Gronski actually did postpone his "five o'clock." Pani Krzycki, however, visited her son, sometimes twice in a day, claiming justly that less danger threatened an elderly woman than any one else. Ladislaus passed long hours with her, speaking about everything, but mostly about Miss Anney. After Gronski's admonition, he did not, indeed, confess to his mother his feelings for the young Englishwoman and did not mention a word about his intentions, but the fact, alone, that her name was continually on his lips, that he ascribed his preservation to her alone, and incessantly talked about the debt of gratitude which he and his family owed to her, gave his mother much to think about. The suspicion, which had flitted through her mind on the eve of their departure from Jastrzeb, returned and became more and more strongly fortified. She did not, indeed, take it for granted that Ladislaus had already taken an unbreakable resolution but came to the conclusion that he was "smitten" and finally that the light-haired maiden had made a greater impression upon him than had his cousin Otocka. This filled her with sorrow. During the journey and their few days' sojourn in Warsaw she took a fancy to Miss Anney for her demeanor, simplicity, and complaisance; but "Zosia Otocka" was the little eye in her head. From the moment she met her in Krynica, she never ceased dreaming of her for her son. She judged that, in respect to nobility and delicacy of sentiment, no one could compare with her. She regarded her as a chosen soul and the incarnation of womanly angelicalness. She had awaited her arrival with palpitation of the heart, not supposing for a moment that Ladislaus would not be captivated by her figure, her sweet countenance, that maidenly charm, which, notwithstanding her widowhood, she preserved in full bloom. And until the end Pani Krzycki indulged in the hope that all would end according to her desires, not taking into account the fleeting impression in Jastrzeb; only during the journey to Warsaw and in the course of the last few days did she note that it might happen otherwise, and that Ladislaus' eyes were enraptured by another flower. She preferred, however, not to question him for she thought that it might yet pass away.
He, in the meantime, chafed as if imprisoned, and would undoubtedly have not observed those few days which the doctor stipulated, were it not for the fact that he had made a promise to his mother in Miss Anney's presence, and feared to create an opinion in her eyes that he was a man who did not keep his word. After the advice which Pani Otocka, through the instrumentality of Gronski, gave him that he should first speak with Miss Anney, it became more unendurable for him to sit in the house. From morning till night he racked his brain as to what that could be and could arrive at no satisfactory solution. The day following the conversation with Gronski, he decided to ask Pani Otocka about it by letter and sat down with great ardor to write. But after the first page he was encompassed by doubt. It seemed to him that he could not express that which he wished. He understood that, under the address of Pani Otocka, he was really writing to Miss Anney. So he yearned to make it a masterpiece, and in the meantime came to the conclusion that it was something so bungling and maladroit that it was impossible to forward it. Finally he lost all faith in his stylistic accomplishments, and this spoilt his humor so far that he again began to ask himself in his soul whether such "an ass," who is unable to indite three words, has the right to aspire to such an extraordinary and in every respect perfect being as "She." Gronski, however, comforted him with the explanation that the letter was not a success because from the beginning the project was baffling and under such circumstances no one could succeed. After which he also called his attention to another circumstance, namely, that from Pani Otocka's words and her advice that an interview with Miss Anney should precede any talk with his mother could be drawn the inference that there everything was prepared for an explosion, and all means preventative of a heart-break had been provided. Mirth immediately returned to Ladislaus and he began to laugh like a child and afterwards again sent to the three ladies bouquets of the most magnificent roses which Warsaw could provide.
The day concluded yet more propitiously, for proofs of appreciation arrived. They were brought to Gronski's house by Panna Pauly in the form of a small and perfumed note, on which was written by the hand of the light-haired divinity the following words: "We thank you for the beautiful roses and hope for an early meeting." Further came the signatures of Agnes Anney, Zosia Otocka, and Marynia Zbyltowska. Krzycki pronounced the letter a masterpiece of simplicity and eloquence. He certainly would have kissed each letter of it separately, were it not for the fact that before him stood Panna Pauly, with clouded face, and eyes firmly fixed upon him--uneasy and already full of suspicious jealousy, though obviously not knowing against which one of the three ladies it was to be directed. Krzycki, not concealing the joy which the letter gave him, turned to her and said:
"What is new, little Miss? Are the ladies well?"
"Yes. My mistress instructed me to inquire about your health."
"Kindly thank her. It is excellent, and if I am not shot again, I will not die from the first shooting."
And she, not taking her bottomless eyes off him, replied:
"God be praised."
"But that you, little Miss, should not fear to go out in such turbulent times!"
"The lackey was afraid, but I do not fear anything and wanted to see for myself how you were."
"There is a daring body for me! I am grateful to you, little Miss. Since this stupid strike of hackmen ended to-day, it is better for you to return by hack. Please accept this--for--"
While saying this, he began to search for his purse, and taking a five-rouble gold piece, he offered it to her. At the same time he felt that he was doing something improper, and even terrible. It was so disagreeable to him that he became confused and reddened, but it seemed to him that any other method of showing his gratitude would be food for the feeling which he perceived in her and which he wished to dispel, because of some strange kind of fear intensified even by the fact that the girl was Miss Anney's maid.
Therefore he began to repeat with a forced and slightly silly smile:
"Please, Panna Pauly, take it, please--"
But she withdrew her hand and her face darkened in a moment.
"I thank you," she said. "I did not come for that."
And she turned towards the door. To the dissatisfaction with himself which Krzycki felt was joined pity for her. Therefore he followed her a few steps.
"Let not the little lady be offended," he said; "here, of course, was no other thought than of her safety. It was only about this that I was concerned. Shall the servant summon a carriage?--"
But she did not answer and left the house. Krzycki, walking to the window, gazed for some time at her graceful form, disappearing in the depths of the street; and suddenly again appeared before his eyes the vision of the white statue in azure drops of water. There was, however, something exasperating in her; and unwillingly there occurred to the frail young gentleman the thought that if she were not Miss Anney's maid, and if he had known her formerly, that as two and two are four he would have succumbed to temptation.
But at present another, greater power had snatched away his thoughts and heart. After a while he returned to the letter and began to read it anew: "We thank you for the beautiful roses and hope for an early meeting." And so they want to see him over there. The day after to-morrow he will not be sitting here, bound by the chains of his own words, but will go there and gaze in those wonderful eyes, looking with a heavenly stream, and will so press his lips to her beloved hands that in one kiss he will tell everything which he has in his heart. Words will be later only an echo. And imagination bore him like an unmanageable horse. Perhaps that idolized maid may at once fall into his arms; perhaps she may close those wonderful eyes and offer her lips to him. At this thought a thrill passed through Krzycki from his feet to his head and it seemed to him that all the love, all the impulses, and all the desires which ever existed and exist in the world at present were hoarded in him alone.
Gronski spent the entire next day in the city; at night he was at Pani Otocka's, so that he did not return home until near midnight. Krzycki was not yet asleep and as his mother, on account of the disturbances on the streets could not visit him that day, he awaited with impatience Gronski's return, and immediately began to question him about the news in the city and of the ladies.
"The news in the city is bad," answered Gronski; "about noon I heard the firing of musketry in the factory district. Before calling upon Pani Otocka, I was at a meeting in the Philharmonic at which representatives of some of the warring factions met, and do you know what kind of an impression I took away with me? Why, that, unfortunately, Swidwicki in certain respects was right and that we have come to the pass where only a civil war can clear the atmosphere. In this would be the greater tragedy for it would, at the same time, be the final extinction. But of this later. I have a head so tired and nerves so shattered that to-day I cannot think of such things."
Here he rang for the servant, and notwithstanding the late hour directed him to prepare tea. Then he continued:
"But from Pani Otocka I bring news. You would not believe your ears when I tell you what happened. Why this afternoon, before my arrival, Laskowicz called on those ladies."
Krzycki dropped from his hand the cigar which he was smoking.
"Laskowicz?" he asked.
"Yes."
"But the police are looking for him."
"They are looking for him in the country and not in Warsaw. The police, like all the rest, have lost their heads. After all, it is easier to hide in a large city. But, really, if he himself flew into their hands, they might clutch him."
"But what did he want from Pani Otocka?"
"According to my conjectures, he wanted to see Marynia, but came ostensibly for a contribution for revolutionary purposes. After all, they are now continually soliciting contributions."
"And did the ladies give?"
"No. They told him that they would not give anything for the revolution, and for the hungry and those deprived of employment they had already sent as much as they could to a newspaper office. In fact, this was the truth. Pani Otocka donated a considerable amount, and Miss Anney also. Laskowicz attempted to explain to them that a refusal would expose the refractory to dangers and for that reason he came to them personally to shield them from it. He was very much displeased and incensed, particularly as he saw only Pani Zosia and Miss Anney, for Marynia did not appear. He announced however that he would come again."
"Let him try!" cried Ladislaus, clenching his fists.
But afterwards he asked with surprise:
"How did he get in there, and why did they receive him?"
"The male servants throughout the whole city are terror-stricken and the words 'From the Party' everywhere open the doors like the best pick-lock. But Laskowicz did not have to use even these means, as it happened that Pani Otocka's footman was in the cellar and he was admitted by Miss Anney's maid, who knew him from Jastrzeb and thought that he came as a good acquaintance."
"In any case she acquitted herself foolishly."
"My dear sir, what could she know about him? Of course, no one told her what he was and she saw him among us; she saw how he rode away to the city with me and that he was the tutor of the younger members of your family. That he participated in the attack upon you, also, could not have occurred to her mind, for from our side that is only a supposition which we did not confide to the ladies, in order not to disquiet them, and much less to her."
"Perhaps she herself is a socialist."
"I doubt it, for after the attempt, hearing that you were wounded, it is said she wailed so bitterly that she could be heard all over Jastrzeb; she invoked all the punishments of hades upon your would-be assassins. Miss Anney was much affected by that. I remember also that when it was rumored that the Rzeslewo people did it, she vowed to set fire to Rzeslewo. Ah, you always have luck--"
"I do not care for such luck. But as to Laskowicz she, of course, saw during the search at Jastrzeb that they were seeking him."
"Well, what of it? Were you not persecuted for establishing a school? In this country all sympathy is always on the side of the fugitive. Imagine for yourself that when Miss Anney forbade her to admit Laskowicz any more, she became indignant. Evidently it seemed to her that Miss Anney did that from fear of the police."
"Miss Anney gave indisputable proofs that she does not fear anything."
"So I also do not suspect her of fear, nor Pani Otocka. But, instead, I confess to you what I fear. That madman, if he does not personally appear there, will hover about them, and what is more will write letters; all letters now travel undoubtedly through the black cabinets. If I knew where I could find him, I would warn him above all things not to dare to write any more."
"I will warn him of that and something else, if I can only meet him."
"Since he visited the ladies, he may come to see me. We had, while riding together from Jastrzeb, a discussion which he has not forgiven me."
"If he comes here, do you give me carte blanche?"
"I would not think of it. Previously I had propounded to you the question whether if, as a result of a personal encounter with you, he was arrested you could take upon your soul his destruction, and you answered 'No.' Now I will ask you differently: If Laskowicz, tracked and pursued as a wild animal, hid in your house, would you not endeavor to hide him or assist him in escaping?"
To this Krzycki replied in anger, but without hesitation:
"I would help him--the dog's blood."
"Ah, you see!" observed Gronski. "You curse, but admit. If they come to me for a contribution--it is all the same whether with or without Laskowicz--I will tell them that I will give for people destitute of bread but will not give for bombs, dynamite, and strike propaganda. I will tell them more: that in collecting contributions for a revolution from people who do not want to give and who give only from fear, they degrade their own citizens."
"Perhaps that is of import to them. The more the higher strata become cowardly, the easier it will be for them."
"That may be, but in such case they are the full brethren of all those who purposely and of old have debased the community."
And Krzycki pondered and said:
"With us these things are often done--from above and from below."
Gronski glanced at him with a certain surprise as if he did not expect from his lips such a remark.
"You are right," he declared; "from above, a continual lowering of great ideals, from below, because at present they are being directly trampled upon."
"Bah! There remain yet the solid multitude of country peasantry."
"Again you are right," replied Gronski. "Formerly Dabrowski's March[7]was the watchword for a hundred thousand, to-day it is the watchword for ten millions. Blessed be folk-lore!"
They remained silent. Gronski for a time walked about the room, taking, according to his custom, the eyeglasses off his nose and replacing them. After which, he said:
"Do you know what surprises me? This: that in such times and under such conditions, people can think of their private happiness and their private affairs. But nevertheless such is the law of life, which no power can suppress."
"Have you me in mind?"
"In theory, I am verifying a fact which in practice even you confirm. For lo, at this moment it is as if an earthquake took place; the buildings tumble, people perish, subterranean fires burst forth and you and Miss Anney love each other and think of founding a new nest."
"How did you say it?" Krzycki asked with radiant countenance, "'you love each other.'"
"I said 'you love each other,' for such is the case. You, after all, are more in love than she."
"Certainly," answered Ladislaus, "there is nothing strange in that; but what inference do you draw?"
"This, which you have not heretofore either directly or indirectly asked and have not even tried to ascertain, namely, how much can Miss Anney bring to you. In a rural citizen this is proof that the thermometer shows the highest temperature of love."
"I give you my word, I would take her in a single dress," answered Krzycki.
"But you would rather she had something?"
"I will answer sincerely that I would. There are many neighbors poorer than I am and a piece of bread will never be lacking to us. But at Jastrzeb there are three of us--counting Mother, four. I am heir of one-fourth and the unsalaried manager of the three-fourths belonging to my family and Mother. I would wish that Jastrzeb would solely belong to myself and my wife, and in succession to my children, if we have any."
"As to that, I have no doubt; but as to a dowry, I am not tormented by unnecessary fears," said Gronski. "Miss Anney lives, travels, dresses, and resides in comfort, but she is not a person who would desire to create false impressions. I assume that she does not possess millions, but her fortune, particularly in comparison to our condition, may appear even more considerable than we might have thought."
"Let her have it or not have it," exclaimed Krzycki, "if she only will give herself to me. Whoever possesses that jewel can be crowned with it like a king."
"I foresee a coronation soon," replied Gronski, laughing.
On account of Marynia's birthday, Miss Anney with her maid went to buy flowers. The day before, Gronski told her that he saw in one of the stores Italian rosy lilies, such as are sold in whole bundles in the vicinity of Lucca and Pisa, but which are cultivated but little in the conservatories of Warsaw and seldom imported into the country. As Marynia had inquired about them with great curiosity. Miss Anney decided to purchase for her all that could be found in the store. The previous evening she bantered Gronski, telling him that she would forestall him in the purchase, for he, as a known sleepy-head, would be unable to leave his home early enough. Determined to play a joke upon him, she left the house at eight in the morning, so as to be present at the opening of the store. She had, besides, a letter prepared, with the words "They are already bought," which she intended to send to Gronski by Pauly, and exulted at the thought that Gronski would receive it at his morning coffee.
In fact everything went according to her plans, for she was the first buyer at the store. She was disappointed only in this: that there were too few lilies. There was only one flower-pot, containing about a dozen stalks with flowers. So the decoration of Marynia's whole room with them was out of the question. But for just this reason Miss Anney eagerly bought the one sample and, paying the price asked for it, directed that it be sent to the Otocka residence. She was annoyed, however, when informed in the store that the gardener delivering flowers could not come until noon-time, for she desired that Marynia should have them before she rose from bed.
"In that case," she said, turning to Pauly, "call a hack and we will take the flower-pot with us."
But Pauly, who, though she behaved quite indifferently and even refractorily in respect to her mistress and also to Pani Otocka, had a sort of exceptional adoration, bordering on sympathy, for Marynia, replied:
"Let Madame permit me to carry these flowers alone. In the hack they will be shaken up and may fall off."
"But you are to go with the letter to Pan Gronski and, besides, you will tire yourself with the flower-pot."
"Pan Gronski's residence is on the way; and what if I do tire myself a little for the golden little lady. May I not do that much for her?"
Miss Anney understood that a refusal would cause her great vexation, therefore she said:
"Very well. You are an honest soul. But if it should be too heavy for you, take a hack. I will go to church."
And she went to church to pray for Ladislaus, who was that day to leave the house for the first time and pass the evening at Pani Otocka's, owing to Marynia's birthday. She expected that the following day he would visit her and she wanted also to commit that day to divine protection.
Pauline, taking the lilies, went in an opposite direction towards Gronski's residence. After a few score of steps the flower-pot filled with earth began to grow heavy; so, shifting it from one arm to the other, she thought:
"If it was for any one else, I would throw everything upon the ground, but she is such a bird that it is hard not to love her--I would carry for her even two such flowerpots and I would not do her any harm.--Even in case--he loved her alone."
And at this gloomy thought her countenance darkened yet more. In her heart, capable only of extreme feelings, began a struggle between her strange adoration for Marynia and her blind and passionate love for Krzycki; it was accompanied by the terrible and hopeless consciousness that under no circumstance could he be hers, as he was a young lord, heir, almost prince royal, and she a simple girl for sewing, setting the parlor in order, and household work. To this was added immediately a feeling of a prodigious wrong. Why, she might have been born also a "little lady" and not brought up in an orphan asylum, under the care of sisters of charity, but in a rich lordly home. Why was it not so, instead of the vile work of the servant's station awaiting her till death?
And here it occurred to her mind that there is now, however, a kind of people, a kind of "party," which wants to take away property from the rich, distribute it among the poor, level all people, so that there will be no rich men and paupers, no servants and lords, no wrong of any kind in the world; and in the place thereof, all ranks will be one and the same, and liberty will be identical. She had heard of this from the servants in the house, from the craftsmen, from the salesmen in the stores to which she went to make purchases, and also through overhearing the conversations of the "gentility." It surprised her that these people were called socialists, for heretofore a "socialist" and a madman roaming over the streets with knife in hand meant to her one and the same thing. For a time after the attack upon Krzycki, when the report was spread that the socialists did it, she even felt for them such furious and blind hatred that she was willing to poison them or bake them upon live fires. Later, when the servants in Jastrzeb began to repeat that the young heir was waylaid not by them, but by people of Rzeslewo, this hatred became extinguished. But subsequently, when the girl learned more accurately what the socialists aimed at and who they were, she was but little interested in them. She partly regarded their ideas as foolish and partly thought of other things more personal, and finally, she distinguished in Poland only "her own" and "not her own," loving, not knowing why, the first, and hating indiscriminately all the others. It was not until the last few days that it began to dawn in her head that among her own there existed terrible and painful differences; that for some there was wealth, for others poverty; that for a few there was enjoyment and for others toil; for some, laughter, for others, tears; for some, happiness, for others, woe and injury.
This became clear to her, particularly at that moment when with greater suffering than ever before she became aware that this young gentleman, to whom her soul and body were urged, was simply an inaccessible star, on which she was barely permitted to gaze. And although nothing had happened that day which particularly irritated her and nothing had altered, she was possessed by a despair such as she never felt before.
But the course of her gloomy meditations was finally interrupted by an external incident. Notwithstanding the early hour, she observed on the corner of the precinct a large crowd of people, agitated by some uneasiness. Their faces were turned towards the depth of a cross street, as if something unusual was taking place there. Some rushed forward while others retreated with evident fear. Some, arguing heatedly and pointing at something with their hands, looked upwards to the roofs of the houses. From all directions flocked new crowds of workingmen and striplings. Among the hack-drivers standing on the corner an unusual commotion prevailed: the drivers, in groups of varying numbers, wheeled their horses about in different directions as though they wished to blockade the street. Suddenly shrill cries resounded and then shots. In one moment an indescribable confusion arose. The throng swung to and fro and began to scamper; the cries sounded shriller and shriller each moment. It was evident that they were pursuing somebody. The girl, with her lilies, stood as if thunderstruck, not knowing what to do. Then, suddenly from amidst the hacks, a man dashed out, bent forward with lowered head, and at full speed ran towards her. On the way he flung away his cap and snatched a hat from the head of a stripling who, understanding the situation in the twinkle of an eye, did not even quiver. The hack-drivers began yet more zealously to block the street, evidently with a view to make the pursuit more difficult. But right behind them again rattled the revolver shots, and amidst the general cries and tumult already could be heard the shrill sounds of the police whistles and the hoarse, bellowing shouts of "Catch him! catch him!" A blind, excessive fright now seized Pauly, and she began to run, squeezing unconsciously to her bosom the flower-pot with the lilies, as if she wanted to save her own child.
But she had barely run a dozen or more steps when a panting, low voice began to cry close behind her:
"Lady, give me the flowers! For the mercy of God, lady, give me the flowers! Save!"
The girl turned about suddenly with consternation, and indescribable amazement was reflected in her eyes, for she recognized Laskowicz.
He, having violently wrested from her the flower-pot, to which, not knowing what she was doing, she clung with all her strength, whispered further:
"Perhaps they will not recognize me. I will tell them that I am a gardener. Save me, little lady! Perhaps they will not recognize. I am out of breath!"
She wanted to run farther but he restrained her.
In the meantime, from among the chaos of hacks, a dozen or more policemen and civil agents emerged. The majority of the mob moved at a running pace in a direction opposite to the one in which Laskowicz and the girl were going, and undoubtedly they intentionally moved that way in order to deceive the pursuers. To better hoodwink the police, cries of "Catch him!" resounded among the laborers. Some workingman began to whistle shrilly on his fingers, imitating the sound of a police whistle. Accordingly the policemen and agents plunged headlong after the dense mob. At the intersection of the streets only a few stood still, and these, after a moment's irresolution, set off in the other direction, but they ran at full speed by the girl and the man with the light hat, carrying flowers. Rushing ahead they seized a few workingmen, but other workingmen rescued them in a moment. Pauly and Laskowicz walked farther.
"They missed me," said the student. "Here no one would betray. They missed! Those flowers and another's hat fooled them. I thank you, little lady; I thank you from my whole soul, and until my death I will never be able to sufficiently repay you."
But she, not having yet entirely recovered from her amazement, began to ask:
"What happened? Where did you come from?"
"From the roof; they pounced upon us in a printing plant. The others will get a year or two and nothing more will happen to them--but for me, there would be the halter."
"How did you manage to escape?"
"When we got on the roof, I slid down the gutter-pipe. I might have broken my neck. It was not until I reached the street that they observed me. They fired shots at me, but luckily I was not hit, for the blood would have betrayed me. Whoever was alive helped me, and I was hidden by the hacks. They did not see how I changed a cap for a hat. But if it was not for my female associate it would have been all over with me."
"What female associate?"
"I speak of you, little lady, thus. Amongst us such is the custom."
"Then do not call me that, for I am no female associate."
"That is a pity. But this is not the time to speak of that. Once more I thank you for the rescue, though it is for a short time."
"Why for a short time?"
"Because I do not know what to do with myself, where to go, and where to hide. Every night I sleep in a different place but they are seeking for me everywhere."
"That is true. They were searching for you in Jastrzeb. Do you know that there was a police-search there?"
"Was there?"
"Yes. Gendarmes, police, and soldiers came. They almost put everybody under arrest."
"Oh, they would not arrest them--"
The clatter of horses' hoofs and the rattle of the horseshoes over the stony pavements interrupted for a while their conversation. From a side street ahead rode out a Cossack patrol, consisting of several scores of men. They rode slowly, with carabines resting upon their thighs and looked about cautiously. At the sight of them, Pauly became somewhat pale, while Laskowicz began to whisper:
"That is nothing. They see that I am carrying flowers from the store. They will take me for a gardener and will ride by."
In fact they did pass by.
"They are now arresting every moment people on the streets in whole crowds," said Laskowicz. "To some one else that would be a small matter; but if I once fall into their clutches, I will never be able to get out again."
"Well, what do you intend to do?"
"Carry these flowers for you, little lady."
"And after that?"
"I do not know."
"Of course you must have some acquaintances who will hide you."
"I have, I have! But the police have their eyes upon all my acquaintances. Every night there is a search. For the last two nights I slept in a printing establishment, but today they discovered the printing press."
A moment of silence followed.
After which Laskowicz again spoke in a gloomy voice:
"There is now no help for me. I will deliver these flowers and go wherever my eyes will take me."
But in the heart of the girl suddenly there awoke a great pity for him. Before that she was indifferent to him. At present she only saw in him a Polish student hunted, like a mad dog, by people whom she of old despised.
Therefore on her energetic and obstinate countenance, inflexible determination was depicted.
"Come what may, I will not desert you," she said, knitting her dark brows.
Laskowicz was suddenly seized with a desire to kiss her hand and would have done so if they were not on the street. He was moved not only by the hope of escape, but also by the fact that this girl, who hardly knew him, who did not belong to his camp, was ready to expose herself to the greatest dangers in order to come to his aid.
"What can the little lady do? Where will she hide me?" he asked quietly.
But she walked on with brows knitted by the strain of continuous thinking, and finally said:
"I know. Let us go."
He shifted the flower-pot to the left hand. "I must tell you," he said with lowered voice, "that the least punishment for concealing me is Siberia. I must tell you that! And I might cause your destruction, but in the first moments--the little lady understands--the instinct of preservation--there was no time for reflection."
The little lady did not very well understand what the instinct of preservation was, but instead understood something else. This was that if she brought him, as she intended, to Gronski's, she would expose to danger not only Gronski but also Krzycki.
And under the influence of this thought she stood as if stupefied.
"In such a case, I do not know what I can do," she said.
"Ah, you see, little lady," answered the student, as if in sorrow, while she, on her part, again began to rack her brains. It never occurred to her to conduct Laskowicz to Miss Anney's or Pani Otocka's. She felt that here masculine help was necessary and that it was imperative to find some one who would not fear and for whom she, herself, did not care. Therefore she mentally reviewed the whole array of Miss Anney's and Pani Otocka's acquaintances.--Pan Dolhanski? No!--He might be afraid or else send them to the devil and sneer at them. Dr. Szremski? He had probably left the city. Ah, were it not for this "young lord" she would conduct this poor fellow to Pan Gronski, for even if he did not receive him, at the worst he would give good advice, or would direct them to somebody. And suddenly it came to her mind that if Siberia threatened the person who concealed Laskowicz, Pan Gronski would not direct them to anybody; but if he could, he would direct them to only one man, whom she also knew. And on this thought, she dusted her dress with her hands and, turning to Laskowicz, said:
"I know now! Let us try."
After which, standing for a while, she continued:
"Let us enter this house, here, at once. You will wait with the flowers in the hallway and I will deliver the letter upstairs and return. Do not fear anything, for the doorkeeper here knows me and he is a good man. After that I may lead you somewhere."
Saying this, she entered the gate and, leaving Laskowicz below, rang, after a moment, Gronski's bell.
Gronski, rising that day earlier than usual, was already dressed and sat with Krzycki having tea. When Pauly handed him the letter, he read it and, laughing, showed it to Ladislaus; after which he rose and went to his writing desk to write an answer. During this time Ladislaus began to question her about the health of his mother and the younger ladies.
"I thank you, the ladies are well, but my lady has already gone down town."
"So early? And is not your lady afraid to go alone about the city?"
"My lady went with me and bought flowers for Panna Marynia and after that she went to church."
"To what church did she go?"
"I do not know."
Panna Pauly knew well, but she was hurt by his asking her about her mistress; while he, conjecturing this, ceased to question her further, for he had previously resolved to converse with her as little as possible.
So, silence--a little embarrassing--ensued between them, and continued until Gronski returned with the letter.
"Here is the answer," he said; "let the little lady bow for us to the ladies and say that to-day we both will be there, for Pan Krzycki's imprisonment is now ended."
"I thank you," replied Pauly, "but I have yet a favor,--I would like to learn the address of Pan Swidwicki?"
Gronski looked at her with astonishment.
"Did the ladies request you to ask?"
"No--I just wanted to know--"
"Panna Pauly," said Gronski, "Pan Swidwicki lives at No. 5 Oboznej, but it is not very safe for young girls to go to him."
She colored to the ears from fear that the "young lord" might think something bad about her.
And she hesitated for a while whether she should tell that Laskowicz was in the hallway and that it was necessary to hide him, as otherwise destruction awaited him. But again she recollected that Laskowicz had been sought in Jastrzeb and that Krzycki, on account of that had been almost arrested. A fear possessed her that perhaps Gronski himself might want to hide the student and in such case would jeopardize the young lord. She looked once or twice at the shapely form of Krzycki and decided to remain silent.
But Gronski spoke further:
"I do not advise you to go to him. I do not advise it. It is said that you once gave him a tongue-lashing."
And she, raising her head, answered at once haughtily and indignantly:
"Then I will give him a tongue-lashing a second time; but I have some business with him."
And bowing, she left. Gronski shrugged his shoulders and said:
"I cannot understand what she is concerned about. There is something strange in that girl, and I tell you that your future lady gives evidence of holy patience, that she has not dismissed her before this. She always says that she is a violent character but has a golden heart, and that may be possible. I know, however, from Pani Otocka that the golden heart enacts for her such scenes as no one else would tolerate."
In the evening of Marynia's birthday, Ladislaus and Miss Anney for a time found themselves at some distance from the rest of the company, at a cottage piano, decorated with flowers. His eyes shone with joy and happiness. He felt fortunate that his imprisonment had ended and that he could again gaze upon this, his lady, whom he loved with the whole strength of a young heart.
"I know," he told her, "that you were this morning in the city and bought flowers. I learned this from your maid, who brought the letter to Pan Gronski. Afterwards you went to church. I asked her to which one, as I wanted to go there, but the maid did not know."
"That is strange, for she knows that I always go to the Holy Cross, and at times I even take her with me. I am there, daily, at the morning mass."
"She told me that she did not know," answered Ladislaus. "Will you be there to-morrow?"
"Yes; unless the weather should be very inclement."
Ladislaus lowered his voice:
"I ask because I have a great and heartfelt prayer. Permit me to come there at the same hour and before the same altar."
Blushes suffused Miss Anney's countenance and her breast began to move more quickly. She inclined her head somewhat and placing the edge of the fan to her lips answered in a low voice:
"I have not the right to forbid nor to permit. The church is open to all the pious."
"Yes. But I want to kneel a while beside you--together, and not with customary humility; but for a special purpose. As to my piety, I will candidly state that I believe in God, ah! especially now--I believe in God and in His goodness; but heretofore I have not been very pious--just like all others. When, however, a whole life is concerned, then even a man, totally unbelieving, is ready to kneel and pray. To kneel beside you, that alone is an immense boon, for it is as if one had beside him an angel. And I want to beg for something else: and that is that we should together, at the same time, say 'Under Thy protection we flee, Holy Mother of God.'"
Ladislaus became pale from emotion and on his forehead beads of perspiration appeared. For a time he remained silent, to permit the too violent beating of his heart to subside. After which he again spoke:
"'We flee'--that will mean us both. Nothing more, dear, dearest lady, nothing more. After that I will go, and in the afternoon, if you permit, I will come to your residence and will tell you everything which has collected within me from the time I first saw you in Jastrzeb. In your hands, lady, lies my fate, but I must, I must divulge it all; otherwise my bosom will burst. But if you, lady, will agree to a joint prayer of 'Under Thy protection,' before that time, then I shall be so happy that I do not know how I will survive until to-morrow."
And she looked at him guilelessly and straight in his eyes with the celestial streak of the hazy pupils of her eyes and answered:
"Come to church to-morrow."
And Ladislaus whispered:
"And not to be able to fall at your feet at this moment--not to be able to fall at your feet!"
But Miss Anney tapped lightly, as if reluctantly, his hand, resting on the piano with her own, which was incased in a white glove, and walked away, for, not forgetting herself to the same extent as Ladislaus, she noticed that they were observed. Owing to Marynia's birthday there assembled that evening at Pani Otocka's quite a considerable gathering of acquaintances. The notary, Dzwonkowski, appeared; also, an old neighbor from the vicinity of Zalesin; and besides these Dolhanski and both Wlocek ladies, who after a previous exchange of visits, were invited by Pani Otocka. Gronski actually appeared the earliest and well nigh played the rôle of host, in which part he was assisted by the former teacher of Marynia, the violinist Bochener, not less in love with her, and finally Swidwicki, who on that day was exceptionally sober. Pani Otocka was occupied with the Wlocek ladies; Gronski conversed with Swidwicki in so far as he did not direct his eyes after Marynia, who, in her white dress, adorned with violets, slender, almost lithesome, actually looked like an alabaster statuette. But she, and with her Pani Krzycki, began to look with especial attention at Ladislaus and Miss Anney. The little ears of Marynia reddened from curiosity, while on Pani Krzycki's countenance there appeared uneasiness, and, as if it were, a shadow of dissatisfaction.
But Miss Anney, breaking off her conversation with Ladislaus, approached directly towards his mother and sat down in a chair beside her.
"Pan Ladislaus is so happy," she said, "that his confinement is ended."
"I see," answered Pani Krzycki, "but I fear that conversation fatigues him yet. What did he say to you with such animation?"
For a moment, Miss Anney inclined her head and began to smooth out with her fingers the folds of her bright dress as if troubled, but later, having evidently formed a sudden resolution, she raised her frank eyes straight at Pani Krzycki, just as she had previously at Ladislaus, and replied:
"He said such pleasant and loving things; that he wants to go to church to-morrow and say 'Under Thy protection'--together with me--"
In her eyes there were no interrogatories, nor uneasiness, nor challenge, but great goodness and truth.
Pani Krzycki, on the other hand, was put out of countenance by the candor of the reply, so that at first she was silent. It seemed to her that what heretofore was a doubtful, blurred, and indistinct supposition, lightened up and plainly emerged upon the surface, but she tried to disbelieve it; so, after a certain hesitation, she replied:
"Laudie otherwise would be ungrateful. He owes you so much--and I also."
Miss Anney understood perfectly that Pani Krzycki wanted to give her to understand that the motive of Ladislaus' words was only gratitude, but she had no time to reply to the remark, as at that time across the arm of her chair the slender form of Marynia was leaning:
"Aninka, may I trouble you to step over here for a moment?"
"Certainly," answered Miss Anney.
And rising, she left. Pani Krzycki eyed her and sighed. There was in that beautiful form so much youth, health, radiance, so many golden tresses, glances, so much bloom, warmth, and womanly fascination, that an older and experienced woman, like Pani Krzycki, was forced to admit in her soul that it would have been rather incomprehensible if Ladislaus had remained indifferent to all those charms.
And sighing for the second time, she thought:
"Why did Zosia bring her to Jastrzeb?"
And she began to seek with her eyes Pani Otocka, who at that moment was approaching the door to greet an elderly gentleman with a white leonine mane and the same kind of white beard who, evidently being almost blind, stood on the threshold and gazed over the salon through his gold-rimmed spectacles.
Finally espying Pani Otocka, he seized both her hands and commenced to kiss them with great ardor, while she greeted him with that shy grace, peculiarly her own, which made her resemble a young village maid.
"How sweet she is and how lovable!" Pani Krzycki said to herself.
But her further meditations and regrets were interrupted by Swidwicki, who, taking the chair vacated by Miss Anney, said:
"But your son, benefactress, is a genuine Uhlan from under Somo-Sierra. What a race! what a type! I, who everywhere fancy beauty as a setter does partridges, observed this at once to Gronski. Only put a sabre in his hand and place him on horseback. Or at some exhibition! plainly on exhibition, as a notable specimen of the race. Ah, what blood with milk! The women must rave over him!"
Pani Krzycki, notwithstanding her internal worries, was pleased to hear these words, for Ladislaus' shapeliness was from his childhood days a source of pride and joy for her. But in reality, she did not deem it proper to admit this before Swidwicki.
"I do not attach any importance to that," she answered, "and I thank God that it is not the only thing that can be said of my son."
And Swidwicki snapped his fingers and said:
"You do attach importance to it, madame, you do, and so do I, and those ladies only pretend that they do not--that young Englishwoman as well as even that translucent little porcelain maid; though apparently she thinks of nought but music.... Perhaps the least of all Pani Zosia, but only because from a certain time she too sedulously reads Plato."
"Zosia--Plato!" exclaimed Pani Krzycki.
"I suspect so, and even am certain for otherwise she would not be so Platonic."
"Why, she is not versed in Greek."
"But Gronski is, and he can translate for her."
Pani Krzycki gazed with astonishment at Swidwicki and broke off the conversation. Becoming acquainted with him only that evening and having no idea that he was a man who, for a quip, for a wretched play on words and from habit, was ready always and everywhere to talk stuff and nonsense in the most reckless manner, she could not understand why he said that to her. Nevertheless his words were for her, as it were, a ray illuminating things which heretofore she had not observed. She found new proofs that her heartfelt and secret wishes would always remain a dream without substance--and she sighed for the third time.
"Ah, then it is so," she thought to herself in her soul.
"Yes, yes," Swidwicki continued. "My cousin is very Platonic and in addition a trifle anæmic."
In his laughter there was a kind of bitterness and even malice, so that Pani Krzycki again looked at him with astonishment.
In the meantime Marynia led Miss Anney to another chamber. Her ears each moment became redder and her eyes sparkled with a perfectly childish curiosity. So pressing her little nose to Miss Anney's cheek, she began to whisper:
"Tell me! Did he propose to you at the piano? Did he propose? Tell me now."
And Miss Anney, embraced her neck with her arms and kissing her cordially, whispered in her ear:
"Almost."
"What?--at the piano! I guessed it at once! Ho, ho! I am thoroughly conversant with such matters. But how was that? Almost? How, almost?"
"For I know that he loves me--"
"Laudie? What did he say to you?"
"He did not even have to say it."
"I understand, I understand perfectly."
Miss Anney, though her eyes were moist, began to laugh, and, hugging the little violinist again, said:
"Let us now return to the salon."
"Let us return," answered Marynia.
On the way she said with delighted countenance:
"You and Zosia, thought that I saw nothing, and I--oho!"
In the salon they chanced upon a political discussion. The tall elderly gentleman with the white mane, who was a colleague and friend of the late Otocki and at the same time editor of one of the principal dailies in Warsaw, said:
"They think that this is a new state of affairs, which henceforth is bound to continue, but it is an attack of hysteria, after which exhaustion and prostration will follow. I have lived long in the world and often have witnessed similar phenomena. Yes, it is so. It is a stupid and wicked revolution."
If Swidwicki had heard from some madman that this was a wise and salutary revolution, he undoubtedly would have been of the opinion of the old editor, but, as he esteemed lightly journalists in general, he was particularly angered at the thought that the amiable old gentleman passed in certain circles as a political authority; so he began at once to dispute.
"Only the bottomless naïvete of the conservatives," he said, "is capable of demanding from a revolution reason and goodness. It is the same as demanding, for instance, of a conflagration that it should be gentle and sensible. Every revolution is the child of the passions--unreason and rage--and not of love. Its aim is to blow up the old forms of folly and evil and forcibly introduce into life the new."
"And how do you picture to yourself the new?"
"In reality as also foolish and wicked--but new. Upon such transitions our history is based, and even the annals of mankind in general."
"That is the philosophy of despair."
"Or of laughter."
"If of laughter, then it is egoism."
"Yes, that is so. My partisanship begins with me and ends with me."
Gronski impatiently smacked his lips; while the editor took off his spectacles and, winking with his eyes, began to wipe them with a handkerchief.
"I beg pardon," he said with great phlegm. "Your party affiliations may be very interesting but I wanted to speak of others."
"Less interesting--"
But the old journalist turned to Gronski.
"Our socialists," he said, "have undertaken the reconstruction of a new house, forgetting that we live huddled together in only a few rooms, and that in the others dwell strangers who will not assent to it; or rather, on the contrary, they will permit the demolition of those few rooms, but will not allow their reconstruction."
"Then it is better to blow up the whole structure with dynamite," interjected Swidwicki.
But this remark was passed over in silence; after which Gronski said:
"One thing directly astonishes me, and that is that the conservatives turn with the greatest rage not against the revolutionists, but against the national patriots, who do not desire a revolution and who alone have sufficient strength to prevent it. I understand that a foreign bureaucracy does this, but why should our patres conscripti clear the way in this for them?"
The editor replaced the spectacles, wetted his finger in the tea seeking the cup, afterwards raised it to his lips, drank, and replied:
"The reason of that is their greater blindness and sense."
"Please explain!" exclaimed Swidwicki, who was a little impressed by this reply.
And the neighbor from Zalesin, who eagerly listened to the words of the journalist, asked:
"How is that, sir benefactor? I do not understand."
"Yes, it is so," answered the editor. "Their greater blindness is due to the narrower horizon, to the lack of ability to look ahead into the future, into those times and ages which are yet to come, for which it is a hundred times more important that the great Sacred Fire.[8]should not be extinguished than that any immediate paltry benefits should be obtained. It is necessary to have a sense of coming events, and this they do not possess. They are a little like Esau who relinquished his heritage for a pot of lentils. And for us it is not allowable to relinquish anything. Absolutely nothing! On the other hand, when concerned about isolated moments, about ranks and connections in a given instant of time, the conservatives are a hundred times more sensible, adroit--commit far less errors in details and view matters more soberly. I speak of this with entire impartiality for I myself am a nonpartisan."
"Who is right neither in the present time nor will be in the future," interposed Swidwicki. "After all, I agree that the difference between the views of politicians favoring reconciliation and sentimental patriots and zealots in general lies in this, that from political moderation you can immediately coin money, though at times counterfeit, but from sentimental politics,--only in the future. History confirms at every stage that what one hundred, fifty, or twenty years ago appeared to be political or social insanity, to-day has entered into being. And it will be ever thus in the further course of time."
"That may be," said Gronski, "but it is only just so far as radicalism of ideas or the furies of feeling do not strike terror in a great, stupid, immediate act. For if this occurs a crime is perpetrated, and error is born which menaces the future. This happens frequently."
"And I assume that this is just what the conservatives fear," answered the journalist, "an excessively warm patriotism--and it must be admitted, often improvident and absurd in its manifestations--strikes them with terror. Formerly they feared that the peasants, who read 'The Pole' might take to their scythes. At present they have gooseflesh when some zealot breaks out with a word about the future kingdom of Poland."
"Kingdom of Poland!" said Swidwicki, snorting ironically. "I will tell you gentlemen an anecdote. A certain Russian official became insane and suffered from a mania of greatness. In reality his delusion lay in this, that he attained the highest position in heaven as well as on earth. And whom do you suppose that he imagined himself to be?"
"Well! God?"
"More."
"I confess that my imagination reels," answered Gronski.
"Ah, you see! In the meantime he invented a position still higher, for he represented himself as the 'presiding officer' of the Holy Trinity. Understand? That there was a committee consisting of God, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost--and he was its chairman. Is not that more?"
"True, but why do you cite that anecdote?"
"As a proof that for diseased brains there are no impossibilities and that only such brains can think of a kingdom of Poland."
Gronski remained silent for a while, and then said: "Twenty millions of people are something tangible, and permit me to say that the chairmanship of the Holy Trinity is a greater impossibility. What do you know about the future and who can divine it? The most you can say is that in view of the present conditions the thought of creating anything like it by force, through revolution, would be a mistake, and even a crime. But our nation will be devoured only when it allows itself to be devoured. But if it does not? If through great and noble efforts it shall bring forth enlightenment, social discipline, prosperity, science, literature, art, wealth, sanitation, a quiet internal strength, then what? And who to-day can tell what shape in the future the political and social conditions will assume? Who can vouch that the systems of government of the present day may not entirely change, that they will not fall and will not be adjudged as idiotic and criminal as to-day we regard tortures? Who can divine what governments will arise in that great sea which is humanity? The man who, for instance, in the time of Cicero would have said that social economy could exist without slavery would have been deemed crazy, and, nevertheless, to-day slavery does not exist. And in our political relations something similar might take place. To-day's conditions of coercion might change into voluntary and free unions. I do not know whether it will be so, but you do not know that it will not be so. In view of this, I see the necessity of quiet and iron labor, but I do not see the necessity of the repudiation or renunciation of any ideals--and I will tell you too that the Pole who does not bear that great ideal, at the bottom of his soul, is in a measure a renegade; and I do not understand why he does not renounce everything."
"Write that in verse and in Latin," answered Swidwicki with impatience, "for in that manner you will upset the heads of a less number of men."
"Then our present day antagonists may themselves say to us: 'Arrange matters to suit yourselves.' At the present moment it may seem a naïve fancy, but the future carries in its bosom such surprises, as not only the shortsighted politicians have not dreamed of, but even philosophers who can look ahead."
After which, having evidently sufficient of this discussion, he added:
"But enough of this. I suspend the argument and pause. To-day we must occupy ourselves not with politics, but with the young lady whose birthday we celebrate and whom undoubtedly such things weary."
Saying this, he turned to Marynia, standing at Miss Anney's side, but she, shaking her little head, replied at once with great ardor:
"On the contrary! I am of the same opinion as Pan Gronski."
And she blushed to her ears, for all began to laugh, while Swidwicki replied:
"If that is so, then everything is settled."
Ladislaus smiled at Marynia's embarrassment, though in truth he did not know what it all was about, as his whole soul surged in his enamoured eyes, gazing at Miss Anney. She stood between two chairs, calm, smiling, white in her light dress, cheery as the summer dawn, and only after the close of the discussion rosier than usual, and he plainly devoured her with his gaze. His thoughts and heart raged within him. He looked at her radiant countenance, on her bare arms, chiseled as if out of warm marble, at her developed strong breast, on the sinuous pliant lines of her figure, on her knees turned towards him and outlined under her light dress, and he was seized by a whirlwind of desires, which struggled with the feeling of worship and respect which he entertained for this maiden, pure as a tear. His pulse commenced to beat strangely and on his forehead appeared a braid of veins. At the thought that she was to be his wife and that all these treasures would be his, he was enveloped by a fire of blood, and at the same time by some kind of debility so great that at times he was uncertain whether he would be able to lift the chair. At the same time he quarrelled with himself. He became indignant from his whole soul at that "animal" which he could not subdue within himself, and upbraided himself to the last words because he did not love her--"that angel"--as he should love her, that is with the love which only kneels and idolizes. So, in thought, he fell on his knees before his loved one, embraced her limbs, and implored forgiveness, but when he imagined that his lips kissed her feet, again lust seized him by the hair. And in this struggle he felt not only unworthy of her, not only "a beast," but at the same time a half-baked and ludicrous blunderer, deprived of that reason, peace, and self-control which a true man should possess.
He was also possessed by astonishment that everything which could promise delight should also at the same time torment him. Fortunately, his further torments and meditations were interrupted by music, with which an evening at Pani Otocka's had to conclude. Bochener sat at the piano, the irascible notary began to blow in his flute, and Marynia stood aside with the violin, and if those present were not accustomed to the sight of her, they would have been astonished at the change which took place in her. The beautiful but childish face of a delighted and inquisitive girl assumed in a single moment an expression of gravity and profound calm. Her eyes became thoughtful and sad. On the red background of the salon her slim form appeared like a design of the best style on a painted church window. There was something in her plainly hieratic.
A trio began. The gentle tones began to rock Ladislaus' agitated soul. His senses gradually fell asleep and his desires were extinguished. His love metamorphosed into a great winged angel who carried his loved one in his arms as if a child, and soared with her in the immeasurable space before an altar composed of the lustre of the evening twilight and the nocturnal lights of stars.
The hour was late, when Gronski, Swidwicki, and Ladislaus left Pani Otocka's. On the streets they met few pedestrians, but every few paces, they encountered the military and police patrol, which stopped them and asked for passports. This time Swidwicki did not pretend to be intoxicated, for he fell into a bad humor just because at Pani Otocka's he had to content himself with two glasses of wine. So, showing the policeman the passport, he pointed to his dress-suit and white cravat and asked them surlily whether socialists or bandits dressed in that manner.
"If only lightning would smite the one and the other," he said, striking the sidewalk with his cane. "In addition, everything is closed, not only the restaurants in the hotels, but even the pharmacies, in which in an extreme case, vin de coca or alcohol can be procured. The pharmacies are striking! We have lived to see that! The doctors also ought to strike and then the grave-diggers will unwillingly have to strike also. May the devil seize all! At home I have not a single bottle; so throughout the entire night I will not be able to sleep a wink and to-morrow I will be as if taken off the cross--"
"Come with us," said Gronski, "perhaps we may find a bottle of something and black coffee."
"You have saved not only my life but that of my 'associate,' especially if two bottles are found."
"We will seek. But what kind of associate are you speaking of?"
"True, you yet know nothing. I will relate it over a glass."
It was not far to Gronski's residence, so soon they were seated around a table on which was found a bottle of noble Chambertin and a coffee-percolator with black coffee, steaming in a delicious manner.
Swidwicki regained his spirits.
"Those ladies," he said, "are real angels, and for the reason that it is there, as if in Paradise, where happiness consists in gazing upon eternal brightness and listening to the archangel choir."
Here he addressed Krzycki:
"I observed that this suffices for you and Gronski--but for me it is absolutely too little."
"Only do not begin to sharpen your tongue on those ladies," replied Gronski, "for I shall order the bottle removed instanter."
Swidwicki hugged it with both hands.
"I idolize--all three," he exclaimed with comic precipitancy.
"Of what kind of associate were you speaking?"
Swidwicki swallowed the wine and, closing his eyes, for a while appraised its value.
"I have with me from this morning some kind of gallows-bird, for whom the police are looking and, if they find him with me, they will probably hang us both."
"You, however, have given him shelter?"
"I gave him shelter because he was brought by one whom I could not refuse."
"I will wager that it was some woman."
"That is true. I can add that she is comely and one of those who excite in me a responsive electric current. But I cannot tell you her name, as she begged me to keep that secret."
"I do not ask," said Gronski, "but as to the current I have no doubt, as otherwise you would fear to place yourself in jeopardy."
To this Swidwicki said:
"Know this, that I do not fear anything in the world, and this gives me in this enslaved country such an unheard of independence as is not enjoyed by any one else."
Saying this, he drained the glass to the bottom and exclaimed: