a joint life in Jastrzeb, of loving the folks whose child she was, of instructing them, of laboring over and for them, cheered and allured her more powerfully than anything else could do. To return to Poland and take charge of a Polish village was the plan which she formulated immediately after the death of the Anney family. And now just such a horizon was opened to her by this former "young lord" whom she loved while yet a simple girl. Therefore she was grateful to him: she was ready in her soul to exalt his good qualities, to exculpate his faults, to love him, and to persevere faithfully at his side, but in exchange she wanted nothing more than that he should love her not only with his senses, but with a true and chaste love, and that he should regard her above all things as his life companion, "for better or for worse."

And, for that reason, whenever there came to her moments in which it seemed to her that he saw in her principally an object for his desires and was unable to find, in himself strength to struggle with them and elevate his feelings to noble heights, doubt seized her heart and she could not resist the thought that he was not such as she would wish him to be.

"But nevertheless," she consoled herself in her soul, "that is a sincere and true nature, and where there is sincerity and truth, everything may be brought to light."

Ladislaus on the contrary was in reality sincere to the degree that one could see through him--through and through, as though he were made of glass. The proof of this was the opinion which Dr. Szremski expressed about him in a conversation with Gronski.

"To me," he said, "the present-day Hanka Skibianka is ten times more interesting than the former Miss Anney, and I wish her happiness from my whole soul. But if she bases that happiness upon the feeling which Krzycki entertains for her, I fear that she will be disappointed. I do not wish to say anything bad of him. On the contrary, to me he is a sympathetic type, for he is immensely ours, immensely domestic. If he had lived a hundred years ago and been a Uhlan, he would have charged at Samo-Sierra no worse than Kozietulski and Niegolewski. Only he belongs to that species of men for whom it is easier to die for some idea or for some feeling than to live for them and to persevere in them. To turn to one idea or to one feeling, as a magnetic needle turns to the north, is not within their power nor their concern. They require distraction, amusement. And there is nothing strange in this. Consider only that for entire ages nobody was better off than the various Krzyckis and Gronskis--nobody. So they sucked of the pleasures of life, like juice of grapes. They ate, drank, played, dissipated--bah! they even fought for the pleasure of it. They were not vicious nor terrible, for a happy man cannot be totally vicious. They had in their hearts a certain feeling of humanity. They were indulgent to people who were subject to them, but above all things they were indulgent to themselves. Hence at the bottom of the Polish soul always lies indulgence. Then came the time of penance and that indulgence by right of inheritance, particularly in the spheres to which Krzycki belongs, remains. For him, neither love for woman nor for fatherland will suffice. He will love them and, in a given case, will perish for them, but in life he will indulge himself. And you see, sir, that it was just for this reason that I said that such as he will not rebuild Society."

"And who will?" asked Gronski.

"The future generations--not the pot-bellied, not the easy-natured, not the chatterboxes, not the indulgers in sensual delights and the pleasures of life--no--apparently they are good for everything and fit for nothing--but only the hardy, the persistent, the quiet, and the practical. For them, misfortune and slavery have tilled the ground for a hundred years."

"And the present day manures the ground," said Gronski, "only it is a pity that this manure has such a rank smell."

"That is not manure; that is sand blown from abroad which renders the soil sterile," replied the doctor with energy.

And he began to curse.

IX

Dolhanski, however, completely subdued his fiancée and his future mother-in-law, inasmuch as he prevailed upon them to call personally upon Hanka and invite her to the wedding. They were prompted to this by the consideration that at any rate it behooved them to preserve the outward semblance of good relations with their future neighbors from Jastrzeb, and they were persuaded in particular by the news, which he brought from the high spheres, that "high life" was reconciled to the idea of admitting Hanka into its fold, while he, on the other hand, wanted to see her at a close range in the church. After their visit, during which the mother and daughter, under the watchful eye of Dolhanski, acted not only properly but quite amiably, Pani Krzycki revoked her resolution, of not attending the nuptial rites.

These took place early in the week at the Church of the Order of Visitation in the presence of a great concourse of dames from the "grand world" and Dolhanski's titled colleagues from the club. In this the desire to take a close view of the peasant-millionairess played as important a part as the wish to see Dolhanski. Those of his acquaintances who knew the ladies from Gorek had previously stated that he was taking a lady of wealth, but old and ludicrous; in consequence of which these good colleagues wanted to see what kind of mien he would have, so that they might afterwards have a subject for their gibes and jests. But in this respect they met with the most complete disappointment. Dolhanski, escorted on one side by Gronski, on the other by Count Gil, walked through the church with such self-confidence, such sangfroid, and with such a smile on his lips, as though he had the right and desire to jeer at his colleagues. The tall and gaunt young lady did not, after all, look so badly in her lace wedding dress. She had too much powder on her face; her veil was too long, and too much did she "tremble like a leaf," which created an impression that this leaf did that a little purposely.

There was nothing in her, however, to excite ridicule, and, when the two knelt before the altar, the dames and beaux, looking from the depth of the church, had to admit that in her slender white form there was some charm. But the eyes of those present were directed principally at Hanka who glided through the nave on Ladislaus' arm, like a light spring cloud. To the gentlemen of the club it seemed that from the moment of her entrance the church grew brighter. Count Gil, who found himself near her, behind the stalls, later stated in a certain salon that a rosy warmth radiated from her. Others at once corroborated this and to the mot of a dame that in order to find favor in men's eyes it was necessary that one must not only be a woman but also a radiator, they replied that it was absolutely necessary.

In the meanwhile they envied Ladislaus Mr. Anney's millions and Hanka, who so absorbed to herself the general attention that Pani Otocka and Marynia passed by almost unobserved. Neither appeared to the best advantage that day. In Pani Otocka, Dolhanski's marriage aroused a certain disgust, which was reflected in her countenance, and Marynia opened her lips too widely out of curiosity, and besides, her bared arms were so thin and, as usual with immature girls, were so red that, they could only excite compassion. The ladies of the "grand world," besides, did not look at one or the other for the further reason that Ladislaus, with his stature and visage of a Uhlan of the time of the Duchy of Warsaw, became the focus upon which the rays of their tortoise-shell lorgnettes were converged.

With the appearance of the priest silence fell and the rites began. The lorgnettes were now directed towards the altar. In the distance could be seen floating under the orange blossoms the bridal veil and Dolhanski's head, somewhat bald at the summit, over which crept the reflexes of the candles flickering in the dusk. Krzycki, bending towards Hanka, began to whisper: "And we will soon--" and she dropped her eyelids in sign of assent; after which when their eyes met, she blushed violently and raised her lace handkerchief to her lips, and later fixed her gaze upon the altar, for she recalled to her mind how, not long before, the candles flickered in the same manner in the Church of the Holy Cross, when together they prayed for their future happiness. Yes, soon they would kneel there again in order not to be separated for life, and this thought, so full of sweetness and at the same time of uneasiness of feeling, expanded her breast.

In the meanwhile in the silence could be heard the voice of the priest: "Edward, do you take Kajetana, whom you see before you, for wife?" and when Dolhanski firmly confirmed this and Kajetana mumbled that she wanted this Edward, their hands were bound by the stole and the rites rapidly approached an end; then the hymeneal party left the church. The bridal couple were to leave for a tour abroad within two hours, but before that in the dining-hall of the hotel a dinner awaited them, to which, of the relatives of the groom, only Pani Krzycki, Ladislaus, Hanka, as his betrothed, and the sisters were invited; of the more distant, Gronski and Count Gil, as groomsmen attended. The dinner with the inevitable toasts did not last long; after it the newly-married pair repaired to their separate apartments and after a certain time reappeared attired in their travelling clothes. Then began the usual bustle preceding a journey; trunks, small luggage, and bright travelling paraphernalia were hauled out. Dolhanski during the dinner and these last moments displayed such sangfroid and such phlegm that all the lords of England might envy him. Without the least haste he conversed with the gentlemen; he expressed his regrets to Marynia that he could not be at the concert; to Pani Otocka he said that he owed to her in a great measure his happiness of that day; and afterwards intrusted Gorek to the neighborly care of Krzycki, and bantered with Gronski, trying to persuade him to follow in his footsteps.

This superb calmness of his contrasted strangely with the uneasiness and distraction of the bride. For a half hour before the departure and immediately after donning her travelling robe, she began to stare at her mother with an inquiring look as if awaiting from her something which was overlooked or forgotten and which under no circumstances ought to be overlooked. This continued so long that it attracted general attention, and when Pani Wlocek did not appear to understand the inquiring look, Kajetana beckoned her for a confidential talk in a room adjoining the dining-hall.

To the ears of the guests there began to reach for a quarter of an hour some alarming though muffled cries of, "Ah!" and "Oh!" and after an interval the bride entered with her eyes covered by her palms. But after a while she dropped her hands alongside her dress and gazing at Dolhanski with the look of an antelope at a lion, she asked in an almost inaudible voice:

"Edward, perhaps it is already time?"

Gronski, Krzycki, and Count Gil bit their lips, while Dolhanski glanced at his watch and said:

"We have yet five minutes."

X

The cloudlets looming between Hanka and Ladislaus began by degrees to be transformed into clouds. At times they ceased to mutually understand each other. Hanka was more and more disturbed by the thought whether Ladislaus, notwithstanding his good heart and his ability to appreciate everything which is exalted and noble, was not a weak character, that in a moment of sudden impulse or passionate ecstasy is unable to resist and cannot muster within himself sufficient strength, even though his own worth is involved, and at this thought she was oppressed by a deep sorrow. But she was yet more painfully nettled on another side of the matter. This was that she arrived at the conviction that his feelings towards her were better, purer and, as it were, more shy at the time when he thought that she was Miss Anney. She remembered various moments, both in Jastrzeb and in Warsaw, in which she was certain that this burning flame of love, which glowed in his heart, was at the same time a sacrificial flame of esteem. And now when she had told him that she is the former Hanka that pure fire has changed into an ignition of the senses. Why? Was the cause of this their former sin; was it that she was a peasant? In the answer to those questions lay the pain, for Hanka felt that whatever happened was the result of these causes.

But she was mistaken in thinking that Ladislaus did not understand that just for these two reasons he ought to act directly contrary, in order to efface in her the memory of sin and to raise her in her own eyes and to respect her as his future wife. He understood this quite clearly, and often it happened that after parting from her he upbraided himself, not mincing words, and in his soul made a solemn promise of reformation. But as in his easy life he had not accustomed himself to contend with anything and, above all, with himself, therefore this lasted but a short time--as long only as he was away from her, as long as he was not enveloped by the warmth emanating from her; only when he was not absorbed with her eyes; did not feel her hand in his own, and did not intoxicate himself with her feminine attractions. Then reason blinded in him and darkened; he became the slave of blood, full of sophisms, the agent of senses, and the recollection of the former Hanka, instead of repressing the temptation, only increased it the more.

Under such conditions, sooner or later, the storm had to break above the heads of both and create desolation. Accordingly it burst sooner than Krzycki could have foreseen.

One day, coming at the twilight hour to Hanka, he found her in a strange and unusual condition. She was agitated, her countenance was suffused with blushes, her eyes were red, and the hand which she tendered to him, palpably trembled. At the beginning she did not want to tell him what was the matter, but when they sat beside each other, he began to beg of her that she would not make anything a secret with him, but to tell him what occurred, not only as a fiancé, but as her best friend.

Hanka was always conciliated by an appeal to friendship. Therefore after a while she said, smiling sadly:

"I was not concerned about any secret but I preferred to keep to myself an unpleasantness. Did you, sir, ever notice my servant, Pauly?"

(Hanka from a certain time addressed her fiancé as "sir," believing that in this manner she would hold him more easily at a proper distance.)

"Pauly?" repeated Ladislaus, and though, after all, he thus far had done nothing with which to reproach himself, a sudden disquiet arose in him. "Pauly? Why of course! Why, she was at Jastrzeb and I saw her here everyday. What happened?"

"She created for me a horribly disagreeable scene and has left me."

"Why?"

"That is just what I do not know. She always was very violent and nervous, but very honest. So I was attached to her and I thought that she would be attached to me. But for some time I have observed in her something like a dislike to me, with each day greater. Really, I never was harsh to her; even the contrary. So I attributed everything to the nerves. In the meantime, to-day, it came to an outburst and it is so disagreeable to me! so disagreeable!"

Hanka's voice faltered, and it could be seen that she felt the whole occurrence deeply. So Ladislaus pressed her hand to his lips and asked with sympathy:

"What kind of outburst was it?"

"This afternoon, or rather after Marynia's return from the rehearsal, we were to ride up town with Zosia. So, desiring to change my dress, I ordered her to hand it to me. Pauly went after it as usual and brought it, but suddenly she threw it upon the ground and began to trample upon it, and in addition screamed in a loud, shrill voice that she would serve me no longer. At first I was stupefied, for it occurred to me that she had become insane."

"She surely is insane!" interrupted Ladislaus; "but what further?"

"She slammed the door and left. I did not see her any more. About an hour later somebody came for her things and wages."

Here Hanka began to shake her head.

"And nevertheless when I recall her dislike and what she told me in the last moments, I do not think that it was an attack of insanity; it was only an outburst of hatred, which she could no longer restrain in herself. And for me this is such a disappointment, such a disappointment!"

"My lady--Hanus," said Ladislaus, seizing both of her hands, "is it worth while to take to heart the deed of a foolish vixen? For she is a foolish vixen--nothing more. It is enough to look at her. Calm yourself, Hanus,--this is only a momentary matter which it is necessary to forget as soon as possible. Remember who you are and who she is! Such times have come that everything is turned topsy-turvy. Such occurrences now take place everywhere. But they will pass away. In the meantime we two have so many reasons for joy that in view of them such wretched smarts ought to disappear."

And he began to press alternately her hands to his lips and to his breast and gaze in her eyes, but this increased her grief; for Hanka desiring to spare unnecessary disagreeableness to her betrothed and herself did not confess everything to him. She was particularly reticent about this, that the infuriated servant, on leaving, screamed at her in her eyes, "You base peasant. You ought to serve me, not I you! Your place is with cows, not in the palace!" Perhaps Hanka might not have taken these words so much to heart were it not for the previous friction in her relations with Ladislaus, and were it not for the thought that he transgressed certain bounds perhaps because she was his former sweetheart and a peasant. But just this reason caused the thorn to be imbedded in her heart more deeply and bred in her a fear as to future life in which similar scenes might be repeated more frequently.

So, also, his words about the happiness awaiting them were only drops overflowing the cup of bitterness, and his caresses affected the aggrieved girl like a child, who the more she is consoled the more disconsolate she becomes. There came to her a moment of weakness and exhaustion. The usual strength deserted her, her nerves were unstrung, and she began to sob, but feeling at the same time ashamed of her tears she buried her face in his breast.

"Hanus, my Hanus!" repeated Ladislaus.

And he began to kiss her light hair. Afterwards clasping her temples with his palms, he raised her tear-stained face and kissed off her tears. She did not defend herself; so after a while he sought with his mouth her quivering lips.

"Hanus! Hanus!" he whispered in a panting voice.

The ferment of desire more and more obscured his reason, obscured his heart, his memory. He drank from the girl's lips while his breath held out, he forgot himself like a drunkard and finally seized her in his arms.

"Hanus! Hanus!"

And it happened that he offended her grievously, that to the humiliation, which she had met that day, he added a new humiliation; to insult, a new insult--that an abyss plainly separated them!

XI

When on the morning of the following day Ladislaus awoke after a brief feverish sleep, he was seized by grief and an insane rage at himself. He recalled everything which had taken place. He remembered that his parting with Hanka the day before was equivalent to being shown the door; there returned to him as a wicked echo his own wretched and dreadful words said in his passion at the time of separation, that if her resistance flowed from fear that later he might break their engagement, then let her know that it was an idle fear. And so he imputed this resistance to miserable motives. And he, a man who prided himself not only upon his good breeding but also upon a subtile sense of honor and personal worthiness--he, Krzycki, could act the way he did and say what he said. In the first moments after opening his eyes, it seemed to him that this was a point-blank impossibility; some kind of a continuation of the nightmare which throttled his slumber, which ought to disappear with the light of day.

But that nightmare was a heavy reality. It was incumbent upon him to take it into account and remedy it in some manner. He sat down to write a letter, in which he smote himself upon the breast, complained, and apologized. He said that no one was able to condemn him as he had condemned himself, and if he dared to beg for forgiveness it was only in hope that perhaps some voice, some echo of the better moments would intercede for him in her heart and would procure for him forgiveness. At the close he begged for an opportunity of repeating in person the words of the letter and for an answer, even in case the sentence pronounced against him was final.

But when the messenger who took the letter informed him upon his return that there was no answer, he fell into genuine despair. As a really spoiled child of life, unaccustomed to opposition and obstacles, and one convinced that everything was due him, it began to appear to him that this was more than he deserved; that he was the injured party. He would not admit, however, that all was lost. He indulged in the hope that Hanka might, before opening the letter, have announced that there was no answer and that after reading it she would be moved, would relent, and rescind her resolution. Sustained by this hope, he dressed himself, strolled over the city for an hour in order to give Hanka time to reckon with her heart, and afterwards rang the bell of her residence.

But he was not received. Then it occurred to him to apply to Pani Otocka. After a while, he nevertheless perceived that the causes of his rupture with Hanka were of such a nature that it was impossible to discuss them either with Pani Otocka or his mother. In his soul he now began to accuse Hanka of downright cruelty, but at the same time the greater the difficulties interposed between them the greater was his grief. He could not, in any measure, be reconciled to the thought that whatever he regarded as his own should be taken away from him; and as is usual with weak persons, he began to commiserate himself.

From Pani Otocka he went to Gronski, regarding him as the only person with whom he could speak frankly and whose mediation would be effective. And here disappointment awaited him. Gronski had suffered for several days with his eyes and was not allowed to read; this put him into a bad humor, and for this reason he received Ladislaus more indifferently than usual. Ladislaus became convinced that it was difficult to speak of the rupture not only with Pani Otocka and his mother, but even with a man and old friend who knew of his former relations with Hanka. A feeling of shame plainly choked the words in his throat, and he began to beat about the bush and palliate things, talk in empty phrases about a misunderstanding and the necessity of a friendly mediation, so that Gronski at last asked, with a shade of impatience:

"Tell me plainly about what you had a falling out, and then I can tell whether I will undertake to bring you together again."

And evidently he did not attach much importance to the matter for he waved his hand and said:

"It would be best if you made it up between yourselves."

"No," replied Ladislaus; "this is more serious than you think, and we ourselves cannot come to any agreement."

"Well, finally, what was it about?"

Shame, exertion, and constraint were depicted upon Ladislaus' face.

"In a moment of forgetfulness and ecstasy," he said, "I passed--that is--I wanted to pass--certain limits--"

And he stopped abruptly.

Gronski began to look at him with amazed eyes and asked:

"And she?"

"Why, if anything had happened there would not have been any rupture and I surely would not speak of it now. She ordered me to the door and not to show myself there any more."

"May God bless her," exclaimed Gronski.

Silence ensued. Gronski walked with big paces over the room repeating every little while, "It is unbelievable!" and again, "An unheard-of thing!" and in addition his face became more and more severe and cold.

After which he sat down and, looking at Ladislaus, began to speak deliberately:

"I have known many people even among our aristocracy, in whom beneath the veneer of society, beneath high descent and all the pretensions of elegant breeding were concealed the ordinary coarse, low, peasant instincts. If this observation can be applied to you as a comfort, accept it, for I have no other for you."

A sudden wave of anger swept over Ladislaus' heart and brain. For a while he struggled with himself in order not to explode and answer insult with insult; in the end he subdued himself and replied in a hollow voice:

"I deserve it."

But Gronski, not disarmed by this confession, continued:

"No, my dear sir, I will not undertake your defence, for I should act contrary to my convictions. To you less than to any one else was it allowable to indulge yourself, even out of regard for the past. And your fiancée must have so understood it, and besides she did not forget her extraction. To you it was less permissible! She was a hundred times right in showing you the door. The matter is really more serious than I thought, and so serious that I do not see any help for it. You did not respect Hanka, your future wife, and therefore yourself and your own honor. In view of this how can she honor you and what can she think of you?"

"I know," said Ladislaus in the same hollow voice, "and I have said all this to myself in almost the same words. I wrote a letter to her this morning, begging for forgiveness--there was no answer. I went to her personally--I was not received. So I came to you as the last refuge--for--for me there pleads only one thing--I acted badly, brutally, and scurvily, but I have not ceased to love her. There is no life for me without her, and though you may not believe it, nevertheless it is so that under the frenzy which possessed me, under that froth which blinded me and under which I to-day sink, lies the feeling not only deep but pure--"

Gronski again began to measure with great steps the room for he was somewhat touched by Ladislaus' words.

While the latter continued:

"If she will not read my letters and will not receive me, then I will not be able to tell her that. Hence it is imperative that some one should speak to her in my name. I cannot apply either to Mother or Pani Zosia in this. I thought that you, sir--but since you decline, I now have no one."

"Look, however, into the eyes of reality," said Gronski more gently, "for it may be that her love for you was at once torn into shreds. In such case from where will she take it when she no longer possesses it?"

"Let her tell me so; that at least is yet due to me."

Again silence fell.

"Listen," Gronski finally said, "I always was a friend of yours and of your mother, but this mission which you want to intrust to me I cannot undertake. I cannot among other reasons, because if your fiancée does not reply to you, so likewise she may not reply to me. One look, one word, will close my mouth and with this it would end. But try another method. Panna Hanka comes quite often with Marynia to the rehearsals, at which I am always present, and afterwards I escort both home. Come with me. You may find an opportunity to speak with her. During the return home I will take Marynia and you will remain with her. I think that she will not repel you even though out of regard for Marynia, to whom she would not wish to divulge what had passed between you.--Then tell her what you have said to me and also beg her for an interview, which, if it cannot be otherwise--will be final. It will be necessary somehow to give to the world some plausible excuse for your rupture; so I presume she will agree to that. If not, we will think of something else."

Ladislaus began to wring his hands and said:

"Perhaps through Zosia we could ascertain whether this is forever."

"You understand that she may not have wished to discuss the cause of your rupture even with Pani Zosia."

"I understand, I understand."

"But you now have a fever," said Gronski, "your hands are burning. Go, try to cool off and calm yourself."

XII

Laskowicz now beheld Marynia, indeed from a distance, but daily. Even on rainy days, when she did not walk to the rehearsals, but rode, he lay in wait on the stairway of the edifice, in order to see her alight from the carriage. On fair days he usually waited near her home, and afterwards followed after her to the hall. As among the employees in the building were found a few "associates," these facilitated his admittance to the rehearsals. To hide in the boxes or in the seats at the end of the rows was easy, as during the rehearsals only the stage was fully lit up and in the auditorium itself the dusk was illumined by only a few lamps, which were lit in order that the handful of privileged lovers of music, who occupied the seats behind the orchestra, might not be plunged in complete darkness. Amidst these privileged ones, Laskowicz often recognized acquaintances,--Gronski, Pani Otocka, the old notary. Miss Anney, sometimes Krzycki, and two or three times, Dr. Szremski. But notwithstanding his hatred of Ladislaus and dislike of the doctor and Gronski, he was little occupied by them and thought of them very little, as his eyes could not even for a moment be torn from Marynia. He encompassed with his gaze her girlish form, standing out on the edge of the stage, bathed in a lustre of electricity, luminous of her own accord, and involuntarily she reminded him of that alabaster statuette, which the venerable canon deemed his greatest treasure. Laskowicz was not an educated man. His one-sided study of physics had contracted his intellectual horizon and he was incapable of rendering to himself a clear account of certain impressions. Nevertheless, when he gazed on that maid, with violin in hand, on her pure calm countenance, on the elongated outlines of her figure and dress, there awakened in him a half conscious feeling that in her there was something of poetry, and something of the church. She seemed to him an artless supernal vision, to which one might pray.

Accordingly he deified her in his wild, fanatical soul. But there raged within him a revolt against all divinities, therefore he fought with his own feelings and struggled to depress and weed them out to the last extremity. Intentionally he plucked off the wings of his own thoughts: intentionally he imposed fetters upon his vagaries and unchained his concupiscence. He discomfited himself, tortured himself, and suffered.

Often he stood on the brink of madness--and in such cases he was ready to annihilate, slaughter, and set fire to the whole city in order to seize, amidst the bloodshed and conflagration, this silvery maid and possess her,--and afterward perish with her and all others. He imagined that during the revolutionary storm, which the waves of the proletariat would stir up, such an universal hour of annihilation might strike. But when reality scattered these dreams, when moments occurred in which it became plain that the people themselves put a muzzle upon the jaws of the revolutionary dragon, then the gory vision evaporated into vacuous smoke, and only exhaustion and confusion remained, for this gloomy proletaire felt that as long as he had strength the storm would rage, and that when it passed away he would sink into complete nothingness.

Hence, in his heart bitterness and jealousy accumulated more and more. He loved Marynia and at the same time he hated her, for he thought that she looked upon him as a worm which squirms at her feet, unworthy of a glance. He was confirmed in this conviction by the fact that his letters evidently did not make the slightest impression upon her and did not disturb her usual tranquillity. Laskowicz had given his word to Pauly that he would see Marynia only from a distance, and he could not approach her, because she was never out alone. But in reality he could not conjecture that those letters were received and burnt by Pani Otocka and that Marynia knew nothing about them. It appeared to him that his passionate appeals in which the words, "Beloved! beloved!" were repeated every little while, and those fiery outbursts in which he prostrated himself in humility at her adored feet must have represented him to her as the ruling king-soul shoving the human wave into the unknown future, and ought to have evoked some result. "Let it be anger, let it be hatred," he said to himself in his soul, "but here there is nothing! She passes by me as if I was a street cur; she does not see me; she does not deign to recognize me."

In fact it was so. In the moments when they passed each other on the street, Marynia did not and could not recognize Laskowicz, for after his departure from Jastrzeb he allowed his youthful beard to grow, and afterwards, Swidwicki, in order to disguise him in the eyes of the police, bleached his beard, together with his mustache and the hair on his head, a light yellow. His clothes and spectacles also changed his appearance but he forgot about that, and he fretted with the supposition that her eyes do not see him or do not recognize him, firstly, because a recollection of him never comes to her mind, and again because she belongs to some kind of social Olympus and he to the "proletarian garbage-box."

Under such impressions his anguish changed into fury. With savage satisfaction, he thought of this: that there might come a time when the fate of this "sacred doll" and all her kin would be in his hands. He persuaded himself that that moment would be a triumph for himself personally and for the "good cause," and therefore he rejoiced at this conjunction. He pictured to himself what would happen when Marynia came to him to beg for a favor for herself and her relatives. Whether, at that time, he would prostrate himself on the ground before her and tell her to plant her foot on his head, or whether he would seize her in his arms and afterwards pass time away shamelessly--he did not know. He only had a feeling that he could do one or the other.

In the meantime he often said to himself that he ought not to see her any more, and decided to seek her no more, but on the following day he rushed to the place where he could meet her. He struggled with himself, he was torn inwardly, and became exhausted to such an extent that he began to fail in health. Want of such air as he breathed in Jastrzeb, the necessity of hiding from the police, uneasiness, lack of sleep, sudden and painful spiritual changes sapped his strength. He became haggard, swarthy, and at times he thought that death threatened not on the gallows but in a hospital.

In such a disposition was he found by Pauly, who after her scene with Hanka, dashed like a whirlwind into his little garret room.

Her face was so changed, so pale, so sickly and malignant, and her eyes glittered so feverishly that at the first glance he knew that she was driven to him by some extraordinary accident and he asked:

"What has happened?"

"I am no longer with that low peasant."

And she remained silent for she could not catch her breath, and only her face was twitching nervously.

Laskowicz understood only that she had abandoned her employment and looked at her with a questioning gaze, awaiting further explanations.

"Then, sir, you do not know," she broke out after a while, "then you do not know that he is to marry her? And that she is no Englishwoman, but only a low peasant! And such a one I served! He is to marry her--a low peasant!--a low peasant!--he!"

And her voice changed into a shrill nervous hiccough. Laskowicz was frightened at her transports, but at the same time breathed easily. Howsoever he might long since have conjectured that Krzycki's affections were directed towards Miss Anney and not towards Marynia, he was nevertheless pleased in his soul that reality corroborated those conjectures.

Living, however, in a world which no echoes of the higher social sphere reach, and knowing nothing of the transformation of Miss Anney into a Polish peasant woman, he began to interrogate Pauly minutely because the affair aroused his curiosity; he wished also to give time to the excited girl to calm herself. But this last was not an easy matter, and he long had to put questions to her to elicit the news which Swidwicki had first told her that Miss Anney was a simple peasant woman, but which, however, she did not at first believe, as he said it while under the influence of intoxicants. Only from the conversations which she overheard did she become convinced not only of the truth of the statement but also that Krzycki was to wed Miss Anney. Afterwards she peeped through the keyhole and saw him kneel before her and kiss her hands. Then she could not restrain herself any longer and at the first opportunity flung at the feet of her mistress her "linen frock," and, reviling her as a base peasant, left her service.

Here again indignation began to seize her so that Laskowicz from fear that she might have an attack of convulsions, said:

"We will consult together about this, but only let the lady be pacified."

But she replied with increasing irritation:

"I did not come here for you to pacify me. You, sir, have prated about our mutual wrongs and now you order me to be pacified. I want help and not your chatter."

"You are anxious that he should not marry her?"

"And what else do you suppose?"

In any case Laskowicz would have sided with the girl for he was obligated to do that by gratitude to her for saving his life, by the similarity of their lot, and those "joint wrongs" of which he himself had previously spoken to Pauly, and of which she now reminded him. But the existence of Krzycki at present ceased to stand in his way and Miss Anney's existence less so. Only one thing he could not forgive in her:

"She was a peasant woman, she was a wage-earner, and afterwards became a female bourgeois. In this is the crime."

"In it or not in it, it is now I or she! Do you understand, sir?"

"I understand, but what is to be done?"

"When you ran away from the police, I did not ask what was to be done."

"I remember."

"And you said at Swidwicki's that your people could accomplish everything."

"For it is so."

"So if he only does not marry her, then even let the world end."

Laskowicz began to look at her with his closely set eyes and after a moment commenced to speak slowly and with emphasis:

"Krzycki was once already condemned and lives, thanks to you, lady, but if he gets a bullet in his head, then he will marry no one."

But she, hearing this, turned pale as a corpse; in the same moment she sprang at him with her finger-nails!

"What!" she cried in a hoarse voice; "what! he! Let but a hair fall from his head, then, I will have you all--"

Laskowicz's patience, however, was exhausted. He was irritated, torn internally and sick; hence, after her threat, a wave of bitterness and rage flooded his brains. He started up and, glaring in her eyes, shouted!

"Do not threaten with betrayal, for that is death!"

"Death?" she screamed. "Death! this is what life is to me!"

And shoving her palm close to his face, she blew on it so that her breath moistened him, and repeated:

"Look! This is what life is to me."

"And to me," exclaimed Laskowicz.

For an interval they stared in each other's eyes like two odious and despairing souls. He recovered his wits first, and clasping his head with both hands, said:

"Oh, how unfortunate we are! oh!"

"Yes! yes!" reiterated Panna Pauly.

And she began to sob hysterically.

Then he commenced to quiet her. He promised her that nothing should befall Krzycki and that his marriage would not under any circumstances take place. He said that at that moment he could not indeed disclose to her what measures would be adopted, but he assured her that neither he nor his party would show any consideration to a mere female bourgeois, as here was involved a higher social justice, which does not need to take into account any particular individual. Pauly only understood that that "low peasant" would not wed the young master of Jastrzeb, and became appeased in some measure: and afterwards, both, from necessity, became occupied with other matters. It was imperative that some kind of shelter be found for the young girl: so Laskowicz placed her with "a female associate" residing in the neighborhood, who immediately went for her wages and belongings. He himself returned to his own rooms and began to revolve in his mind how he could repay Panna Pauly for saving his life.

And in this feeling of gratitude lay the first reason why he took the matter to heart. A second reason was his own ill-luck and ill-fated love for Marynia which made him sensitive to similar strifes; and the third was that "social justice" which he mentioned to Pauly. As to the third reason he felt, however, the necessity of deliberating with his own soul in order that when the time for action arrived his hands would be untied, and under the pressure of this necessity he began to reason in the following fashion:

"On the background of the general concern of the proletariat, personal affairs will appear. It might be said that the general concern is the sum-total of them all. In this respect whoever stands in defence of the personal affair of a proletaire by that act alone defends universal principles. But here comes the question of ethics. Whither are we tending? To universal justice. Ergo, our principle is moral for it is only the sum-total of personal affairs: therefore these personal affairs also must be moral. From this it follows that the proletaire, who is in the wrong in a controversy with a bourgeois, nevertheless has justice on his side simply because he is a proletaire. In this world everything is relative. A soldier, slaying his opponent in a war, commits manslaughter; therefore the act itself is not ethical. But as he commits it in defense of Fatherland, therefore, from the viewpoint of national welfare he acts ethically. If in addition thereto he has the spur of personal hatred to an antagonist, his act would gain in energy and would not lose its additional significance for Fatherland. For us, the Polish proletariat is the nation and the idea of their emancipation, the Fatherland. For this we wage war and if there is war, then murder and injuries are inflicted upon the antagonists; and even though the motives for them might be personal, they nevertheless are not only justifiable but are covered a hundred-fold by the universal welfare."

"Besides,"--he reasoned further--, "the quintessence of our existence is unhappiness; and from unhappiness as well as, inversely, from happiness must blossom corresponding deeds. This is a necessity flowing from the nature of things; and with this ethics have nothing to do. I and that rabid girl are luckless, like homeless dogs; in view of which it is all one whether a wrong was perpetrated upon us intentionally or unintentionally; just as it is all one to the wolf whether the forester who shoots him in the head, hunted him purposely or whether they met by chance. The wolf has teeth to defend himself. That is his right. The moment has come when our fangs have grown; therefore we have the right to mangle.

"As to that girl, she is mangled by despair which can only be assuaged by revenge. Is it just? Will it be beneficial to the girl? That is all one. The wage-earners without work and bread drown their woes in alcohol; the bourgeois in case of pain injects morphine into himself, and for her, revenge will be alcohol and morphine. Whatever may be the consequences, she will destroy the happiness of the pampered; she will change their joy into tears; she will break their lives and raze a particle of that world, which lies heavily, like a nightmare, upon the breasts of the proletariat. So it is necessary to aid that revenge, for so does gratitude for saving life command; likewise common wrong, also the good of the cause."

In view of this, it already seemed to Laskowicz a matter of minor importance whether in that aid a rôle would be played by a knife, or by a revolver, or by casting upon Hanka some ignominy, after which nothing would remain for her to do but to fly and hide herself forever from human eyes. Neither opportunity nor willing hands were wanting. It was only necessary to deliberate upon the choice: and afterwards to act promptly and decisively.

With this he went to Pauly who agreed to everything. As a compensation he demanded that she should release him from his promise to see Marynia only from a distance, and he secured that with ease. He evidently wanted to have his hands untied also in that regard.

XIII

"Here is the answer which I finally received," said Ladislaus, handing a letter to Gronski; "I could not expect anything else."

"I knew that you would receive it," replied Gronski, blinking with his ailing eyes and searching for his binocle, "I was already informed of it by Pani Otocka, who from the beginning insisted that Miss Anney ought to answer you, and in the end prevailed upon her."

Ladislaus reddened and asked:

"Ah! So Zosia Otocka knows everything."

"She does and does not know. Miss Anney told her only this much; 'He did not forget that he is a young lord and I a peasant woman and we ceased to understand each other.' For her it was yet harder to speak of this than for you and that difficulty festers all the more the wound which, without it, is deep enough--But I cannot find the binocle."

"Here it is," said Ladislaus.

Gronski placed it on his nose and began to read:

"You, yourself, sir, rent and trampled upon our joy, our happiness, my trust, and that deep attachment which I had for you. To your query of whether I can ever recover those feelings, I answer that I seek for them in vain. If ever I recover them I will inform you with the same sincerity with which I to-day say that I have in my heart only grief and sadness which for a joint life will not suffice."

"Only so much!" said Ladislaus.

"My foresight," answered Gronski, "is verified only too perfectly. The spring for the time being has dried up."

"To the bottom, to the bottom, not a drop for refreshment."

Gronski remained silent for a while; after which he said:

"I think otherwise, nevertheless. This is not entirely hopeless. There remains sadness, grief and, as it were, the anticipation of the recurring swell. In reality, it will not flow to-day nor to-morrow.--In view of this, for you there remains either to persevere patiently and win anew that which you lost, or else, if you have not sufficient strength, to take some shears and sever the remaining threads."

"Such shears I will not find. Do you remember, sir, what she did for me when I was wounded? I will not forget that."

At this Gronski shaded his eyes with his hand, gazed at Ladislaus intently and asked:

"My dear sir, did you ever propound to yourself one question?"

"What one?"

"What pains you the more,--the loss of Miss Anney or your wounded self-love?"

"I thank you, sir," answered Ladislaus, with irony. "In reality, only self-love. Through it, I do not sleep, do not eat; through it, in the course of a few days, I have grown lean like a shaving and were it not for this living wound, life for me would be one perpetual round of pleasure."

And he began to laugh bitterly, while Gronski continued to gaze at him, not removing his hand from his ailing eyes, and thought:

"That girl has an honest heart, and let her only see him; then she will forgive everything through compassion alone."

After which he said:

"Listen, after a quarter of an hour, I will put on those dark spectacles and go to the rehearsal. Come with me."

"How will that help me, now?" exclaimed Ladislaus.

"I do not know. I do not even guarantee that we will meet Miss Anney, for Marynia sometimes goes with a servant. But, in any event, you will not lose anything by it; so come."

But further conversation was interrupted by the entrance of the doctor, the more unexpected, as he had announced, upon leaving Warsaw, that he would stay with his brother at least ten days.

"How is this? You have already returned!" exclaimed Gronski.

"A surprise, hey?" vociferated the doctor. "Yes! And for me it was a surprise! One medical visit, afterwards a fee supplemented with the amiable advice, 'Get out of here, while you are whole!' Lo, here I am. Oh, what a delightful journey!"

"How did this happen?"

"How did it happen? I will tell you immediately. But no! I know that at this hour you leave for that rehearsal: so I will go with you, gentlemen, and relate it to you on the way. That is such an amusing thing that it is worth while to hear it. Ha!"

Accordingly after a while they went and the jovial doctor began to recite his Odyssey.

"I arrived," he said, "a little fatigued, for that is a distant journey, and besides it is necessary to change cars, wait for trains at the stations, and so forth--the usual order with us. I reached the country-seat late and after greeting my brother, I went to bed at once. But the following day I had barely unpacked the primers--you remember, gentlemen?--those I brought with me for the petty nobility--and I had barely reproved my 'provincial' brother, when an emergency call came summoning me to a high official who has an estate adjoining our seat and in summer resides with his family in the country. Ha! there was no help for it--I ride! And what appears? Why, a thimble stuck in a child's throat. I found the child already livid, but the moment I pulled the thimble out, the infant went away playing and everything was in the best order. There was nothing else to do. I saved a future dignitary to the empire, and to the parents an only son, as the other children were daughters. So the gratitude was immense. They pay--certainly! I wanted to ride away and iterated that there is nothing more to do. They would not let me go. Gratitude, breakfast, cordiality, friendship, overflowing of Slavonic feelings, and a chat which after a time passed into a political discussion. 'There is not,' says the dignitary, 'harmony amidst brothers. And what a pity! Religion and tongue divide their languages. But what is religion, if not only an outward form? God is one. It is the same to Him whether He is glorified in the Latin or the Slavonic language. Why, for Slavonians it is more seemly if in the Slavonic. And as to the tongue, then the various dialects could be limited to conversations at home. Why, however, should not one language be adopted, not only officially, but in literature? The convenience would be greater, the control easier. Then you would abandon your Catholicism and your dialects and accept ours--the one and the other,--but heartily and voluntarily. And harmony would immediately follow. The times for you would be better. There would be downright delight.'--"

"He mistook his man," interrupted Gronski, laughing.

"And that he should chance upon me," replied the doctor. "I, gentlemen, am a deist, a philosopher, but a passable Catholic. Often it happens that I assail the church just as I assail Poland whenever anything occurs which displeases me. Only if some stranger does the same thing in my presence then--a strange thing!--I have a desire to knock out his teeth. Therefore I began to defend the Church as if I never in my life crawled out of a sacristy; bah, even better, in a way as if I was a Catholic apologist. 'If,' I said, 'religion is only an external form tell me just why should we abandon this form of ours, which is the most spiritualized, the most cultural, and the most beautiful. That Catholicism, with which you advise us to take our leave, has encompassed the entire West, organized society, produced European civilization, preserved learning, has founded universities, reared churches, which are masterpieces, gave us Saint Augustine, Dante, Petrarch, Saint Francis, and Saint Thomas, created the Renaissance, created Leonardo da Vinci's; "Lord's Supper," Michelangelo's "Tombs of the Medici," Raphael's "School of Athens" and "Disputa," erected such temples as Saint Peter's, not counting others scattered throughout Italy and all over Europe. That Catholicism made us partakers of the universal culture, united us with the West, imprinted a European stamp upon our Polish soul, etc., etc.' And I talked in this strain until he interrupted me and said. 'In this is the misfortune, that it has united you with the West.' And I replied to that, 'A misfortune to whom, and to whom not a misfortune? But now we will speak of your proposition of renouncing the tongue and therefore the nationality. Know, sir, that this is an empty and foolish dream. That never will take place. I proclaim and insist in advance--never! But assuming for a moment an impossible thing, that a pestilence will so blight us, that our hearts will be so debilitated that we will say to ourselves "Enough!--we can no longer be Poles!" then what? Reflect, sir, objectively, like a man who has not lost the ability to think, what could restrain us from becoming Germans? Our Slavonic extraction? But we are Slavonians, just because we are Poles. You are a people who do not know how to live and do not permit anybody else to live. So what motive would keep us with you? Is it your peace? Your welfare? Your morality? Your administration? Your science? Your learning? Your wealth? Your power? Learn to look in the eyes of reality; cultivate in yourselves the ability to reckon with it, and you will understand that by denationalizing us you labor for some one else. But I reiterate yet once more that this is only a foolish dream; that the moment of renunciation will never come and if I spoke of it, it was only to answer those things which you suggested.'

"With this our conversation ended. They, in a yet higher degree than we, cannot endure unpleasant truths, so my dignitary changed into a decanter of iced water, and on the leave-taking merely said to me: 'Well, you are too candid, young man, but I thank you for the child.' A half an hour later I was at home."

"I can surmise what happened afterwards," said Gronski.

"Yes. As the thimble was removed, that same night I received an order to leave the next day by the first train."

"Be satisfied that it ended with that."

"I am satisfied. I will stay a few days in Warsaw; I will see the notary; I will attend Panna Zbyltowska's concert. Certainly! Certainly!"

Here he addressed Ladislaus.

"How is your mother and your fiancée?"

"Thank you. Mother is not badly, but will soon have to leave."

And desiring to hide his confusion, he began to gaze intently into the depths of the street, and after a while exclaimed:

"But look! I see Panna Marynia with a maid-servant, and with them some third person is walking."

In reality about a hundred paces down the street Marynia could be seen approaching, accompanied by a maidservant, with the violin in a case. On the other side, though somewhat behind, walked a young man with a yellowish beard, who, leaning towards Marynia, appeared to speak to her in an earnest and vehement manner. She hastened her steps, turning her head aside, evidently not desiring to listen to him, while he, keeping pace with her, gesticulated violently.

"My God! Some one is molesting her!" said the doctor.

And all three rushed at full speed towards her.

"Who is that? Who are you, sir?"

And Marynia, seeing Gronski, seized his arm and trembling all over, began to cry:

"Home! Take me home, sir!"

Gronski understood in a moment that nothing else could be done and that it was necessary to hurry, as otherwise Marynia might be embroiled in a vulgar street row. He was certain that Ladislaus in whom was accumulated an enormous supply of spleen and irritation, with his impulsive nature, would not permit the offence of the assailant to pass unpunished. So taking the girl aside, he placed her as soon as possible in a hackney-coach, which was passing by and ordered the coachman to drive to Pani Otocka's house.

"There is nothing now. Everything is all right," he said on the way, to pacify the affrighted Marynia. "From home we will send a message that there will be no rehearsal to-day, and with that it will end. It is nothing, nothing."

And he began to press her hand; after a while, he asked:

"But who was that and what did he want?"

"Pan Laskowicz," answered Marynia. "I did not recognize him at first, but he told me who he was."

Gronski became distressed when he heard the name of the student, for it occurred to him that if the encounter with Ladislaus ended with the police, then the consequences for Laskowicz might prove fatal directly. But not desiring to betray his uneasiness before Marynia, and at the same time wishing to better quiet her, he spoke to her half jokingly:

"So that was Laskowicz? Then I already know what he wanted. Ah! Ah!--Some one begins to play not only on the violin but on the soul.--Only why did you allow yourself to be so frightened?"

"For he also threatened," answered Marynia. "He threatened all terribly--"

"Such bugbears only children fear."

"True! Especially as I am to play for the hungry; they will not do any wrong to me or any of us."

"Assuredly not," confirmed Gronski.

Conversing thus, they reached home. Gronski surrendered Marynia to Pani Otocka's care and when, after a moment, Hanka appeared, he related to them everything which had occurred. He likewise had to quiet Pani Otocka, who, knowing of the letters, took the whole occurrence very much to heart and announced that immediately after the concert they would leave for Zalesin, and afterwards go abroad. After the lapse of a half hour he left and on the stairs met Ladislaus.

"God be praised," he said, "I see that it did not end with the police. Do you know that the man was Laskowicz?"

"And it seemed so to me," said Ladislaus with animation; "but this one had light hair. How is Marynia?"

"She was frightened a little but now is well. Both ladies are at her side and dandle her like a little chicken. They are so occupied with her that Pani Otocka certainly will not receive you."

"And I thought so; especially, if she is there," answered Ladislaus, with bitterness; "so I will only leave my card and will return at once. Do you care to wait for me?"

"Very well."

Accordingly, he returned after a while, and when they were on the street, he began to say:

"Yes! and to me it seemed that he was Laskowicz but I was puzzled by the light tuft of hair on his head and the spectacles. After all there was no time for thinking."

"Listen--you undoubtedly cudgelled him?" asked Gronski.

And Ladislaus answered reluctantly:

"Far too much, for he is an emaciated creature, and he evidently did not have a revolver."

For some time they walked in silence; after which Gronski said:

"Your mother needs a cure; the ladies will depart from here immediately after the concert and Miss Anney undoubtedly with them. I would advise you also to think about yourself."

Ladislaus waved his hand.

At the same time in a garret in the quarters of the "female associate," Laskowicz said to Pauly:

"Pan Krzycki is a true gentleman. He battered me a while ago because I dared to approach her."

And he began to laugh through his set teeth.

XIV

The day of the concert arrived. On the sofa in the sisters' dressing-room lay, ready at an early hour, Marynia's evening dress, white as snow, light as foam, transparent as the mist, and fragrant with violets which were to form her sole adornment. Previously, Pani Otocka and Gronski held a long and grave consultation over that dress, for both craved warmly that their beloved "divinity" should captivate not only the ears but the eyes. In the meanwhile the "divinity" bustled about all the rooms, now seizing the violin and repeating the more difficult passages, now taking the boxes of bon-bons which Gronski had sent to her; then joking with her sister and predicting fright at her first public appearance. This fright also possessed Pani Otocka who consoled herself only with the thought that Marynia indeed would tremble upon entering on the stage, but from the moment she began to play would forget everything. She knew also that a warm ovation awaited the beloved violinist, likewise numerous baskets of flowers, from the "Committee for aiding the hungry," and from acquaintances. Notwithstanding their uneasiness both sisters felt a great joy in their souls, as the concert, owing to the arrivals during the racing season, promised to be highly successful, and it was already known that the receipts would be extraordinary. Marynia besides found a cure for her fright: "When I think," she said to her sister, "that so many eyes will gaze at me, my heart is in my mouth, but when I recollect that I am not concerned but only the poor, then I cease to fear. So I will save myself in this manner: entering upon the stage, I will repeat quietly, ''Tis for the poor! 'tis for the poor!' and everything will come off in the best possible way!" And when she spoke, her voice quivered with honest emotion as her young heart felt deeply the woes of the unfortunate who did not have any bread, and at the same time she felt proud and happy at the thought that she would be instrumental in their relief. She even experienced certain pangs of conscience on account of the new dress and the new satin shoes, as it occurred to her that this outlay might have been expended for bread.

About noon Hanka came and took both sisters to her apartments for breakfast. Gronski, who was invited, did not appear, as at that time he was to meet a few journalists. Marynia took her violin with her with the intention of playing after the breakfast the first part of the programme, and in the meanwhile, waiting before they were seated at table, she began to look out from Hanka's salon through the open window on the street.

The day was fair and clear. During the night an abundant rain had fallen which settled the dust, washed the city's stone pavements, refreshed the grass plots, and laved the leaves on the trees. The air became fresh and bracing. From the two acacias, growing under the windows of Hanka's residence, which strewed the walk near them with petals white as snow, came a sweet scent, strong and intoxicating as if from a censer. Marynia partly closed her eyes and, moving her delicate nostrils, sated herself with the perfume with delight, after which she turned to the depth of the room.

"It smells so sweet," she said.

"It does, little kitten," answered Hanka, interrupting a conversation with Pani Otocka. "I purposely ordered the window to be opened."

And the acacias not only smelt sweet but seemed to sing, for both were cumbered by a countless diet of sparrows so that the leaves and flowers quivered from their chirping.

The maiden watched for some time with delighted eyes the small, nimble birds; after which her attention was directed to something entirely different. On the walk before the house, in the middle of the street and on the sidewalk on the opposite side, there began to gather and stand clusters of people who, raising their heads, gazed intently at the windows of Hanka's residence.

Some wretchedly dressed people spoke with the doorkeeper standing at the gate, evidently questioning him about something. The clusters each moment became more numerous and, together with the passers-by, who remained out of curiosity, changed into a mob of several hundred heads. Marynia jumped back from the window.

"Look," she cried, "what is taking place on the street. Oh! oh! Perhaps they are the poor coming to thank me in advance? What shall I do if they come here? what shall I answer? I am not able.--Come, see!"

And saying this, she drew her sister and Hanka to the window. The three young heads leaned out of the window on to the street, but in that moment an incomprehensible thing happened. A ragged stripling pulled out of his pocket a stone and hurled it with all his strength into the open window. The stone flew over Pani Otocka's head, rebounded on the opposite wall, and fell with noise upon the floor. Hanka, Marynia, and Zosia drew back from the window and began to look at each other with inquiring and startled eyes.

In the meantime on the street resounded savage outcries; the rabble battered down the gate; on the stairs sounded the stamping of feet, after which in the twinkling of an eye the doors leading to the room burst open with a crash, and a mob, composed of Christians and some Jews, filled the residence.

"Away with the kept mistress! Strike! tear! smash!" howled hoarse voices.

"For the mercy of God! People, what do you want here?" cried Hanka.

"Away with the kept mistress! away with the kept mistress! through the window! on to the street!"

In a moment a young man-servant, who rushed to the assistance of the ladies, was thrown upon the ground and trampled upon. Amidst the dreadful commotion, which the mob increased more and more, the human beasts became unfettered. Women with disheveled hair, filthy striplings with the marks of crime upon their degenerate features, and all manner of ragamuffins with drunken faces, rushed at the furniture, divans, bed curtains, and everything which fell into their hands. In the residence an orgy of destruction prevailed. The rooms were filled with the stench of sweat and whiskey. The mob became infuriated; it broke, smashed, stole. On the street, under the windows piles of splintered furniture were formed. They threw out even the piano. Finally some ruffian, with a pock-marked visage, seized Marynia's violin and brandished it, desiring to shatter it on the wall.

But she jumped to its aid and seized his fist with both hands.

"That is mine! that is mine!--I am to play for the poor--"

"Let go!"

"I will not let go!--that is mine!"

"Let go, carrion!"

"That is mine!"

A shot was fired, and, simultaneously, Pani Otocka's scream pierced the air. Marynia stood for a moment with upraised hands and head inclined backwards; afterwards she reeled and fell back into Hanka's arms.

The shot and the murder overawed the crowd. The mob became silent, and after a moment began to scamper away, panic-stricken.

XV

Pani Krzycki, Zosia, and Hanka, and with them Gronski, Ladislaus, and Dr. Szremski surrounded the bed on which Marynia lay, after the operation and the extraction of the bullet. A second surgeon and his assistant sat aloof, awaiting the awakening of the patient. In the room, filled with the odor of iodoform, a profound stillness prevailed. Marynia had previously awoke immediately after the operation was performed, but stupefied still by the chloroform and weakened by the loss of blood, she soon sank again into a slumber. Her beautiful head lay motionless upon the pillow, her eyes were closed, and her countenance was waxen and transparent, as if she were already dead. In Pani Otocka and in Gronski, who but now sounded within himself the immensity of his affection for that child, despair whimpered with that quiet, terrible whimper, which lacerates, tugs and rends the bosom but fears to emerge on the surface. Both glanced time and again with alarm at Dr. Szremski who from time to time examined Marynia's pulse, but evidently he himself was uncertain whether that sleep would be final: he only nodded his head and placed his finger to his lips in sign of silence.

Nevertheless, their fears for the time being were vain, as after the lapse of an hour Marynia's eyebrows commenced to rise, quiver, and after a moment she opened her eyes. Her look, at the beginning, was dull and unconscious. Slowly, however, the stupefaction left her and consciousness of what had occurred as well as of the present moment returned. On her countenance appeared an expression of amazement and affliction, such as a child feels who has been punished cruelly and unjustly. Finally her pupils darkened and two tears coursed down her cheeks.

"For what?--for what?" she whispered with her pallid lips.

Pani Otocka sat at her side and placed her palm on her hand. Gronski was seized with a desire to throw himself on the ground and beat his head on the floor, while the patient asked further in an amazed and mournful whisper:

"For what?--for what?"

God alone could answer that question. But in the meantime the doctor approached and said:

"Do not speak, child, for that harms."

So she became silent, but the expression of affliction did not disappear from her countenance, and tears continued to flow.

Her sister began to wipe them off; repeating in a subdued voice:

"Marynia, Marynia, calm yourself--you will be well--you are not dangerously wounded--no, no--the doctor guarantees that--"

Marynia raised her eyes at her as if she desired to divine whether she was telling the truth. It appeared, however, that she listened to her sister's words with a certain hope.