sensibility of his own shortcomings and wretchedness would be lasting.
Nevertheless, he was seized with an ever-increasing tenderness, and
more and more became obliterated that difference between Hanka and Miss
Anney which was so irritating to him in the first moments. Now, on the
contrary, the recollection that this simple girl of old and that
fascinating lady of to-day were one and the same woman penetrated him
with a kind of thrill, resembling a thrill of joy. The memory that at
one time he possessed the other began to waken in him, as it were, a
hunger and a new passion for the present one, and the thought of her
charms intensified the play of his young blood. But he strove to stifle
within him those impressions with the consciousness of the
responsibilities which were imposed upon him. Above all things he
propounded to himself the question. What should a man of honor do who
had betrayed and therefore wronged a girl, almost a child, who was in
love with him, and later, after a few years, met her under a changed
name and fell in love with her? There was only one answer; even if he
did not fall in love, if her love continued, he ought to assume all the
consequences of his acts. If she remained a simple-minded rustic who
never could understand him, or if she had deviated from the path of
rectitude, even in such a case, it would not, for his vexed soul, be
sufficient reason for washing his hands and withdrawing from the
affair; and so much the more, since the girl had bridged the
intellectual and social chasm which separated them, and in addition
ennobled her own soul and had not ceased to love. "Yes it is so. I
would spit in my own eyes," said Ladislaus (not thinking at that moment
that in practice an act like that would be a trifle difficult to
perform), "if I hesitated any longer. There is only one thing to do and
I will do that at once." Having formed this resolution, he took a deep
breath like a man, from whose heart a heavy load has fallen--and as
much as he at first became little in his own eyes, so now he began to
gain in stature. He did not, however, propound the question, what would
happen if Miss Anney did not have such wondrous eyes, gazing with a
heavenly streak, nor such a countenance, whose color reminded him of
the petals of a white rose, nor those other charms which attracted his
eyes. He said to himself that many of his acquaintances could not
afford to form a similar resolution; he was pleased with himself; and
that it was easier for him to do so because he was impelled thereto by
his heart and senses, he deemed not as lessening the worthiness of the
act itself, but as his own good fortune. He foresaw, however, that he
would yet have to do with his mother as well as with the so called
opinion of society, which is not concerned about principles but only
about gossip, and which seeks, above all things, food for its own
stupid malice. But he expected to reconcile his mother, and as to the
malicious, smiling ironically upon the slightest provocation, his
nostrils, distended at the very thought, and his clenched teeth boded
them no good. But this anticipated knightly action was a matter of the
future; in the meantime his impetuous nature urged him to immediate
action. He determined to go to his mother at once and definitely come
to an understanding with her. Glancing, however, at his watch, he
became aware of the fact that it was almost three o'clock in the
morning. In view of this, that was impossible. Not feeling, however,
the least need of sleep, and desiring absolutely to do something, he
sat down to write letters. First, he inclosed Miss Anney's letter in an
envelope, because he wanted to send it to his mother before the
decisive interview took place; after which he started to write to Miss
Anney, but soon stopped, as it occurred to him that since he gave his
word that he would remain silent for a week, he did not have the right
to do it. Instead, after a brief deliberation, he wrote a few words to
Pani Otocka, praying that she would permit him to visit her that day.

Finally, when the dawn began to peer into the room and mingle with the
light of the lamps, he thought of repose, but though he felt great
weariness, he could not fall asleep, and mentally he conversed with his
mother and Miss Anney until sunrise. He fell into a sound slumber only
when the morning bustle in the hotel began and did not awake until
late. Dressing himself, he rang for the servant and ordered him to
deliver Miss Anney's letter to his mother, but at the last minute he
made up his mind to take it to her himself. But in the rooms engaged by
his mother he found only the younger members of the family and the
French governess, who informed him that "madame" went to church early
in the morning.

                                   V

Pani Krzycki had indeed gone to church and confession, for in the grief
which befell her, she needed consolation and advice. And her grief was
real and profound. She lived in times in which various ancient
prejudices and prepossessions clashed, and were becoming more and more
obliterated, yielding place to new democratic ideas. As she often heard
that the wave of these new ideas might bring benefit and salvation to
the country, she, notwithstanding that her habits and former
conceptions conflicted with them, not only did not struggle against
them, but quietly acquiesced in them in a passive manner. This was
easier for her as it never occurred to her that personally she would
ever have anything to do with them. For her it was the same as if
somebody had installed modern furniture in a few rooms in Jastrzeb,
which were not continually occupied. Let them stay there since fashion
requires it and since in the other rooms there are old armchairs,
heirlooms, in which one can rest comfortably. And now, suddenly she was
ordered to move to that new part of the house; suddenly she was
confronted by the fact that her son was in love with a peasant woman
from Rzeslewo and was about to marry her. Then in the first moments
everything within her was stirred up; the old instincts and customs
began to cry out. That silent and passive acquiescence in the new ideas
crumbled like a building of sand, and the whole course of events
appeared to the indignant citizeness-noblewoman as an unworthy intrigue
in which the victim to be sported with was her son and with him, the
entire Krzycki family. Amazement that the chief partner and almost
author of this intrigue could be a being whom she regarded as the
incarnation of all feminine virtues, and whom she desired her son
should marry, only aggravated her anger. In vain did Zosia explain to
her that her son was the betrayer of an innocent child and Miss Anney
was an angel, and that in bringing her to Jastrzeb, she did not have
any sinister designs and did only that which every other woman in her
place, sympathizing with a wronged and longing woman, would have done.
"If the most fervent wish of Miss Anney was to behold once more in her
life the place in which her life was undone, and the man whom she could
not forget and who was the author of her undoing, then it was due to
her; and everybody who has the slightest heart ought to understand
this. And let Aunt say," she continued, "whether I could betray her
secret and whether an impossible situation would not have been created
for her." The usually quiet and gentle Zosia became so wrought up in
defence of her friend that she plainly told Pani Krzycki that even if
Laudie fell in love with Miss Anney without any requital that it would
be only what he deserved and, besides, since "Aninka" did not accept
his proposal and gave him a week's time for consideration, he could
withdraw it; in such case, however, "Aninka" would not be the only one
whose respect he forfeited. But all this was pouring oil upon fire and
only increased the ire of Pani Krzycki who declared that, at any rate,
she and her son were victims of a plot. After which she moved to a
hotel, announcing at the time of her departure that her feet would
never again cross the threshold of that house.

Nevertheless, the bitterness and anger which accumulated in her heart
were not directed against Pani Otocka alone. Her son also had wounded
her heart deeply and awakened a whole series of painful recollections,
connected with the memory of her husband. For her husband, a man
worshipped by her during the first years of their marital life for his
manifold good qualities and extraordinary beauty, had caused her not a
little mortification through his immoral life in relation to women in
general and the female residents of Jastrzeb and its vicinity in
particular. To Pani Krzycki it was no secret, that, in the course of
long years, cows were led continually from the manor cow-houses as
gifts or rather as rewards to various Kates and Marys and that
in Jastrzeb could be found quite a number of step-brothers and
step-sisters of her children. So she shed copious tears over this state
of affairs until almost the last year of her husband's life. In her
time she suffered in her own self-love and her womanly dignity as a
wife and mother. Afterwards she forgave everything, but after the death
of her husband, as a woman deeply religious, she lived in continual
fear at the thought of the Divine Tribunal, before which the deceased
appeared. For whole years she tried to supplicate for him forgiveness
through tears, fasts, alms, and prayers. Above all she determined to
bring up her son in such a manner that he would never fall into the
errors of his father. She watched him in his boyhood days, like the eye
in her head; she shielded him from all evil influences. After sending
him to school she confided the care of him to her relative, a priest,
and to Gronski, in whose morality she justly believed. And when the son
grew up, when after finishing school, he attended the university, and
afterwards assumed the management of the Jastrzeb estate, she had that
bottomless, naïve faith, usual with women, upright and pious but
unacquainted with the depravity of the world, that up to that time
"Laudie" was as pure as a lily. And now unexpectedly the film over her
eyes dropped. The son was following in the footsteps of his father. At
this thought she was beset by despair. In her soul a protest truly
vehement poured forth against the alliance of her son with a peasant
woman, but having a very sensitive conscience she felt, after her
conversation with Zosia, that Miss Anney had some claim on Ladislaus.
Once or twice, this manner of extricating themselves from an onerous
situation suggested itself to her mind; that Ladislaus in pursuance of
a prearranged compact should propose to Miss Anney and she should
refuse him. "But do I know," she said to herself, "how many similar
Hankas may already be found in Jastrzeb?" And a horror penetrated to
the marrow of her bones at the thought that among those Hankas might be
Ladislaus' step-sisters, for it seemed to her that the crimes of the
father fatally dragged after them the yet greater crimes of the son and
with them must follow damnation. "Ah, Laudie! ah, Laudie!" she repeated
despondently, and she felt besides fear, such pain, such disappointment
of heart and such profound resentment, that however much she understood
that it was necessary to summon Ladislaus as soon as possible and
ascertain how he had received the news that Miss Anney is Hanka and
what he intended to do, nevertheless she could not persuade herself to
see him at once. After removing from Pani Otocka's, the information
that he was not at the hotel afforded her true relief. She immediately
locked herself up in her room and determined, if he called, not to
admit him.

The following morning she went to church and to confession and after
confession she begged her relative, the prelate, the same who in his
time had charge of Ladislaus, for advice. Already she was calmer. The
aged prelate received her and began with extraordinary particularity to
question her about Miss Anney, her stay at Jastrzeb, about the course
of events after the attempt on Ladislaus' life, and about the details
in Hanka's life, of which Pani Krzycki had learned from Zosia:
afterwards about the fears of Pani Krzycki herself, and finally after a
long silence he said:

"As to the sins, which Ladislaus, after this, the first sin of his
youth, might have committed, that is only a conjecture, and a fear, and
as we have no irrefutable proofs of them, we should not take them into
account at all. There only remains the former Hanka and the Miss Anney
of to-day. It is only with this one case that we have to do. So I
desire to know how you, as a mother, regard her."

Pani Krzycki replied that she knew perfectly well that all people in
the sight of God were equal, but she was concerned about the happiness
of her son. Similar marriages were not usually happy. It may be that
the reason for this is the malice of the world: it may be that the wife
met with humiliation on the part of vain and malicious persons, but the
husband must feel that also, in consequence of which irritation ensues
and the relations grow from bad to worse even without any ill-will on
either side. As to her son he is ambitious and sensitive as but few
are, and even if he loved his wife most strongly, he would suffer if
any one evinced towards her even a shade of disdain. Whoever lives in
the world must reckon with everything, even with stupidity, even with
malice, not to say with other considerations upon which marital
happiness often depends.

The aged prelate listened, folding and unfolding according to his habit
a silk handkerchief, and finally said:

"Reckoning with stupidity and malice may only mean guarding against
them, not making any concessions to them."

After which he began to look at Pani Krzycki with a penetrating gaze
and asked:

"Permit me to put one question to you: Why should your son necessarily
be happy?"

She looked at him with surprise.

"Why, I am his mother."

"Yes, but there are things more important than happiness, particularly
temporal,--is it not true?"

"True," she answered quietly.

"That which you said in respect to temporal matters may be more or less
just and may actually be the reasons which make such marriages less
happy than others, but it is necessary above all things to propound to
one's self the question. What in life is greater and what is less, what
is more important and what is less important, and to act according to
the dictates of conscience."

"Well, how am I to act?" asked Pani Krzycki.

The aged prelate looked at the crucifix hanging on the wall and
quietly, but with emphasis, answered:

"As a Christian."

A momentary silence followed.

"I am satisfied with the advice," said Pani Krzycki, "and I thank you."

                                   VI

Ladislaus, while his mother was in church and consulting the prelate,
repaired, notwithstanding the early hour, to Pani Otocka. At the very
beginning he raised to his lips both of her hands and kissed them so
long that she, from that act alone, perceived his intentions.

"I knew it would be so! I knew it!" she cried with emotion and joy.

While he replied in a soft quivering voice:

"I did not require a week to perceive that I cannot live without her."

"I knew it," Zosia once more repeated. "Have you spoken with your
mother, yet?"

"No. Yesterday, I ran about the city senselessly, after which I rushed
to Gronski's and went to the hotel very late, and this morning I was
informed that Mother was in church."

Pani Otocka again became anxious.

"Yesterday," she said, "she was very angry and God grant that she may
be reconciled, for on this all depends."

"Not all," answered Ladislaus; "not to speak of my great attachment for
Mother, I esteem her immensely; and God sees that I would be pleased
always to conform to her will. But that has its limits; when the
happiness, not only of myself, but of the being most precious to me in
the world, is concerned, then I cannot sacrifice that under any
circumstances; I have pondered over this all night. I have a hope that
Mother will consent; as I trust in her character and in that love which
she has always shown to me. If, however, contrary to my hopes, it
should appear otherwise, then I will tell her that this is a resolution
which cannot now be and will not be revoked."

"Maybe there is no necessity for that," said Pani Otocka, "for Aninka
also is concerned. Yesterday, after the letter which she wrote to you
and after Pan Gronski's departure, we talked until late at night. She
was very nervous and cried, but spoke thus: 'If he returns to me, not
joyfully and with entire good-will, but only because he did not want to
withdraw his word, then I will never consent to it. There is no pride
in me. I did not even reckon with my own self-love, and wrote to him
sincerely what was in my heart, but even if it should break I would not
wed him, if it shall seem to him that he is lowering himself for me.'"

"The dear, lovely creature!" interrupted Ladislaus.

Pani Otocka continued:

"After that she began to cry, and added that she would not consent to
be the cause of an estrangement between mother and son."

"No, I repeat once more that my resolution cannot and shall not be
revoked. Here my whole life is involved--and even if now Mother cannot
find in her heart sufficient good-will, she will find it later. In the
meantime I will do everything in order that my future wife should have
in her also a mother, affectionate and grateful for her son's
happiness."

"Can I repeat that to Miss Anney?"

"That is just what I came for. But I have yet one more prayer. She took
my word that for a week I would not return to her and she alone can
release me from it. But in view of what I came here for, this would be
downright, needless torture. Neither a week nor a year can change
anything. Nothing, absolutely! Will Cousin deign to tell her that and
beg of her from me, but beg very cordially, that she release me from my
word?"

"With the greatest pleasure, and I have a hope this will not be a too
difficult matter to adjust."

"I thank you with my whole soul and now I will hurry to Mother."

But before he left the room, Marynia rushed in and began to gaze
sharply, now at her sister, then at Ladislaus. In reality she was not
apprized of the secrets of the former relations between Ladislaus and
Hanka, but she already knew that Miss Anney is the former Hanka; she
knew everything which transpired afterwards and, loving Miss Anney very
much, she was dying from uneasiness and curiosity as to what turn the
affair would take. She was so pretty with that wistful gaze and uneasy
face and, besides, she had such an amusing mien that Ladislaus, in
spite of his emotions, at the sight of her, fell into a good humor.
Zosia remained silent, not knowing whether he wished to speak of his
affair of the heart before Marynia, while he, purposely, for sometime
did not break the silence; finally he approached his little cousin and
squeezing her hand, announced in a sepulchral voice:

"Too late!"

"How too late," she asked alarmed.

"She is going to marry some one else."

"Who?"

"Panna--Kajetana."

And he burst out into a sincere, jolly laugh. Marynia conjectured that
matters could not stand so badly since Ladislaus was jesting. Desiring,
however, to learn fully the good news, she began to stamp with her foot
and importune like a child.

"But how?--now, honestly. I could not sleep to-day! How? now, honestly.
How?"

"Honestly, that hope and joy and happiness--there!" answered Ladislaus,
pointing in the direction of Miss Anney's quarters.

After which, kissing his cousins' hands, he rushed out like a stone
whirled from a sling, for he was in a great hurry.

On the way he grew grave and even gloomy at the thought that the moment
for his decisive interview with his mother was approaching.

He found her in the hotel, where she awaited him in her own room. The
sight of his mother's face, serene and filled with an unusual kind of
sweetness, gave him, for the time being, encouragement, but at the same
time he thought that gentle persuasion, entreaties, and perhaps tears,
would be heavier to bear than anger--and he asked in an uncertain
voice:

"Did Mamma read her letter?"

"I did," she answered, "but even before that I learned almost
everything from Zosia, whom Miss Anney herself begged not to conceal
anything from me."

"Gronski told me that Mamma became angry at Zosia?"

"Yes, that is so, but that can be rectified. Now I want above all
things to talk with you sincerely."

So Ladislaus began to narrate how in the first moments he was struck as
if by a thunderbolt and how he could not reconcile himself to the
thought that Hanka and Miss Anney were one and the same person. He
confessed his vacillation, his doubts, suspicions, and the pain, which
pierced him; and the internal strife and accounting with his conscience
and everything through which he passed. But only after reading her
letter, did he perceive that this pain had its origin in his love for
her and that the struggle was a struggle with his own heart and
happiness; then he ceased to waver; he could not imagine happiness
otherwise than with that most precious being in the world, and without
her he did not desire it.

After which he said that when he became acquainted with her at
Jastrzeb, as Miss Anney, from almost the first moment he was attracted
to her by some incomprehensible force and she engrossed all his
thoughts. He, of course, esteemed Zosia Otocka highly, and Marynia he
regarded as a bright phenomenon. But admiration and love are two
different things. Besides, he did not owe anything either to Zosia or
to Marynia. They were kind while he was wounded and that was all. But
to Miss Anney he probably owed his life, and he remembered that she for
his sake placed herself in peril. With what could he repay her for
that, and how could he make reparation for the former wrong, committed
while she was still almost a child? Who was the worthier of the two?
Was it he, who forgot and lived from day to day an easy, thoughtless,
and spiritually slothful life, or she whom no new attachments could
reconcile to their separation and who ennobled her mind and heart
through suffering, yearning, and labor? "I scarcely dare to believe.
Mother," said he, "that she not only absolves my injury, but has not
ceased to love me. Perhaps it happened thus, because it was I who, for
the first time in her life opened for her the doors to the world of
happiness, but undoubtedly it was because hers is a totally exceptional
nature. Yes, Mother! She is one of those who, in a pristine state even
at the time when they are unable to realize things, possess that noble
instinct, that sort of elevation of feeling that love ennobles indeed
everything, but only when it is great, when it is for a whole lifetime;
and those who love have such strength, such a depth of affection, that
they are incapable of any other affection. But when such a one is
found, then we can only thank God on our knees, and, in plain terms, my
head is confused at the thought that for my transgression I meet with,
not punishment, but fabulously good fortune. It may be that there are
in the world more such women who can make a man happy, but I want to be
happy only with this one; maybe there are others who ennoble and
elevate everything about them, but I feel that through this one I will
be better and better. Finally, this is a question not only of my
happiness but also of my honor."

Here, folding his hands, he began to gaze into her eyes with a pleading
look; after which he continued:

"All this I intrust to Mamma's hands; my whole life, my entire future,
and the peace of my conscience, and happiness and honor."

Pani Krzycki placed both of his palms to her temples and kissed his
forehead.

"My Laudie," she said, "I am an old woman and have various prejudices:
so I will not tell you that from the first moments it was easy for me
to assent to your intentions. Do you know that yesterday I became
enraged at Zosia and until this morning, I persisted in my
determination to oppose as far as it lay in my power your marriage. Be
not surprised at this, since you admit that you were struck as if by
lightning; then think, how it must have affected me, I, as is usual
with a mother, had at the bottom of my soul the conviction that for you
even a king's daughter would not be too high a mate. But it was not
only the old mode of thought, not only a maternal vanity, and not only
prejudices which inflamed my opposition. I feared also for your
happiness. I would not have had anything against the person of Miss
Anney herself, were it not for these other circumstances. I became
acquainted with her at Jastrzeb and loved her sincerely; often I said,
God grant that all our ladies could be like her. But learning who she
is and what took place between you, I became alarmed at first at the
thought that you might have committed similar offences in Jastrzeb."

"No, Mamma," answered Krzycki; "I give my word for that."

"For you see I thought you were absolutely pure; so think what a blow
it was to me."

Ladislaus bowed to her hands, in order to hide his face, for
notwithstanding the gravity of the moment, notwithstanding his sincere
emotion and anxiety, the naïvete of his mother seemed to him something
so unheard-of that he feared he might betray himself by an expression
of astonishment, or what was worse, a smile. "Ah," he thought, "it is
lucky that I have to swear only as to Jastrzeb, for I could not tell
mother what I told Gronski, that a wise wolf never takes from that
village where he keeps his lair." But simultaneously it occurred to him
that one must be an angel to have such a delusion, and his adoration of
his mother increased yet more.

And she continued:

"Then I took into consideration the world and the people among whom you
must live. I knew that not a few would commend your conduct, but in
reality you would have to endure a thousand petty annoyances and stings
which would irritate and exasperate you until they caused a pain and
bitterness even in your feeling towards your wife. I was concerned
about your happiness which, in my blindness I craved above all things
for you. And only to-day was the film taken off my eyes. Apparently
such things we know and proclaim, but, nevertheless, with real surprise
and as if it was something new, I heard that happiness is not the most
important thing in life and that it ought not to be the greatest
concern of a mother. And before that my heart was cleansed of its pride
and I was commanded to be guided by my conscience: therefore, my
Laudie, I cannot dissuade you from this marriage."

Ladislaus, hearing this, again bowed his head to his mother's hands and
began to cover them with kisses.

"Ah, Mamma, dear," he repeated, "ah, Mamma, how happy I am!"

"And I," she answered; "for I feared that your feeling might be
superficial, founded upon a delusion and fancy; but, after this
conversation, I see that you love Aninka truly."

"Yes! That is imbedded so deeply that it could only be torn from me
with my life."

"I believe, I believe."

Thus mutually assuring each other, they both spoke with absolute
sincerity, and both at the same time deluded themselves. For Ladislaus
had an inflammable head, greedy senses, and soft heart, but he lived
principally on the exterior, and none of his feelings could spring from
great depths as, on the whole, he was not a deep man.

But his mother, believing every one of his words as she believed in the
gospel, said with great confidence:

"May God bless you, my child. Let us at present speak of what is to
come. I, of course, understand that once having agreed, it is necessary
to agree not with half but with the whole heart: it is necessary to
receive Aninka with open arms and give her to understand that it is she
who is conferring a favor upon us for which we should be grateful."

"Yes, for she does," exclaimed Ladislaus with ardor.

"Very well, very well," answered Pani Krzycki, with a smile, "now it
becomes me to go to her and thank her myself. I assume also that Aninka
will withdraw the condition that you should not call upon her for a
week."

"Zosia is to attend to that, but naturally Mamma's words will be more
effective."

"When do you want me to go?"

Ladislaus again folded his palms:

"At once, Mother dear, at once."

"Very well; will you wait for me here, or at Zosia's?"

"Here; for Zosia might be with Marynia at the rehearsal. She sometimes
accompanies her."

Pani Krzycki rose heavily from the chair, as that day, from the
morning, had been trying for her and the rheumatism held her more and
more strongly. Having, however, straightened out her limbs, she moved
briskly ahead. The thought that she was troubling herself for her boy
made it an agreeable task and exertion.

But on the way she began to think of matters of which thus far there
had been no mention between herself and her son. She belonged to that
type of women, often found among the country nobility, who know
perfectly well how to line the ideal cloak with a real lining. In her
time the entire management of the Jastrzeb estate rested on her head,
and on that account she had a multitude of worries and had habituated
herself to struggle continually with them. So at the present time her
mind turned to the material side of the affair.

"I would consent to this marriage" (she thought as if to justify
herself to herself), "even though Aninka did not have anything, but I
am curious to know how much she can have." After which she began to
fondle the hope that while Aninka might not have millions and for an
Englishwoman might not be very rich, she might have what in Poland
might be regarded as great opulence, though in England it might be
deemed a modest fortune.

And amidst such meditations she rang Miss Anney's door-bell.

The visit passed off as could be expected. Pani Krzycki was honest,
grateful, motherly and, at the moment when she surrendered the life and
happiness of her son to the hands of Miss Anney, "her dear daughter,"
she was, in a measure, pathetic. Miss Anney, too was in a measure,
pathetic, also cordial and simple, quiet and collected as well, but she
seemed to be acting with caution, though nothing whatever was said of
the past. With Pani Krzycki there even remained an impression that
there was by a hairbreadth too much of this "reserve." She understood
perfectly that it would be want of tact on Miss Anney's part if she
displayed too much enthusiasm and conceded that she acted properly, but
nevertheless she carried away at the bottom of her heart a little
disappointment as it were, for there was hidden in her the conviction
that the woman who would get "Laudie" and would bear his name, could be
excused even though she went insane from joy.

Returning to the hotel, she did not, however, confess to her son this
thought, but began to load "Aninka" with praises and speak of her so
warmly that tears stood in the eyes of both. Ladislaus, above all else,
was anxious to know whether the "taboo" was removed and the prohibition
recalled; having learned that such was the case, a quarter of an hour
later, he was at Hanka's feet.

"My beloved, my angel, my wife!" he said, embracing her knees.

                                  VII

A few days later, the old notary, Dzwonkowski, and Dr. Szremski came to
visit Gronski. The latter, to whom this was an agreeable surprise, as
he liked both, and, besides, esteemed the doctor highly, greeted them
with great cordiality and began to ask the news of the city, the
vicinity, and of themselves.

"Ha! We live, we live," answered the boisterous doctor. "In these
times, that is an art. But the police so far have not arrested us, the
bandits have not shot us, the socialists have not blown us up into the
air; so we not only live, but have come to Warsaw. I, because I must
ride farther,--as far as Volhynia, and this gentleman," pointing to the
notary, "on account of the concert and Panna Marynia's participation in
it. Having read of it in the daily newspapers he fell into such a state
that at any moment I looked for an attack of apoplexy or aneurism.
There was no help for it. I had to prescribe a stay in Warsaw as a
cure. Finally, he cannot at all endure our little town any more, and is
thinking only of giving up his office to some one and of moving here
permanently. In his heart a fire is burning, and the snow melts, and
ice melts and so forth. Ha!"

During these words, the old notary moved his jaws so furiously that his
chin almost touched his nose; finally he declared:

"The head splits! The head splits!"

"The same old quarrel?" asked Gronski, laughing.

"Quarrel?" repeated the notary. "It is not I who quarrel. He has shaken
up my brain, shattered my nerves, stupefied me, torn to pieces,
exhausted, cleaned out, sucked, and outtalked the remnants of strength
within me. From yesterday, sir, on the whole road--a continual din and
roar in the ears--and after that in the hotel; to-day, since morning,
and now here. No, I cannot stand it, no, I cannot!"

"Tut, tut. And who daily summons me? Who every day hangs out his tongue
until it reaches the first button on his vest and orders me to examine
it? Wait, sir. I will ride away and you will have to examine it
yourself before a mirror."

"Then you are really going to Volhynia? How about your patients?" asked
Gronski.

"I fear that in the meantime they may get well; but it can't be helped,
I must go!"

"And for how long?"

"I do not know, but do not think very long. I am a Volhynian Mazur,
from the minor nobility of that place, or as they say there of the
single-manor nobles. They are mostly settled there as tenants of
various petty nobles, but I have my own seat in partnership with a
brother, an ex-judge, who has charge of the estate and to whom I am now
riding."

"But, of course, not because he is sick?"

"Certainly, sir; he has become insane."

"My God! Since when?"

"Not long ago. From the time he became a 'local rights' man.'"

"Ah."

"That is so. The indigent, haughty noble took a notion to pose as a
landed proprietor, hankered after the society of gentlemen, and got
water on the brain. A month ago I sent him two thousand primers for our
impoverished shabby gentility, of whom no one thinks and who
involuntarily or rather in spite of their will, are there losing their
Polish spirit. And would you believe it, sir, that he sent back to me
the whole package, together with a letter in which he announced that he
would not distribute the primers."

"Why?" asked Gronski, whom the narrative of the doctor began to
interest.

"He wrote to me in the first place that they have decided to live and
labor only for their own province and occupy themselves only with local
or provincial affairs, and again they aim at some kind of synthesis of
all nationalities, and thirdly they will Polonize nobody."

"But you were only concerned about primers for the children of the
petty nobility, who are Polish."

"By them this is already styled Polonization, for it interferes with
their 'synthesis.' We know in what that synthesis must end. May the
devils take them, together with their diplomacy. But that is not
enough! In the end, my ingenious brother informs me that he does not
regard himself as a Pole, but only as a Volhynian with Polish culture
and that this is his political position. Ah, sir, Stanczyk was wrong
when he said that in Poland there are the most doctors. In Poland there
are the most politicians. Every average Pole is a second Talleyrand, a
second Metternich, a second Bismarck. He never participated in
political life, is unacquainted with history, never passed through any
schools, and never studied. That is nothing! He is by grace of God! He
from nature has a pastille in his brain, of which he thinks that if he
only lights it, then all the horse-flies and gnats, which suck our
blood will be so hoaxed that they will cease to molest us. And every
one is convinced that he alone sees clearly, that he alone has the
exclusive measures, and that his diplomacy, county, local, provincial,
or whatever you may call it, is a panacea. It never occurs to him, that
with such county or local polities, this fatherland, as Yan Casimir
said, would go into direptium gentium."

"Sir," said the aged notary to Gronski, pointing to the doctor, "you
have pressed in him such a button, that now he will not stop talking
until we shall not be able to move hand or limb."

"That is not a button, that is a sore," answered Gronski.

And evidently it was a sore for the doctor, as he was so absorbed that
he did not hear what was said about him, and began the following
dialogue with his absent brother.

"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.

After which, she said:

"It is sultry.--"

The doctor opened the window of the room. Out in the open air the night
was fair and starry. Waves of fresh air brought the scent of the
acacias.

The patient lay for some time calm, but suddenly she began again to