The hour was five in the afternoon. The ladies sat on the veranda, at tea, when the young men returned from the city. Miss Anney rose when they appeared and, not wishing to be present, as a stranger, at the family conversation, left on some pretext for her room. Pani Krzycki greeted them with slightly affected calm, because in reality the thought of the will did not leave her for a moment. She was not greedier than the generality of common mortals, but she was immensely concerned that, after her demise, at the distribution of the estate, Ladislaus should have enough to pay off the younger members of the family and to sustain himself at Jastrzeb. And some respectable bequest would in a remarkable manner facilitate the making of such payments. Besides, at the bottom of the noble soul of Pani Krzycki there lay hidden the faith that Providence owed, to a certain extent, greater obligations to the Krzycki family than to any ordinary family. For that reason, even if the whole of Rzeslewo fell to the lot of that family, she would with readiness and willingness submit to such a decree of Providence. Finally, descending from the blood of a people who in certain cases can sacrifice fortune, but love extraordinarily to acquire it without any effort, she fondled all day the thought that such an easy acquisition was about to occur.
But in the countenances of Ladislaus and Gronski she could at once discern that they brought specific intelligence. Dolhanski, who was the first to alight from the carriage, was the first to begin the report.
"I anticipate the question, what is the news?" he said, drawling his expressions with cold irony, "and I answer everything is for the best, for the Rzeslewo Mats and Jacks will have something with which they can travel to Carlsbad."
Pani Krzycki grew somewhat pale and, turning to Gronski, asked:
"What, in truth, gentlemen, have you brought with you?"
"The will in its provisions is peculiar," answered Gronski, "but was executed in a noble spirit. Rzeslewo is devised for a peasants' agricultural school and the interest of the funds is to be devoted to sending the pupils of the school, who have finished their courses, for a year's or two years' practice in country husbandry in Bohemia."
"Or, as I stated, to Carlsbad, Marienbad, Teplitz, and other places of the same character," explained Dolhanski.
A moment of silence followed. Marynia, who was pouring the tea, began, with teapot in hand, to gaze with inquiring look at those present, desiring evidently to unriddle whether they praised or condemned it and whether it gave them pleasure or annoyance. Pani Otocka looked at Gronski with eyes which evinced delight; while Pani Krzycki leaned with both hands upon the cane which she used owing to rheumatism in her limbs, and after a certain time asked in a slightly hoarse voice:
"So, it is for a public purpose?"
"Yes," answered Gronski, "the organization of the school and afterwards the division of the funds for the stay in Bohemia is to be assumed by a special Directory of the Trust Society of this province, and the designated curator of the school is Laudie."
"Too bad it is not I," interposed Dolhanski. "I would arrange it very quickly."
"There are specific bequests," continued Gronski, "and these are very strange. He bequeaths various small sums to the household servants and ten thousand roubles to some Skibianka, daughter of a blacksmith at the Rzeslewo manor, who in his time emigrated to America."
"Skibianka!" repeated Pani Krzycki with astonishment.
Dolhanski bit off the ends of his mustache, smiled, and started to grumble that the nobility was always distinguished for its love of the common people, but Gronski looked at him severely; after which he drew from his pocket a memorandum and said:
"That provision of the will is worded as follows: Whereas the parents of Hanka Skiba or Skibianka emigrated during my sojourn abroad for medical treatment, and I have not had the opportunity of ascertaining where they can be found, therefore I obligate my relative, Ladislaus Krzycki, to cause to be published in all the Polish newspapers printed in the United States and in Parana, advertisements. If the said legatee does not within two years appear to receive the bequest, the entire sum with interest becomes the property of the said Ladislaus Krzycki."
"And I already have announced that I do not intend to accept that specific bequest," cried the young man excitedly.
All eyes were turned toward him; he added:
"I would not think of it; I would not think of it."
"Why not?" asked his mother after a while.
"Because I cannot. Let us suppose that the legatee appears, say for instance, within three years instead of two, what would happen? Would I pocket the bequest and drive her away? No! I could not do that. Finally, there are other considerations of which I do not wish to speak."
In fact, only by these "other considerations," could such a considerable bequest to a simple village girl be explained; therefore Pani Krzycki became silent. After a while she said:
"My Laudie, nobody will coerce, nor even try to persuade you to accept."
But Dolhanski asked:
"Tell me, is this some mythical disinterestedness or is it ill humor caused by your not receiving a greater bequest?"
"Do not judge by yourself," answered Krzycki; "but I will tell you something which you certainly will not believe; since this estate is to be devoted to such an object as a peasants' agricultural school, I am highly delighted and have much greater esteem for the deceased. I give you my word that I speak with entire sincerity."
"Bravo!" exclaimed Pani Otocka, "it is pleasant to hear that."
Pani Krzycki looked with pride first upon her son, then upon Pani Otocka; and, though a feeling of disappointment lingered in her heart, said:
"Well, let there be a peasants' school, if only our Jastrzeb peasants will be permitted to send their sons to it."
"That does not admit of any doubt," explained Gronski. "There will be as many pupils as accommodations can be provided for. They may come from all parts, though preference is to be given to Rzeslewo peasants."
"What do they say about the bequest?"
"There were more than a dozen of them at the opening of the will, as they expected a direct gift of all the manor lands to them. Somebody had persuaded them that the deceased left everything to them to be equally divided. So they left very much displeased. We heard them say that this was not the genuine will and that they do not need any schools."
"Most fully do I share their opinion," said Dolhanski, "and in this instance, contrary to my nature, I will speak seriously. For at present there is raging an epidemic of founding schools and no one asks for whom, for what, how are they to be taught in them, and what is the end to be attained. I belong to that species of birds who do not toil, but look at everything, if not from the top, then from the side, and, perhaps for that very reason, see things which others do not observe. So, at times, I have an impression that we are like those children, for instance, at Ostend, who build on the sea-shore forts with the sand. Every day on the beach they erect them and every day the waves wash them away until not a trace of them remains."
"In a way you are right," said Gronski; "but there, however, is this difference: the children build joyfully and we do not."
Afterwards he meditated and added:
"However, the law of nature is such that children grow while the adults rear dykes, not of sand, but of stone upon which the weaves dash to pieces."
"Let them be dashed to pieces as quickly as possible," exclaimed Ladislaus.
But Dolhanski would not concede defeat.
"Permit me then," he said, "since we have not yet grown up and have not yet started to build of stone, to remain a pessimist."
Gronski gazed for a while into the depths of the garden like a man who was pondering over something and then said:
"Pessimism--pessimism! We hear that incessantly nowadays. But in the meanwhile if there exists anything more stupid than optimism, which often passes for folly, it is particularly pessimism, which desires to pose as reason."
Dolhanski smiled a trifle biliously and, turning to the ladies, said, pointing to Gronski:
"Do not take this ill of him, ladies. It often happens for him in moments of abstraction to utter impertinences. He is a good--even intelligent--man, but has the unbearable habit of turning over everything, examining it from all sides, pondering over it, and soliloquizing."
But Marynia suddenly flushed with indignation in defence of her friend and, shaking the teapot which at that moment she held in her hand, began to speak with great ardor:
"That is just right, that is just sensible; that is what everybody ought to do--"
Dolhanski pretended to be awe-stricken and, bowing his head, cried:
"I am vanquished; I retreat and surrender arms."
Gronski, laughing, kissed her hand, while she, abashed at her own vehemence and covered with blushes, began to ask:
"Is it not the truth? Am I not right?"
But Dolhanski already recovered his presence of mind.
"That does not prove anything," he said.
"Why?"
"Because Gronski once promulgated this aphorism: It is never proper to follow the views of a woman, especially if by accident she is right."
"I?" exclaimed Gronski. "Untangle yourself from me. I never said anything like that. Do not believe him, ladies."
"I believe only you, sir," answered Marynia.
But further conversation was interrupted by Pani Krzycki, who observed that it was time for the May mass. In the Jastrzeb manor-house, there was a room especially assigned for that purpose and known as the chapel. At the main wall, opposite the windows, stood an altar with a painting of the Divine Mother of Czestochowo. The walls, altar, painting, and even the candles were decorated with green garlands. On the side tables stood bouquets of elders and jasmines whose fragrance filled the entire room. Sometimes, when the rector of Rzeslewo arrived, he conducted the services; in his absence the lady of the house. All the inmates of the house, with the exception of Laskowicz, during the entire month of May met every evening in the chapel. At present the gentlemen followed the ladies. On the way Ladislaus asked Gronski:
"Is Miss Anney a Catholic?"
"To tell you the truth, I do not know," answered Gronski, "but it seems--but look, she is entering also. So she must be a Catholic. Perhaps her name is Irish."
In the chapel the candles were already lit, though the sun had not entirely set and stood in the windows, low, golden, and ruddy, casting a lustre on the white cloth which covered the altar and on the heads of the women. At the very altar the lady of the house knelt, behind her the lady visitors; after them the female servants and the old asthmatic lackey, while the gentlemen stood at the wall between the windows. The customary songs, prayers, and litanies began. Their sweetness struck Gronski. There was in them something of spring and at the same time of the evening. The impression of the spring was created by the flowers, and of the evening by ruddy lustre entering through the windows, and the soft voices of the women who, repeating the choral words of the litanies, reminded one of the last chirp of birds, subsiding before the setting of the sun. "Healer of the sick. Refuge of sinners, Comforter of the afflicted," repeated Pani Krzycki; and those soft, subdued voices responded, "Pray for us,"--and thus did that country home pray on that May evening. Gronski, who was a sceptic, but not an atheist, like a man of high culture, at first felt the æsthetic side of this childlike "good-night" borne by these women to a benign deity. Afterwards, as if desiring to corroborate the truth of Dolhanski's assertion that he was wont to turn over every subject on every side and to ponder over every phenomenon, he began to meditate upon religious manifestations. It occurred to him that this homage rendered to a deity was an element purely ideal, possessed solely by humanity. He recalled that as often as he happened to be in church and saw people praying, so often was he struck by the unfathomable chasm which separates the world of man from the animal world. As a matter of fact, religious conceptions can only be formed by higher and more perfect organisms; therefore he drew the conclusion that if there existed beings ten times more intelligent than mankind, they would, in their own way, be ten times more religious. "Yes, but in their own way," Gronski repeated, "which perhaps might be very different." His spiritual drama (and he often thought that there were many people like him) was this: that the Absolute appeared to him as an abyss, as some synthetic law of all the laws of existence. Thus he presumed that according to a degree of mental development it was impossible to imagine that law in the form of the kindly old man or in the eye on the radiant triangle, unless one takes matters symbolically and assumes that the old man and the eye express the all-basis of existence, as the horizontally drawn eight denotes infinity. But in such case what will this all-basis be for him? Always night, always an abyss, always something inscrutable; barely to be felt by some dull sensation and not by any clear perception, from whose power can be understood the phenomenon of existence and an answer be made to the various whys and wherefores. "Mankind," mused Gronski, "possesses at the same time too much and too little intelligence. For, after all, to simply believe one must unreservedly shut the blinds of his intellectual windows and not permit himself to peer through them; and when he does open them he discovers only a starless night." For this reason he envied those middle-aged persons, whose intelligence reared mentally edifices upon unshaken dogmas, just as lighthouses are built upon rocks in the sea. Dante could master the whole field of knowledge of his time and yet, notwithstanding this, could traverse hell, purgatory, and paradise. The modern man of learning could not travel thus, for if he wished to pass in thought beyond the world of material phenomenon, he would see that which we behold in Wuertz's well-known painting, a decapitated head; that is, some element so undefined that it is equivalent to nothing.
But the tragedy, according to Gronski, lay not only in the inscrutability of the Absolute, in the impossibility of understanding His laws, but also in the impossibility of agreeing on them and acknowledging them from the view point of human life. There exist, of course, evil and woe. The Old Testament explains them easily by the state of almost continual rage of its Jah. "Domine ne in furore tuo arguas me, neque in ira tua corripias me," and afterwards "saggittae tuae infixae sunt mihi et confirmasti super me manuo tuum." And once having accepted this blind fury and this "strengthening of the right hand," it is easy to explain to one's self in a simple manner misfortune. But already in the Old Testament, Ecclesiastes doubts whether everything in the world is in order. The New Testament sees evil in matter in contraposition to the soul; and that is clear. However, viewing the matter, in the abstract, as everything is a close chain of cause and effect, therefore everything is logical, and being logical it cannot per se be either evil or good, but may appear propitious or unfavorable in its relation to man. Besides, that which we call evil or misfortune may, according to the absolute laws of existence, and in its profundity, be wise and essential principles of development, which are beyond human comprehension, and therefore something which in itself is an advantageous phenomenon.
Yes, but in such case, whence does man derive the power to oppose his individual thoughts and his concrete conceptions to this universal logic? If everything is a delusion, why is the human mind a force, existing, as it were, outside of the general laws of existence? There is this something, unprecedented and at the same time tragical, that man must be subjected to these laws and can protest against them. On earth spiritual peace was enjoyed only by the gods, and is now only by animals. Man is eternally struggling and crying veto, and such a veto is every human tear.
And here Gronski's thoughts assumed a more personal aspect. He began to look at the praying Marynia and at first experienced relief. There came to his mind the purely æsthetic observation that Carpaccio might have placed such a maiden beside his guitar-player and Boticelli should have foreseen her. But immediately afterwards he thought that even such a flower must wither, and nothing withers or dies without pain. Suddenly he was seized with a fear of the future, which in her traveling-pouch carries concealed evil and woe. He recalled, indeed, the aphorism which he had uttered, a short time before, about pessimism; but that gave him no comfort, because he understood that the pessimism which flowed from the exertions of the intellect is different from the worldling's pessimism which Dolhanski, by shrugging his shoulders at everything, permitted himself to indulge in when free from card-playing. He moreover propounded to himself the question whether that debilitating pessimism could in any manner be well founded, and here unexpectedly there stood before his eyes another friend, entirely different from Dolhanski, though also a sceptic and hedonist,--Doctor Parebski. He was a college-mate of Gronski and in later years had treated him for a nervous ailment; therefore he knew him perfectly. Once, after listening to his various reflections and complaints about the impossibility of finding a solution of the paramount questions of life, Doctor Parebski said to him: "That is a pastime for which time and means are necessary. If you had to work for your bread as I have, you would not upset your own mind and the minds of others. All that reminds me of a dog chasing his own tail. And I tell you, look at that which environs you and not at your own navel; and if you want to be well, then--carpe diem!" Gronski at that time deemed these words somewhat brutal and more in the nature of medical than philosophical advice, but now when he recalled them he said to himself: "In truth the road on which, as if from bad habit, I am continually entering leads to nowhere; and who knows whether these women praying this moment with such faith are not, without question, more sensible than I am, not to say more at ease and happier?"
In the meantime Pani Kryzcki began to speak: "Under Thy protection we flee. Holy Mother of God," and the women's voices immediately responded: "Our entreaties deign not to spurn and from all evil deign to preserve us forever." Gronski was swept by an intense longing for such a sweet, tutelary divinity who does not deign to scorn entreaties and who delivers us from evil. How well it would be with him if he could enjoy such peace of mind, and how simple the thought! Unfortunately he already had strayed too far away. He could, like women, yearn, but, unlike them, he could not believe.
Gronski mentally reviewed the whole array of his acquaintances and noted that those who fervently believed, in the depths of their souls, were very few in number. Some there were who did not believe at all; others who wanted to believe and could not; some acknowledged from social considerations the necessity of faith, and finally there were those who were simply occupied with something else. To this latter category belonged men who, for instance, observed the custom of attending mass as they did the habit of eating breakfast every morning, or of donning a dress-coat each evening or wearing gloves. Through habit it entered into the texture of their lives. Here Gronski unwillingly glanced at Ladislaus, for it seemed to him that the young man was a bird from that grove.
Such, in fact, was the case. Krzycki, however, was neither a dull nor thoughtless person. At the university he, like others, philosophized a little, but afterwards the current of his life carried him in another direction. There existed, indeed, beside Jastrzeb and the daily affairs connected therewith, other matters which deeply interested him. He was sincerely concerned about his native land, her future, the events which might affect her destiny, and finally--women and love. But upon faith he reflected as much as he did upon death, upon which he did not reflect at all, as if he was of the opinion that it was improper to think of them, since they in the proper time will not forget anybody.
At present, moreover, owing to the guests, he was more than a hundred miles from thinking of such questions. At one time, while yet a student, when during vacation time he drove over with his mother to Rzeslewo to attend high mass, he cherished in the depths of his soul the poetical hope that some Sunday the rattle of a carriage would resound without the church doors and a young and charming princess, journeying from somewhere beyond the Baltic to Kiev, would enter the church; that he would invite her to Jastrzeb and later fall in love with her and marry her. And now here unexpectedly those youthful dreams were in some measure realized, for to Jastrzeb there came not one but three princesses of whom he could dream as much as he pleased, for behold, they were now kneeling before the family altar, absorbed in prayer. He began to gaze--now at Pani Otocka and then at the form of Marynia, which resembled a Tanagra figurine, and repeated to himself: "Mother desires to give one of them to me as a wife." And he had nothing against the idea, but thought of Pani Otocka, "That is a book which somebody has already read, while the other is a fledgeling who can play a violin." Ladislaus was of the age which does not take into calculation any woman under twenty years. After a while, as if unwillingly, he directed his eyes towards Miss Anney,--unwillingly because she formed the most luminous object in the room, for the setting sun, falling upon her light hair, saturated it with such lustre that the whole head appeared aflame. Miss Anney from time to time raised her hand and shaded her head with it as if she desired to extinguish the lustre, but as the rays each moment became less warm, she finally discontinued the action. At times she was hidden from view by the figure of some dark-haired girl, whom Ladislaus did not know, but who, he surmised, must be a servant of one of these ladies. Towards the close of the services the girl bowed so low that she no longer obscured the view of the light hair or the young and powerful shoulders.
"That," he said to himself, "would be the greatest temptation, but mother would be opposed, as she is a foreigner."
But suddenly, as if to rebuke his conscience, there came to his memory the pensive eyes and slender shoulders of Panna Stabrowska. Ah! if only Rzeslewo and the funds had fallen to his lot! But uncle bequeathed Rzeslewo for educational purposes and the funds for trips to Carlsbad by the Mats, as Dolhanski had said, and a few thousand for Hanka Skibianka. At this recollection his brow clouded and he drew his hand across his forehead.
"I unnecessarily became excited before mother and the ladies," he said to himself, "but I must explain this matter to Gronski."
Accordingly, at the close of the mass, he turned to him:
"I want to speak with you about various matters, but only in four eyes. Is that satisfactory?"
"All right," answered Gronski, "when?"
"Not to-day, for I must first go to Rzeslewo to question the men, look over the estate, and then attend to the guests. It will be best to-morrow evening or the day after. We will take our rifles with us and go to the woods. Now there is a flight of woodcocks. Dolhanski does not hunt, so we will leave him with the ladies."
"All right," repeated Gronski.
The very next day, towards evening, they strolled with their rifles and a dog in the direction of the mill, and on the way Ladislaus began to narrate all that he had learned the previous day.
"I was in Rzeslewo," he said, "but there you hear nothing good. The peasants insist that the will was forged and that the gentry twisted it about so that they could control, for their own benefit, the money and the lands. I am almost certain that Laskowicz is pouring oil upon that fire. But why? I cannot understand; nevertheless, that is the case. The landless, in particular, are wrought up and say that if the fortune is divided among them, they, themselves, will contribute for a school. In reality, they have no conception of the kind of school Zarnowski wanted, nor of the cost of establishing it."
"In view of this, what do you intend to do?" asked Gronski.
"I do not know. I will see. In the meantime I will try to convince them. I also begged the rector to explain the matter to them and spoke with a few of the older husbandmen. I seemed to have persuaded them; but unfortunately with them it is thus: that everyone, taken singly, is intelligent and even sensible, but when you talk to them together, it is like trying to smash a stone wall with your head."
"That is nothing strange," answered Gronski; "take ten thousand doctors of philosophy together and they become a mob which is ruled by gesticulations."
"That may be," said Ladislaus, "but I did not wish to speak of the will only. I also saw the old Rzeslewo overseer and learned a great many, intensely curious things. Figure to yourself that our guesses were wrong and that Hanka Skibianka is not the daughter of Uncle Zarnowski."
"And that seemed so certain! But what kind of proof have you of this?"
"Very simple. Skiba was a native of Galicia and emigrated to Rzeslewo with his wife and daughter when the latter was five years old. As Zarnowski, while well, stayed in the village like a wall, and at that time for at least ten years had not travelled anywhere, it is evident that he could not have been the father of that girl."
"That decides the matter. I cannot understand why he bequeathed to her ten thousand roubles."
"There is an interesting history connected with that," replied Ladislaus. "You must know that the deceased, though now it appears that he loved the peasants, always kept them under very strict control. He managed them according to the old system; that is, he abused them from morning till night. They say that when he cursed in the corridor you could hear him over half the village. A certain day he went into the blacksmith's shop and, finding something out of order, began to berate the blacksmith unmercifully. The smith bowed and listened in humility. It happened that little Hanka at that time was in front of the smithy and, seeing what was taking place, seized a little stick and started to belabor Zarnowski with it all over the legs. 'You will scold Tata, will you?' It is said that the deceased at first was dumbfounded, but afterwards burst into such laughter that his anger against the blacksmith passed away."
"That Hanka pleases me."
"So did she please Uncle. The very same day he sent a rouble to the smith's wife and ordered her to bring the child to the manor-house. From that time he became attached to her. He commanded the old housekeeper to teach her to read, and attended to it himself. The child likewise became devoted to him, and this continued for a number of years. In the end people began to say that the master wanted to keep the smith's daughter entirely at his residence and have her educated as a lady, but this, it seems, was untrue. He wanted to bring her up as a stout village lass and give her a dowry. The Skibas, whose only child she was, declared that they would not surrender her for anything in the world. Of course, I know only what the overseer told me, for our relations with the deceased were broken on account of the mill from which he drained the water for his ponds."
"And later the Skibas emigrated."
"Yes, but before that time Zarnowski began to fail in health and moved to Warsaw, and subsequently resided abroad; so that their relations relaxed. When the Skibas emigrated, the girl was seventeen. Uncle, on his return to Rzeslewo to die, longed for her and waited for some news of her. But as he had previously removed even his furniture from Rzeslewo to the city, she evidently assumed that he never would return and did not know where to write."
"The bequest proves best that he did not forget her," said Gronski, "and from the whole will it appears that he was a man of better heart than people thought."
"Surely," answered Ladislaus.
For an interval they walked in silence; then Krzycki resumed the conversation.
"As for myself, I prefer that she is not the daughter of the deceased."
"Why? Has that any bearing on the bequest?"
"No. Under no circumstances will I accept that bequest. Never!"
"That is all very well, but tell me, why did you renounce it with such vehemence that everybody was astonished?"
"There is one circumstance which neither Mother nor anybody else even suspects, but which I will sincerely confess to you. In the proper time I seduced that girl."
Gronski stood still, gazed at Ladislaus, and ejaculated:
"What's that?"
As he was not prone to treat such matters with levity and, besides, the previous narrative of Krzycki had awakened within him a sympathy for Hanka, he frowned and asked:
"For the fear of God! You seduced a child? And you say it was done in the proper time?"
But Ladislaus replied quite calmly:
"Let us not stop, for the dog has gone too far ahead of us," and here he pointed at the white spaniel running before them. "I did not seduce a child, for at that time she was sixteen. It happened more than seven years ago, while I was still a student and came to Jastrzeb on a vacation."
"Were there any consequences?"
"As far as I know there were none. You will understand that having returned the following vacation and not finding either her or the Skibas, I did not ask about them, for on the thief's head the cap burns.[2]But to-day I casually asked the overseer whether the Skibas had not probably emigrated because some mishap had befallen their daughter. He answered, 'No.'"
"Then it is better for her and for you."
"Certainly it is much better; for otherwise the matter would have been brought to light and would reach Mother's ears."
"And in such case you would suffer much unpleasantness."
There was irony in Gronski's voice, but Ladislaus, absorbed in his own thoughts, did not notice it and said:
"In such case, I would have unpleasantness because Mother in such matters is exceedingly severe. So, to-day, after mature deliberation, I am like a wolf, who will commit no injury in the neighborhood where he keeps his nest, but at that time I was more headstrong and less careful."
"May the deuce take you!" exclaimed Gronski.
"For what?"
"Nothing; speak on."
"I have not much more to say. Recurring to the will, you now understand why I could not accept it."
"Perhaps I do, but tell me 'thy exquisite reason,' as Shakespeare says."
"Well, as to the seduction of a girl, that does happen in villages, but to seduce a girl and appropriate to one's own use that which had been provided for her,--why, that would be too much. And perhaps she may be suffering, in want, somewhere in America."
"Everything is possible," answered Gronski.
"So that if the advertisements, which I will make, do not reach her notice, in such case, I would be using her money, while she would die of starvation. No. Everything has its limits. I am not extraordinarily scrupulous, but there are some things which I plainly cannot do."
"Tell me, but sincerely, do you entertain towards her any sentiment?"
"I will tell you candidly that I completely forgot her. Now I have recalled her and, in truth, I cannot have any ill-will towards her. On the contrary, that kind of recollection cannot, of course, be disagreeable, unless it is linked with remorse. But we were mere children--and a pure accident brought us together."
"Then permit me to ask one more question. If the deceased bequeathed to her the whole of Rzeslewo, and the funds, and if she did not within two years appear to claim them, would you renounce such a bequest?"
"I cannot answer a question to which I have not given any consideration. I would not want to represent myself to you any better or any worse than I am. But this much is certain: I would publish the advertisements, and would publish them for the two years. But after all, of what importance to you can my answer be?"
And here he abruptly paused, for from the direction of the adjacent birch grove some strange sound reached them, resembling a snort, and at the same time, above the tops of the birch and the lime-trees, there appeared upon the background of the twilight a gray bird, flying in a straight line to the underwood on the opposite side of the meadow.
"Woodcock!" cried Krzycki, and he bounded forward.
Gronski, following him, thought:
"He certainly never read Nietzsche, and yet in his veins, together with the blood, there courses some noble super-humanity. If anybody betrayed his sister, he would have shot him in the head like a dog, but as a village girl is concerned, he does not feel the slightest uneasiness."
Later they stopped at the edge of the birch grove. For a time intense silence prevailed; after which a strange voice resounded again above their heads and another woodcock appeared. Gronski fired and missed; Krzycki bettered--and they saw how, with descending flight, the fowl fell in the underwood farther off. The white dog for a while lingered in the dusk of the thicket and returned carrying the dead bird in his mouth.
"She was already wounded when I fired," said Ladislaus. "It is your bird."
"You are a gracious host," answered Gronski.
And again silence ensued, which even the rustle of leaves did not disturb, as there was not a breath of air. But after a time two woodcocks snorted above their heads, one following the other, at which Gronski could not shoot, but Ladislaus winged both cleanly. Finally a more reckless one took pity on Gronski for she flew accommodatingly over him, as if she desired to save him any inconvenience. He himself felt ashamed at the thrill of pleasure he experienced when, after firing, he saw the bird hit the ground; and agreeable to his incorrigible habit of meditation upon every phenomenon, he came to the conclusion that his strange sensation could be attributed to the aboriginal times, when man and his family were dependent for subsistence upon skill in hunting. Thanks to this reasoning, he did not shoot at another bird that flew nearer the edge of the underwood and with which the flight evidently ended, as they waited for others in vain. In the meanwhile it grew dark, and after an interval the white spaniel emerged from the nightfall, and after him came Ladislaus.
"We had a bootless chase," he said, "but that is nothing. In any case, there are four morsels for the ladies. Tomorrow we will try for more."
"This was but a slight interruption in your confessions," answered Gronski, slinging his rifle over his shoulder.
"My confessions?" said Ladislaus. "Aha!--yes."
"You said that a mere accident brought you together."
"That actually was the case. But we must now go ahead and you will kindly follow in my footsteps, as it is damp here in some places. This way we will reach the bridge and at the bridge we will have the road."
Not until they were on the road did he commence his narrative:
"It all began and ended in the mill, which even at that time served as a storage place for hay; and it did not continue more than a fortnight. It occurred thus: I once went out with a rifle to hunt for roebucks, for here roebucks come out in the evening at the clearing on the stream. It was very cloudy that day, but as it appeared to be clear in the west, I thought that the clouds would pass away. I took a position of a few hundred--and even more--steps from the mill, for nearer there was lying on the meadow, linen, which might scare the bucks; and about a half hour later I actually killed a buck. But in the meanwhile it began to rain, and in a short while there was such a downpour as I had never seen in Jastrzeb. I seized my buck by the hind legs and began to scamper off with all my might for the mill. On the way I noticed that some one had carried away the linen. I rushed into the mill and buried myself up to the ears in the hay, when I heard somebody breathing close by me. I asked: 'Who is that?' A thin voice answered me, 'I.' 'What kind of an I?' 'Hanka.' 'What are you doing here?' 'I came for the linen.' Then it began to thunder so much that I thought the mill would fall to pieces;--and not until it had subsided somewhat did I learn by the aid of continuous questions that my female companion was from Rzeslewo; that her family name was Skibianka, and that she finished her sixteenth year on St. Anne's Day. Then, and I give you my word, without any sinister will or intent, but only as a jest and because it is customary to talk that way with village maids, I said to her: 'Will you give me a kiss?' She did not answer, but as at that moment a thunder clap pealed, she nestled closer to me--perhaps from fright. And I kissed her on the very lips and, as I live, I had the same impression as if I had kissed a fragrant flower. So I repeated it twice, three times, and so on, and she returned the tenth or twentieth. When the storm passed away and it became necessary for us to part, I had her arms about my neck and at the same time my cheeks were wet with her tears,--for she cried, but I do not know whether from the loss of innocence or because I was leaving."
Here, in spite of himself, the song of Ophelia, when insane, flitted through Krzycki's memory.
Ladislaus continued:
"On our departure she said that she knew I was the young lord of Jastrzeb; that she saw me every Sunday in Rzeslewo and gazed upon me as upon some miracle-working painting."
"Ah, you certainly are handsome to the point of nauseousness," interrupted Gronski, with a certain irritation.
"Bah!--I have already three or four gray hairs."
"Surely, from birth. How often did you meet thereafter?"
"Before I left her, I asked her whether she could not slip away the following evening. She answered that she could, because in the evening she always gathered the linen, which was being bleached upon the meadow, for fear that some one might steal it, and that besides, in summer time she did not sleep in the cabin with her parents, but on the hay in the barn. After that we met every day. I had to conceal myself from the night watch, so I slunk out of the window into the garden, though this was an unnecessary precaution, for the watch slept so soundly that one time I carried off the trumpet and staff belonging to one of them. It was amusing also that, seeing Hanka only in the night time, I did not know how she really looked; though in the moonlight she appeared to me to be pretty."
"And in church?"
"Our collator's pew is near the altar, while the girls knelt in the rear. There are so many of the same red and yellow shawls, studded with so many flowers, that it is difficult to distinguish one from the other. At times it seemed to me that I saw her in the distance, but I could not see her perfectly. The vacation soon ended, and when I returned the following season the Skibas were gone."
"Did you bid her farewell?"
"I admit that I did not. I preferred to avoid that."
"And did you ever long for her?"
"Yes. In Warsaw I longed for her intensely, and during the first month I was deeply in love with her. After my return to Jastrzeb, when I again saw the mill the feeling revived, but at the same time I was content that everything should drop, as it were, into the water and that Mother should not know anything about it."
Conversing in this manner, they turned from the side road to the shady walk leading to the manor-house, whose low lights, from a distance of about a verst, at times glistened through the boughs of the linden, and then again hid themselves, screened by the thick foliage. The night was starry and fair. It was, however, quite dark, for the moon had not yet risen and the copper glow upon the eastern sky announced its near approach. There was not the slightest breath of air. The great nocturnal stillness was broken by the barks of dogs, barely audible, from the distant slumbering village. Involuntarily, Gronski and Ladislaus began to speak in lower tones. However, everything was not asleep, for a few hundred paces from the walk, on the meadow near the river, firelights were intermittingly flashing.
"Those are peasants pasturing the horses and catching crawfish by the lights of the resinous wood," said Krzycki. "I even hear one of them riding away."
And in fact at that moment they heard on the meadows the clatter of the horse's hoofs, deadened by the grass, and immediately afterwards the loud voice of a herdsman resounded, who, amidst the nocturnal quiet, shouted in a drawling tone:
"Wojtek--Bring with you some more fagots, for these are not sufficient."
The night rider, having reached the road, soon passed by the chatting friends like a shadow. He, however, recognized the young heir, as in riding by them he pulled off his cap and saluted:
"Praised be the Lord!"
"Now and forever."
And for some time they walked in silence.
Ladislaus began to whistle quietly and to shout at the dog, but Gronski, who was cogitating upon what had occurred in the mill, said:
"Do you know that if you were an Englishman, for instance, your idyl would have ended, in all probability, differently, and you would throughout your life have had a chaste remembrance, in which there would be great poetry."
"We eat less fish, therefore have a temperament differing from the Englishmen. As to poetry, perhaps there also was a little of it in our affair."
"It is not so much different temperament as different usages, and in that is the relief. They have a soul, healthier and at the same time, more independent, and do not borrow their morality from French books."
After which he meditated for a while and then continued:
"You say that in your relations there was a little poetry. Certainly, but looking at it only from Hanka's side, not yours. In her, really, there is something poetical, for, deducing from your own words, she loved you truly."
"That is certain," said Ladislaus. "Who knows whether I ever in my life will be loved as much?"
"I think that you will not. For that reason, I am astonished that this stone should drop into the depth of your forgetfulness and that you should have so completely effaced it."
These words touched Krzycki somewhat, so he replied:
"Candidly speaking, I related all this to you for the purpose of explaining why I do not accept the bequest, and, in the naïveté of my soul, I thought that you would praise me. But you are only seeking sore spots. Indeed, I would, after all, have preferred that this had not happened, but, since it happened, it is best not to think of it. For if I had as many millions as there are girls seduced every year in the villages, I could purchase not only Rzeslewo, but one half of the county. I can assure you that they themselves do not look upon it as a tragedy, neither do such things end in misfortune. It would plainly be laughable if I took this to heart more than Hanka who in all probability did not take it to heart and does not."
"How do you know?"
"That is usually the case. But if it were the reverse, what can I do? Surely I will not journey across the ocean to seek her. In a book that might perhaps appear very romantic, but in reality I have an estate which I cannot abandon and a family which it is not permissible for me to sacrifice. Such a Hanka, with whom, speaking parenthetically, you have soured me by recalling, may be the most honest girl, but to marry her--of course I could not marry her; therefore what, after all, can I do?"
"I do not know; but you must agree that there is a certain moral unsavoriness in the situation in which a man, after committing a wrong, afterwards asks himself or others, 'What can I do?'"
"Oh, that was only a façon de parler," replied Krzycki, "for, on the whole, I know perfectly. I will publish the advertisements and with that everything will end. The penance, which the priest at the proper time imposed upon me, I have performed, and I do not intend to make any further atonement."
To this Gronski said:
"Sero molunt deorum molæ. Do you understand what that means in Polish?"
"Having assumed the management of Jastrzeb, I sowed all my latinity over its soil, but it has not taken root."
"That means: The mills of the gods grind late."
Krzycki began to laugh and, pointing his hand in the direction of the old mill, said:
"That one will not grind anything any more; I guarantee that."
Further conversation was interrupted by their meeting near the gates two indistinct forms, with which they almost collided, for though the moon had already ascended, in the old linden walk it was completely dark.
Ladislaus thought that they were the lady visitors enjoying an evening stroll, but for certainty asked, "Who is there?"
"We," answered an unknown feminine voice.
"And who in particular?"
"Servants of Pani Otocka and Miss Anney."
The young man recalled the young girl whose dark head obstructed his view of the lustrous hair of the English woman during the May mass.
"Aha!" he said. "Do not you young girls fear to walk in the darkness? A were-wolf might carry off one of you."
"We are not scared," answered the same voice.
"And perhaps I am a were-wolf?"
"A were-wolf does not look like that."
Both girls began to laugh and withdrew a few steps; at the same time a bright ray darted through the leaves and illumined the white forehead, black eyebrows, and the whites of the eyes of one of them, which glittered greenishly.
Krzycki, who was flattered by the words that a werewolf did not look like that, gazed at those eyes and said:
"Good-night!"
"Good-night!"
The ladies, with Dolhanski, were already in the dining-room, as the service of the supper awaited only the hunters who, after their return, withdrew to change their apparel. Marynia sat at one end of the table with the children and conversed a little with them and a little with Laskowicz, who was relating something to her with great animation, gazing all the time at her with intense fixedness and also with wariness that no one should observe him. Gronski, however, did observe him and, as the young student had interested and disquieted him from the time he learned of his agitation among the Rzeslewo peasants, he desired to participate in the conversation. But Marynia at that moment having heard the conclusion, joined the other ladies, who, having previously heard from the balcony the shooting in the direction of the old mill, inquired about the results of the hunt. It appearing that neither Miss Anney nor the two sisters had ever seen woodcocks except upon a platter, the old servant upon Krzycki's order brought the four lifeless victims. They viewed them with curiosity, expressed tardy commiseration for their tragic fate, and asked about their manner of life. Ladislaus, whom the animal world had interested from early years, began to relate at the supper the strange habits of those birds and their mysterious flights. While thus occupied he paid particular attention to Pani Otocka, for he was, for the first time, struck by her uncommonly fine stature. On the whole, he preferred other, less subtile kinds of beauty, and prized, above all else, buxom women. He observed, however, that on that night Pani Otocka looked extraordinarily handsome. Her unusually delicate complexion appeared yet more delicate in her black lace-stitched dress, and in her eyes, in the outlines of her lips, in the expression of her countenance, and in her whole form there was something so maidenly that whoever was not aware of her widowhood would have taken her for a maid of a good country family. Ladislaus, from the first arrival of these ladies, had indeed enlisted on the side of Miss Anney, but at the present moment he had to concede in his soul that the Englishwoman was not a specimen of so refined a race and, what was worse, she seemed to him that day less beautiful than this "subtile cousin."
But at the same time he made a strange discovery, namely: that this observation not only did not lessen his sympathy for the light-haired lady, but in some manner moved him strongly and inclined him to a greater friendship for her; as if by that comparison with Pani Otocka he had done an undeserved wrong to the Englishwoman, for which he ought to apologize to her. "I must be on my guard," he thought, "otherwise I will fall." He began to search for the celestial flow in her eyes and, finding it, drank its dim azure, drop by drop.
In the meantime Pani Krzycki, desirous of learning the earliest plans of the sisters, began to ask Pani Otocka whether they were going to travel abroad, and where.
"The doctor," she said, "sends me to mineral baths on account of my rheumatism, but I would be delighted to spend one more summer with you somewhere."
"And to us your sojourn at Krynica left the most agreeable memories," replied Pani Otocka; "particularly, as we are in perfect health, we willingly would remain in the village and more willingly would invite Aunt to us, with her entire household, were it not that the times are so troublous and it is unknown what may happen on the morrow. But if it will quiet down. Aunt, after her recovery, must certainly pay us a visit."
Saying this, she ardently kissed the hand of Pani Krzycki who said:
"How good you are and how lovable! I would with all my heart go to you, only, with my health, I must not obey the heart but various hidden ailments. Besides, the times are really troublous and I understand it is rather dangerous for ladies to remain alone in the villages. Have you any reliable people in Zalesin?"
"I do not fear my own people as they were very much attached to my husband, and now that attachment has passed to me. My husband taught them, above all things, patriotism, and at the same time introduced improvements which did not exist elsewhere. We have an orphanage, hospital, baths, stores, and fruit nurseries for the distribution of small trees. He even caused artesian wells to be sunk to provide enough healthful water for the village."
Dolhanski, hearing this, leaned towards Krzycki and whispered:
"A capitalist's fantasy. He regarded his wife and Zalesin as two playthings which he fondled, and played the rôle of a philanthropist because he could afford it."
But Pani Krzycki again began to ask:
"Who now is in charge of Zalesin?"
And the young widow, having cast off a momentary sad recollection, answered with a smile:
"In the neighborhood they say Dworski rules Zalesin.--He is the old accountant of my husband and is very devoted to us.--I rule Dworski, and Marynia rules me."
"And that is the truth," interjected Miss Anney, "with this addition, and me also."
To this Marynia shook her head and said:
"Oh, Aunt, if you only knew how they sometimes twit me!"
"Somehow I do not see that, but I think that the time will come when somebody will rule you also."
"It has already come," broke out Marynia.
"So? That is curious. Who is that despot?"
And the little violinist, pointing with a quick movement of her little finger at Gronski, said:
"That gentleman."
"Now I understand," said Dolhanski, "why, after our return from the notary, he had a teapot full of hot water over his head."
Gronski shrugged his shoulders, like a man who had been charged with unheard-of things, and exclaimed:
"I? A despot? Why, I am a victim, the most hypnotized of all."
"Then Pan Laskowicz is the hypnotizer, not I," answered the young miss, "for he himself at supper was telling me about hypnotism and explaining what it is."
Gronski looked toward the other end of the table, in the direction of the student, and saw his eyes, strained, refractory, and glistening, fastened upon Marynia.
"Aha!" he thought, "he actually is trying his powers upon her."
He frowned and, addressing her, said:
"Nobody in truth knows what hypnotism is. We see its manifestations and nothing more. But how did Laskowicz explain it to you?"
"He told me what I already had heard before; that the person put to sleep must perform everything which the operator commands, and even when awakened must submit to the operator's will."
"That is untrue," said Gronski.
"And I think likewise. He claimed also that he could put me to sleep very easily, but I feel that he cannot."
"Excellent! Do such things interest you?"
"Hypnotism a little. But if it is to be anything mysterious, then I prefer to hear about spirits; especially do I like to hear the stories which one of our neighbors relates about fairies. He says they are called sprites, and indulge in all kinds of tricks in old houses, and they can be seen at night time through the windows in rooms where the fire is burning in the hearth. There they join hands and dance before the fire."
"Those are gay fairies."
"And not malicious, though mischievous. Our aged neighbor piously believes in them and quarrels about them with the rector. He says his house is full of them and that they are continually playing pranks: sometimes pulling the coils of the clock to make it ring; sometimes hiding his slippers and other things; making noise during the night; hitching crickets to nut-shells and driving with them over the rooms; in the kitchen they skim the milk and throw peas into the fire to make them pop. If you do not vex them, they are benevolent, driving away spiders and mice, and watching that the mushrooms do not soil the floor. This neighbor of ours at one time was a man of great education, but in his old age has become queer, and he tells us this in all seriousness. We, naturally, laugh at it, but I confess that I very much wish that such a world did exist;--strange and mysterious! There would be in it something so good and nice, and less sadness."
Here she began to look off with dreamy eyes and afterwards continued:
"I remember also that whenever we discussed Boecklin's pictures, those fauns, nymphs, and dryads which he painted, I always regretted that all that did not exist in reality. And sometimes it seemed to me that they might exist, only we do not see them. For, in truth, who knows what happens in the woods at noontime or night time, when no one is there; or in the mists during the moonlight or upon the ponds? Belief in such a world is not wholly childish, since we believe in angels."
"I also believe in fairies, nymphs, dryads, and angels," answered Gronski.
"Really?" she asked, "for you always speak to me as to a child."
And he answered her only mentally:
"I speak as with a child, but I idolize."
But further conversation was interrupted by the servant, who informed Ladislaus that the steward of Rzeslewo had arrived and desired to see the "bright young lord" on a very important matter. Krzycki apologized to the company and with the expression, customary with country husbandmen, "What is up now?" left the room. As the supper was almost finished, they all began to move, after the example of the lady of the house, who, however, for a while endeavored in vain to rise, for the rheumatism during the past two days afflicted her more and more. Similar attacks occurred often and in such cases her son usually conducted her from room to room. But in this instance Miss Anney, who sat nearest to her, came to her assistance and, taking her in her arms, lifted her easily, skillfully, and without any exertion.
"I thank you, I thank you," said Pani Krzycki, "for otherwise I would have to wait for Laudie. Ah, my God, how good it is to be strong!"
"Oh, in me you have a veritable Samson," answered Miss Anney in her pleasant, subdued voice.
But at that moment Ladislaus, who evidently recalled that he had to escort his mother, rushed into the room and, seeing what was taking place, exclaimed:
"Permit me, Miss Anney. That is my duty. You will fatigue yourself."
"Not the least."
"Ah, Laudie," said Pani Krzycki, "to tell the truth, I do not know which one of you two is the stronger."
"Is it truly so?" he asked, looking with rapt eyes upon the slender form of the girl.
And she began to wink with her eyes in token that such was the fact, but at the same time blushed as if ashamed of her unwomanly strength.
Ladislaus, however, assisted her to seat his mother at the table in the small salon, at which she was accustomed to amuse herself in the evenings by laying out cards to forecast fortunes. On this occasion he unintentionally brushed his shoulder against Miss Anney's shoulder and, when he felt those steel-like young muscles, a violent thrill suddenly penetrated through him and at the same time he was possessed by a perception of some elementary, unheard-of, blissful power. If he were Gronski and ever in his life had read Lucretius' hymn to Venus, he would have been able to know and name that power. But as he was only a twenty-seven-year-old, healthy nobleman, he only thought that the moments in which he would be free to hug such a girl to his bosom would be worth the sacrifice of Jastrzeb, Rzeslewo, and even life.
But in the meanwhile he had to return to the steward of Rzeslewo, who waited for him in the office upon an urgent matter. Their talk lasted so long that when Ladislaus reappeared in the small salon, the young ladies had already withdrawn to their rooms. Only his mother, who was purposely waiting, desirous of knowing what was the matter, remained, with Gronski and with Dolhanski, who was playing baccarat with himself.
"What is the news?" asked Pani Krzycki.
"Absolutely nothing good. Only let Mamma not get alarmed, for we are of course here in Jastrzeb and not in Rzeslewo; and eventually we can brush this aside with our hands. But nevertheless, strange things are occurring there and Kapuscinski, in any event, did right to come here."
"For the Lord's sake, who is Kapuscinski?" exclaimed Dolhanski, dropping the monocle from his eye.
"The steward of Rzeslewo. He says that some unknown persons, probably from Warsaw, appeared there and are acting like gray geese in the skies. They issue commands, summon the peasants, incite them, promising them the lands and even order them to take possession of the stock. They predict it will be the same in all Poland as it is in Rzeslewo--"
"And what of the peasants? what of the peasants?" interrupted Pani Krzycki.
"Some believe them, while others do not. The more sensible, who attempt to resist, are threatened with death. The manor farm-hands will not obey Kapuscinski and say that they will only pasture and feed the cattle, but will not touch any other work. About fifteen of the tenants are preparing to go to the woods with hatchets and they declare that, if the foresters interfere with their right to cut wood, they will give them a good drubbing. Kapuscinski has lost his head completely and came to me, as one of the executors of the will, for advice."
"And what did you tell him?"
"As he declared to me that he was not certain of his life in Rzeslewo, I advised him by all means to pass the night with us in Jastrzeb. I wanted first to consult Mother and you, for in fact, advice under the circumstances is difficult to give and the situation is grave. Of course such a situation cannot continue very long, and sooner or later the peasants themselves will suffer the most by it. This we must positively prevent. I will candidly state that for the past two days, I have been considering whether it would not be better if I renounced the curatorship of the new school and Rzeslewo matters in general. I hesitated only because it is a public service, but in truth, I have so much work to attend to here in Jastrzeb, that I do not know on what I shall lay my hands first. But now, since it is necessary to rescue the peasants, and since a certain amount of danger is connected with it, I cannot retreat."
"I will fear about you, but I understand you," said Pani Krzycki.
"I think that by all means, I should drive over to-morrow morning to Rzeslewo, but if I do not secure a hearing there, then what is to be done?"
"You will not get any," said Dolhanski, not pausing in his distribution of the cards.
"If you go, I will go with you," announced Pani Krzycki.
"Ah, that would be the only thing needful! Let Mamma only think that in such a case I would be terribly hampered and certainly would not gain anything."
After which he kissed her hand and said:
"No, no! Mamma does not understand that matters would be worse and, if Mamma insists, then I would rather not go at all."
Gronski propped his head upon his hand and thought that it was easier to analyze at a desk the various phases of life than to offer sound advice in the presence of urgent events. Dolhanski at last stopped playing baccarat with himself and said:
"The position we are placed in passes all comprehension. But were we in any other country, the police would be summoned and the matter would end in a day."
To this Ladislaus replied with some anger:
"As for that, permit me! I will not summon the police; not only not against those peasants, but not even against those forbidden figures who now haunt Rzeslewo. No, never!"
"Very well; long live an epoch of true freedom!"
"Who knows," said Gronski, "but that the summoning of the police would just suit these gentlemen?"
"In what way?"
"Because they themselves, at the proper season, would disappear, but later would incite the people again and would cry all over Poland, 'Behold! who appeals to the police against peasants.'"
"That is a pertinent observation," said Ladislaus; "now I understand various things which I did not comprehend before."
"From the opening of the will," said Dolhanski, "Rzeslewo and its inhabitants did not concern me in the least. However, one thought occurred to me while dealing the cards. Laudie will drive over to Rzeslewo to-morrow on a fruitless errand. He may receive only a sound beating, without benefiting anybody--"
"It has never yet come to that, and that is something I do not fear. Our family has lived in Jastrzeb from time immemorial, and the peasants of this neighborhood would not raise their hands against a Krzycki--"
"Above all, do not interrupt me," said Dolhanski. "If you do not get a sound thrashing--and I assume that you may not--then you will not secure a hearing, as you yourself foresaw a little while ago. If we two, that is, Gronski and myself, went over there, we would not effect anything because they have seen us at the funeral, and the estimable Slavonians of Rzeslewo look upon us as men who have a personal interest in the matter. It will be necessary that some one unknown go there, who will not argue, but who will act as if he had the right and power and will command the peasants to behave peaceably. Since you are so much concerned about them, that will be the only way. So, then, since by virtue of the unfathomable decrees of Providence there exist in this beloved land of ours National Democrats, whom, parenthetically speaking, I cannot endure any more than the seven-spot of clubs, but who, in all probability, have fists as sweaty and as heavy as the socialists,--could you not settle this matter with their assistance?"
"Of course, naturally, naturally!" exclaimed Gronski; "the peasants, after all, have great confidence in the National party."
"I also belong to that party with my whole heart," said Krzycki, "but, sitting, like a stone, in Jastrzeb, I do not know to whom to apply."
"In any case, not to me," said Dolhanski.
But Gronski, though he did not belong to any faction, thoroughly knew the city and easily suggested the addresses and the manner in which the party could be notified. He afterwards said:
"And now I will give you one word of advice, the same which you, Laudie, gave Kapuscinski, namely, that we go to sleep, for you, especially, madam,"--here he addressed the lady of the house--"were entitled to that long ago. Is it agreed?"
"Agreed," answered Ladislaus; "but wait a few minutes. After conducting Mother, I will accompany you upstairs."
Within a quarter of an hour he returned, but instead of bidding his guests the promised "good-night" he drew closer to them and resumed the interrupted conversation.
"I did not wish to relate everything before Mother," he said, "in order not to alarm her. But in fact the matter is much worse. So, speaking first of what concerns us, imagine for yourself that those strangers immediately after their arrival asked first of all about Laskowicz, and that Laskowicz was in Rzeslewo this afternoon and returned here an hour before we came back from the hunt. Now it is positively certain that we have in our midst an agitator."