Gronski was a man of gentle and kindly disposition. Notwithstanding his penchant for philosophical pessimism, he was not a pessimist in his relations to men and life. Speaking in other words, in theory he often thought like Ecclesiastes; in practice he preferred to tread in the footsteps of Horace, or rather as Horace would have trodden had he been a Christian. Continual communing with the ancient world gave him a certain serenity, not divested indeed of melancholy, but peaceful and harmonious. Owing to his high education and extensive reading, which enabled him to come in contact with all ideas which found lodgment in the human mind and familiarize himself with all forms of human life, he was exceedingly tolerant, and the most extreme views did not lead him into that condition which would cause him to screech like a frightened peacock. This deep forbearance and this conviction that all that is taking place has to occur, did not deprive him of energy of thoughts or words; it deprived him, however, in some measure of the ability to act. He was more of a spectator than an actor on the world's stage, but a well-disposed spectator, acutely susceptible and extraordinarily curious. He sometimes compared himself to a man sitting on the bank of a river and watching its course, who knows indeed that it must roll on and disappear in the sea, but who is nevertheless interested in the movements of its waves, its currents, its whirlpools, mists rising from its depths, and the play of light upon its waters. Besides his genuine love of ancient languages and authors, Gronski was interested in politics, science, literature, art, the contemporary social tendencies, and finally in the private affairs of mankind; and this last to such an extent that he was reluctantly charged with undue love of knowledge of his fellow-men. From this general, lively curiosity flowed his loquacity and desire to expatiate upon anything which passed before his eyes. He was well aware of this, and jocosely justified himself before his friends by citing Cicero, who according to him was one of the greatest discoursers and meddlers whose memory is preserved by history. Aside from these weaknesses, Gronski possessed a highly developed capacity for sympathizing with human suffering and human thoughts, and was on the whole a man of fine sentiment. Poland he loved sincerely as he wished her to be; that is, noble, enlightened, cultured, as European as possible, but not losing her Lechite traits, and holding in her hand the flag with the white eagle. That eagle seemed to him to be one of the noblest symbols on earth.
Within the compass of his personal feelings, as a man and æsthete, he loved Marynia, but it was a love of a heavenly-blue hue, not scarlet. At the beginning he admired within her, as he said, "the music and the dove;" afterwards, not having any near relatives, he became attached to her like an older brother to a little sister, or as a father to a child. She, on her part, grateful for this attachment and at the same time esteeming his mind and character, reciprocated with her whole heart.
In the main, human sympathy and friendship encompassed Gronski, for even strangers, even people separated from him by a chasm of belief and convictions, even those whom he annoyed with his habit of pressing his forefinger to his forehead and thinking aloud, esteemed him for his ability to sympathize, his humanity and forbearance, which were like the open doors of a hospitable house.
Laskowicz also felt this. If he was to ride with Dolhanski, for instance, he would have preferred to go afoot and carry his luggage on his back. But Dolhanski in Jastrzeb pretended not to see him at all, while Gronski always greeted him amiably, and several times opened a conversation with him which never was lengthy for the reason that Laskowicz limited it and broke it off. Now, however, sitting beside Gronski he was pleased with his company. He cherished in his soul a hope that Gronski, speaking of the persons remaining in Jastrzeb, would say something about Panna Marynia and he craved to hear her name. Besides, he was moved by the leave-taking with little Anusia, for it happened for the first time in his life that any one bidding him farewell had tears in her eyes, and he was grateful to the chance which afforded him an opportunity of exchanging a few words with Panna Marynia before driving away. So his heart melted and he was willing to talk sincerely, especially with a man against whom he felt no antipathy.
Somehow they did not wait long, for they had barely reached the end of the avenue when Gronski, with the kind and confidential anxiety of an older man who does not understand what has taken place and is ready to grumble, placed his hand upon his knee and said:
"My dear sir, what mischief have you stirred up in Rzeslewo? It may now come to some serious collisions, and it is said that you people intend to do the same everywhere."
"In Rzeslewo we did what the good of our idea demanded," answered Laskowicz.
"But an agricultural school is involved and such schools are absolutely necessary for the people. Why did you circulate the story among the peasants that the land was to be divided among them?"
Laskowicz hesitated as to whether to leave the question unanswered, but he was disarmed by Gronski's countenance, at once benevolent and worried, so he replied:
"Every party must keep its eyes upon everything in order to know what is occurring in the country and take advantage of its opportunities. In the case of Rzeslewo I was the eye of the party, and in the further course of time I acted in accordance with the directions sent to me. In reality, we could not foresee how the deceased would dispose of his estate. But that is all one. We do not need schools founded by the classes with which we are at war and conducted in their spirit."
"You do not need them, but the people need them."
"The people can learn husbandry without the assistance of the nobility as soon as they own something on which they can learn. The lands of the nobles will be more beneficial to them than their schools. They have tilled that soil of Rzeslewo for hundreds of years, and if you figure at the rate of one penny for each day's labor, that land has been paid for a hundred times more than it is worth."
"But you arouse merely a desire for land; you cannot give it. Besides, permit me, sir, to say that in respect to your doctrine you are illogical. For, of course, your aim is to nationalize the land. Now such land as that of Rzeslewo, for instance, donated for school purposes is, in a manner, nationalized; but a partition of it among the peasants would disintegrate it into individual ownership by a number of small holders."
"The nationalization of land is our ultimate object, therefore distant. In the meantime we want to get the people into our camp, so we use such means as will lead to that end. We cannot give the land, but the people themselves can take it."
"The most you can accomplish is to get them to take it. Assume that in Rzeslewo the husbandmen, tenants, and hired hands seize the land and divide it between them. What follows? Do you not see the clashes, the knouting, the courts and sanguinary executions which will overtake them?"
"Do you not believe that this would be water for our mill? The more there is of that, the sooner our end will be attained."
"And so I guessed rightly," said Gronski, recalling his statement to Ladislaus and Dolhanski that the summoning of the police would be playing into the hands of the agitators.
Laskowicz wanted to ask what Gronski had guessed rightly, but the latter forestalled him and continued:
"There is another singular thing. If misfortune overtakes any one of you, whether imprisonment, deportation, or death, then we, that is, the people who do not belong to your ranks, the people against whom you have declared war to the death, say: 'Too bad! such zeal! what a pity--such misguided sacrifice! how deplorable,--such a young head!' and we grieve for you. But you do not regret those people whose defenders you proclaim yourself to be. You arrange industrial strikes and pull the string until it breaks and later, when the manufacturers tie it again it becomes shorter than ever before. Already thousands are dying of starvation. And now you want an agricultural strike, after which bread becomes dearer and scarcer. Who suffers by this? Again the people. Truly at times it is impossible to resist the thought that you love your doctrines more than the people."
To this Laskowicz answered in a harsh, hollow voice:
"That is war. There must be sacrifices."
Gronski involuntarily looked at him and, seeing his eyes set so closely to each other, thought:
"No! Such eyes really can only look straight ahead and are incapable of taking in a wider horizon."
For some time they rode in silence. A light southern breeze rose and bore with the cloud of dust the odor of the horses' sweat. From thickets on the wayside flew swarms of horse-flies, which pestered the horses so much that the coachman brushed their backs with the whip and swore.
Suddenly Gronski asked:
"Sacrifices! But to what divinity do you offer those sacrifices? What is your aim and what do you want?"
"Daily bread and universal liberty."
"But in the meantime, instead of bread, you give them stones. As to liberty, you will please, sir, take into consideration two thoughts. The first can be expressed thus: Woe to the nations that love liberty more than fatherland! Naturally I am not speaking of subjugated nations, for in such a situation the conceptions of liberty and fatherland become almost identical. But consider, sir, what really caused the political downfall of Poland and what is blighting France, which before our eyes is falling apart like a barrel without hoops? A second thought which often comes to my mind is that liberty crossing the boundaries set by national prosperity and safety is necessary only for rogues. You certainly will regard this last opinion as the acme of retrogression, but it is none the less the truth."
Laskowicz's face reflected suspicion and offence, but it was so apparent that Gronski did not allude to him personally, and was only enunciating a general view, that he did not break off further conversation.
"Liberty of association and syndicates," he said, "by the aid of which the proletariat is defending itself, do not endure any limitations. You, sir, after all confuse the conceptions of the people and the empire;--as a realist you are concerned above all about the empire."
And Gronski began to laugh:
"I, a realist?" he said. "I do not belong to the realists. They are not foolish people and on the whole act in good faith, but they commit one error. They go out to plough for the spring sowing in December; that is when the ploughshares cannot break the frozen ground. Or if you prefer another comparison, they buy their summer clothing during the severest winter season. I do not know; perhaps the sun will at some time shine and it will be warm, as everything in this world is possible, but in the meantime the ears are frost-bitten and the moths destroy the clothes."
And thinking only of the realists, he continued:
"Realists desire to reckon with this reality, which does not want to reckon with them or anybody else. For assume, sir, for example, that the name of a faction is Peter and this Peter in perfect sincerity turns to Reality and says: 'Listen, oh Maiden! I am prepared to acknowledge you and even love you, but in return permit me to stand on my own feet, to breathe a little and stretch out my aching bones.' And Reality with true Ural affability answers: 'Peter, my son Peter, you are wandering from the subject, and I take away from you the right to speak. I am not concerned about your acknowledging or loving me, but only that you should unbutton yourself, divest yourself of certain clothes which, speaking parenthetically, may be of service to me; that you should again lie upon that bench and as to the rest trust in my power and whip.' If any realist heard me he might dispute this, but in his soul, he would concede the justness of the illustration."
"You will admit, then," exclaimed Laskowicz, with a certain triumph, "that we alone are hitting this Reality on the head?"
"You are hitting her," answered Gronski, "but your fists rebound from her stony head and land in the pit of your own community, which loses its remnant of breath and swoons. By this, you even aid Reality."
And here recollecting what he had said about the anthills and ant-eaters, he repeated it to Laskowicz.
But Laskowicz would not agree to the comparison, observing that it had only a specious appearance of the truth, for the human conditions could not be adjusted by conditions existing in an ant-hill.
"Whoever aspires to make the proletariat powerful by the same act gives the nation new strength sufficient to repel all attacks and blows. Only on this road can anything be gained, though only for the simple reason that it will have allies in the proletariat of adjoining countries, who from enemies will become friends."
"That would only be a coalition at the bottom," said Gronski.
"And for that reason irrepressible and effectual. For we are continually hearing of Poland! Poland! But those who all the time are repeating that combine with Poland various things which have outlived their usefulness, such as religion, church, and conservatism, which cover her with mould or with corpses which already are rotting. We alone unite Poland with an idea, powerful, young, and vital, if only for the reason that all youth is with us."
"In the first place, not all youth, nor even one half," answered Gronski; "and again, the church has survived and will survive many a social movement; and thirdly, your idea is as ancient as poverty itself on this earth. If you desire, sir, to contend that the form which La Salle and Marx gave it is new, then I will answer you thus: Your modern socialism has too thick tufts of hair on its scalp, but when it begins to get bald, none will scoff at it so much as the young."
"You are continually speaking in aphorisms, but fortunately aphorisms are like paper lanterns hung on the trees of dialectics; in the dark they can be seen; in the broad daylight they are extinct."
"Behold another aphorism, cut and dried," answered Gronski, laughing. "No, sir, that which I said had another meaning. I wanted to say that the socialist commonwealth, if you ever establish one, will be such a surrender of human institutions, such a jamming of man into the driving-wheels of the general mechanism, such a restraint and slavery that even the present kingdom of Prussia, in comparison, would be a temple of liberty. And in reality, a reaction would set in at once. The press, literature, poetry, and art, in the name of individualism and its freedom, would declare an inexorable war; and do you know, sir, who would carry the banner of the opposition? Youth! That is as true as that those lapwings are now flying over that meadow."
And here he pointed at a flock of lapwings, hovering over a field on which cattle were grazing. After which he added:
"In France it is already beginning. Not long ago a few thousand students paraded the streets of Paris, shouting: 'Down with the Republic!'"
"That is merely swinging around in a circle," replied Laskowicz; "that was a clash with radicalism and not with us. We also despise it. The bourgeoisie imagine that radicalism in a certain emergency will shield them from the revenge of the proletariat, but they are deceiving themselves. In the meanwhile they are clearing the way for the revolution."
"In this I admit you are right;" answered Gronski, "I saw in Cairo how thesaïsran before the carriages of the pashas shouting, 'Out of the way! Out of the way!' Radicalism is performing the same service for you."
"Yes," corroborated Laskowicz, with a brightened countenance.
Gronski took off his spectacles to wipe off the dust and winked his eyes.
"But amongst you there are also differences. The French socialism is different, so is the German, and the English, and in their midst we find opposing camps. For that reason I shall not speak of socialism in general. I am only interested in the home product, of which you are an agent; for, from what you have said, I infer that you belong to the so-called Polish Socialistic party."
"Yes," answered Laskowicz with energy.
Gronski replaced the cleaned spectacles and unfurled all his sails:
"You claim, therefore, that in the name of Poland you have joined youth with a powerful idea, through which you have infused into her veins new blood. And I reply that this idea, whatever it may be, has degenerated in your minds to the extent that it ceased to be a social idea and has become a social disease. You have infected Poland with a disease and nothing more. The new Polish edifice must be constructed with bricks and stones and not with bombs and dynamite. And in you there is neither brick nor stone. You are only a shriek of hatred. You have abandoned the old gospels and are incapable of creating a new one; in consequence of which you cannot offer any pledge of life. Your name is Error and for that reason the resultant force of your activities will be contrary to you presuppositions. By pulling the strings of strikes you lead the people to naught else than to debility and wretchedness and from feeble beggars you are not able to build a powerful Poland. That is the actual fact. Besides, on one and the same head you cannot wear two caps unless one is underneath. So I ask which is underneath? Is your socialism only a means of building Poland? Or is your Poland only a bait and catchword to gather the people into your camp? The socialists, who call themselves socialists without any qualifications and do not insist that the same entity can be fish and fowl at the same time, are, I admit, more logical. But you mislead the people. The truth is that even if you wanted to you could not do anything Polish, for there is nothing Polish in you. The schools from which you graduated did not take away the language, for they could not do that, but they molded your minds and souls in such a manner that you are not Poles, but Russians despising Russia. How Poland and Russia will fare by this is another matter, but such is the case. To you it seems that you are making a revolution, but it is an ape of a revolution, and in addition a foreign one. You are the evil flower of a foreign spirit. It is enough to take your periodicals, your writers, poets, and critics! Their whole mental apparatus is foreign. Their real aim is not even socialism nor the proletariat, but annihilation.--Firebrand in hand, and at the bottom of their souls hopelessness and the great nihil! And of course we know where it originated. The Galician socialism likewise is not an Apollo Belvedere, but nevertheless it has different lineaments and less broad cheek-bones. There is not in it this rabidness and also this despair and sorrow which conflicts with the Latin culture. You are like certain fruit: on one side green, on the other rotten. You are sick. That sickness explains the limitless want of logic, based on this; that crying against wars, you create war; decrying courts-martial, you condemn without any trial; and denouncing capital punishment, you thrust revolvers in the hands of the people and say, 'Kill.' This disease also explains your insane outbreaks, your indifference to consequences, and to the fate of those ill-fated men whom you make your tools. Let them assassinate, let them rob the treasuries, but whether later they will hang in the halter is a matter of little consequence to you. Your nihil permits you to spit upon blood and ethics. You open wide the doors to notorious scoundrels and allow them to represent not their own villany, but your idea. You, generally speaking, carry ruin with you and join Poland to that ruin. In your party there are, without doubt, men of conviction and good faith, but blind, who in their blindness are serving a different master than they imagine."
Gronski knew that he was speaking in vain, but whether from habit, or because he wanted to relieve himself of all that had accumulated within him, he talked until the rattle of the wheels on the city pavements drowned his words. They parted rather coldly before the hotel, for Gronski's views touched the young medical student to the quick. He did not admit that Gronski was in the least right, but that such views should be entertained filled him with rage and indignation. He indeed said to himself, "It is not worth while answering, but our minds are not foreign, and our idea is new. Society is like a person who, having for many years lived in a house, is always reluctant to move into another though that other is much better." Nevertheless the words of Gronski stung him so deeply that at that moment he hated him as much as he did Krzycki and would have given a great deal if he could trample upon and crush the charges, so odious to him. Unfortunately for him he lacked time for it, and besides, weariness after a sleepless night began to overpower him more and more.
Gronski went to the post-office, received a package with the saddle, and afterwards drove to the doctor's, but learning that the latter would not be free for an hour, he left the carriage at his door and went to visit the old notary and at the same time deliver to him an invitation from Krzycki to visit Jastrzeb.
The notary was pleased to receive the invitation, as he had decided to visit the Krzyckis without one, in order, as he said, to behold the "eyes of his head" and hear her miracle-working violin. In the meantime he began to speak about the events which had occurred in the city and neighborhood. He was so impressed and affected by them that his customary choler left him, and in his words there was an undertone of bitter sorrow and heavy anxiety for the future of the community, which seemed to have lost its head. Factory strikes and to some extent agricultural strikes were spreading. In the city the lime-kilns had ceased to burn and the cement works were at a standstill. The workingmen, who, not having any savings, formerly lived from hand to mouth, in the first moments lacked bread. After the example of Warsaw, a local committee was organized for the purpose of collecting funds to prevent starvation. But as a result, this peculiar situation was created: the people most opposed to the cessation of work encouraged it by furnishing food to the idle. "A veritable round of errors!" said the worried old gentleman. "Do not give; then starvation follows and despair hurls the workingman into the arms of the socialists; give, and you also are playing into their hands, because they have something with which to support the strike and can convince the people of their omnipotence." He further related that outside of the committee the socialists were collecting money, or rather were extorting it from the timid by threats; that they called upon him but he told them that he would give for bread but not for bombs. They then threatened him with death, for which he had them thrown out of his office.
For a while he remained silent for the inborn choler assumed supremacy over sorrow; he also began to roll his eyes angrily and moved his jaws furiously, as if he wanted to eat all the socialists, together with their red standard.
Afterwards, when his rage had spent itself, he continued:
"Day before yesterday they sent me a sentence of death which they surely will execute, as they have declared war against the government and they butcher their own countrymen. Well, that is a small matter! Three days ago they killed a master tinner and two workingmen in the cement factory. In Wilczodola, a few versts from here, they waylaid and maimed Pan Baezynski and robbed the branch office of the governmental whiskey monopoly besides. Szremski, that doctor for whom you came and whose optimism sticks like a bone in my throat, says that it is but a passing storm! Yes, everything does pass away, individuals as well as whole nations. I fear that ours too is passing away; for we have become a nation of bandits and banditism never can be a permanent institution. Well! The people, after these acts of violence, have in reality become tired of robbing for the benefit of their party and now prefer to rob on their own account. Do I know whether we will arrive alive at Krzyckis to-day? Bah! Krzycki ought to be more on his guard than any one else. He passes for a rich man and for that reason they will keep him in their eye. I will go to Jastrzeb for if I am to be assassinated, before it takes place I want to hear once more our child-wonder. But in truth, Krzycki, instead of inviting more guests, should dismiss those who are staying there now. The doctor, if he had any sense, would find an excuse for dispersing them all to-morrow."
"I heard that he is an excellent man," said Gronski.
"An excellent devil!" answered the notary. "You remember whom you have among you, and it is only about her that I am concerned."
Gronski, though disquieted and distressed by Dzwonkowski's narrative, could not refrain from laughing when he heard the last admonition, for translated into plain words it meant, "May the deuce impale you all, if only no evil befalls the little violinist." But whenever Marynia was involved he himself was always willing to subscribe to similar sentiments; therefore he began to pacify the aged official by telling him that in Jastrzeb there were, counting the guests and manor people, too many hands and too many arms to have any fears of an attack; and that, besides, Pani Krzycki's probable departure would end the visit of the guests. Further conversation was broken by the arrival of Doctor Szremski who, having dashed in like a bomb, announced that he was free for the remainder of the day and could ride with Gronski.
Gronski gazed at him with great interest, for even in Warsaw he heard of him as an original and prominent personality, in the favorable meaning of those words.
He was quite a young man, with tawny hair, swarthy like a gypsy, with a countenance alive with fire, bubbling with health, somewhat loud and brisk in his manners. In the city he played an uncommon rôle not only because he had the largest medical practice, but because he belonged to the most active men in any field. He entered into every project as if to an attack, and thanks to a sober and an exceptional temper of mind, whatever he did was done, on the whole, sensibly and well. He was, as it were, a personification of that phenomenon, frequent in Poland, where, when amidst a public not only trammelled but negligent and indolent by nature, a man of energy and with an idea is found, he is able to accomplish more than any German, Frenchman, or Englishman could have done. He himself participated in every undertaking and compelled others to work with such spirit that he was nicknamed "Doctor Spur." He established secret schools, reading rooms, nurseries for the children, economical associations, and for everything he gave money, of which he earned a great deal, though he treated gratis throngs of the penniless. The local socialists hated him, for by his popularity and influence with the workingmen he frustrated their efforts. The authorities looked at him with suspicion and with an evil eye. A man who loved his country, organized life, spread enlightenment, and donated money for public uses, must in their eyes be a suspicious character and deserved at least deportation to a "distant province." Fortunately for him, the governor's wife imagined that she was suffering from some nervous ailment and the local captain of the gendarmery was actually troubled with incipient aneurism of the aorta. So then the governor's wife, who through her connections had made her husband governor and ruled the province as she pleased, was of the opinion that if it were not for this "l'homme qui rit" (as she called the doctor), eternal mourning would have befallen the governor, and the captain of the gendarmes feared alike the gubernatorial connections and the aneurism. He had indeed prepared a report which he regarded as the masterpiece of his life; and perhaps he became ill because he dared not send it to the higher authorities. Sometimes in his dreams, he arrested the doctor, subjected him to an examination, forced him to divulge his accomplices, and dreamt also that the report might be used in case the governor and himself were transferred to another province; but it was only a dream. In reality the report reposed on the bottom of a drawer and the doctor, who read it (for the captain showed it to him in proof of what he could have done but did not do), laughed so ingenuously and was so confident of himself that it occurred to the captain's mind that in reality there was no joking with the governor's wife or the aneurism.
The doctor laughed because he was by nature unusually jovial. In certain cases he could think and speak gravely, but at chance meetings and at casual talks, in which there was no time for weighty discourse, he preferred to slide over the surface of the subject, scatter jests, and tell anecdotes, which later were repeated over the city, and which he himself much enjoyed. His optimism and beaming countenance created incurable optimism and hope and good thoughts wherever he appeared. He joked with the sick about their sickness and with jokes dispelled their fears. His mirth won the people and a well-grounded medical knowledge and efficacious watchfulness over their health and lives assured him a certain kind of sway over them. For this reason he did not mind the "big fish," or in fact anybody. Such was the case with the notary whose perpetual choler and irascibility were known all over the city, so that social relations with him were maintained only by those who were exceptionally interested in music. The doctor, who also cracked jokes about music, sought his company, purposely to nettle him and afterwards to tell about his outbreaks, to his own amusement and that of his hearers.
And now he rushed in with the crash of a squall, became acquainted with Gronski, asked about the health of Pani Krzycki and about the pretty ladies staying in Jastrzeb of whom he had already heard; after which, observing the distressed face of the notary, he exclaimed merrily:
"What a mien! Is it so bad with us in this world, or what? Seventy-five years! A great thing! Truly it is not the age of strength, but it is the strength of the age! Please show your pulse!"
Here, without further asking the notary, he grabbed his hand, and pulling out his watch, began to count:
"One, two--one, two!--one, two! Bad! It is the pulse of one in love. There are symptoms of a slight heartburn! Such is usually the case. Such a machine cannot last more than twenty-five years,--at the most thirty. Thank you!"
Saying this he dropped the old man's hand, whose mien brightened in expectation, for he thought that twenty-five years added to what he had already lived would make quite a respectable age.
Pretending, however, to scowl, he answered:
"Always those jokes! The doctor thinks that I care for those wretched twenty-five years. It is not worth while living now. Of course you know what is taking place. I have such a mien because I was just talking with Pan Gronski about it. I also have a heartburn. Well, I ask what will become of us if all the people should follow the socialists?"
But the doctor began to swing his arms and deny this categorically. Not all the people, nor a half, nor a hundredth part. And even those who say that they belong to the socialists say so under terror or through misapprehension.
"I will give you gentlemen two examples," he said. "I live on a lower floor and beneath me in the basement there is a locksmith's shop. This morning I overheard fragments of a conversation between my servant and the locksmith. The locksmith said, 'I am a socialist; there is nothing more to be said about it.' 'Why is nothing more to be said?' said my servant. 'Then you do not believe in God and do not love Poland.' 'And why should I not believe in God and love Poland?' 'Because the socialists do not believe in God and do not love Poland.' And the locksmith replied, 'So? Then may sickness plague them.' That is the way people belong to the socialists. I do not say all, but a great many. Ha!"
And he began to laugh.
"The doctor always finds an anecdote," grumbled the notary; "but let us tell the truth, thousands belong to them."
"Then why do they not elect one deputy in the kingdom?" retorted the doctor. "Bombs explode loudly, so they can be heard better than any other work. But how many thousands participated in the national parade? Do these also belong to them? When in a factory ten men manage to hang a red flag on the chimney it seems that the whole factory is red, but that is not true."
"Why do not the others tear it down?"
"Simple reason! Because the police tear it down."
"And also because the socialists have revolvers and the others have not," added Gronski.
"Undoubtedly," continued the doctor. "I have ten times closer relations with the workingmen than any manager of a factory. I go into their dwellings and know their home life. I know them. Socialism is engaged in a struggle with the bureaucracy; so it seems to many that they belong to it. But, to the outrages only the worst and most ignorant element assents. The latter soon change into bandits, and that is not surprising. Their consciences have been taken away from them and revolvers are given to them. But the majority--the better and more honest majority--have under the ribs Polish hearts; and for that reason this demon, who wants to snatch and carry them away, called himself, as a bait, Polish. Ah! they only need schools, enlightenment, a knowledge of Polish history, in order not to allow themselves to be hoodwinked! Ay, that is what they need! Ay, ay!"
And in his gesticulations, he seized the old man's arm and began to turn him around.
"Schools, Pan Notary, schools; for the Lord's mercy!"
Blood rushed to the notary's head from indignation.
"Are you crazy!" he yelled. "Why do you jolt me like a pear?"
"True," said the doctor, leaving him alone. "True, but the extent to which these poor fellows misapprehend things is enough to cause one to weep and laugh at the same time."
"No, not to laugh," said Gronski.
"Do you know, sir, that at times, yes," exclaimed the doctor; "for listen to my second instance. Last Sunday, being tired as a dog, I drove out to the Gorczynski woods, just outside of the city, for a little airing. In the woods from the opposite direction came more than a dozen of workingmen who evidently were enjoying a May outing. I saw one of them carrying a red flag on a newly whittled stick. He probably brought it in his pocket and fastened it when they got to the woods. 'Good!' I thought to myself, 'Socialists!' And now, when they were near, the one who carried the flag sang lustily to the tune of 'Bartoszu! Bartoszu!' that which I will repeat to you, and I pledge my word, I will not add or subtract anything.
'Kosciuszko, though a cobbler,Oj, soundly thrashed the Germans,Oj, soundly thrashed the Germans;Only, it is a great pityFor us, that he drowned.Only it is a great pityFor us, that he drowned.'"
'Kosciuszko, though a cobbler,Oj, soundly thrashed the Germans,Oj, soundly thrashed the Germans;Only, it is a great pityFor us, that he drowned.Only it is a great pityFor us, that he drowned.'"
"Ah, honest simplicity!" exclaimed Gronski. "I would embrace him and present him with a history of Poland of recent times."
"Wait, sir," shouted the doctor. "I stopped my socialists of strange rites. It appeared that almost all were known to me and I said: 'For the fear of God, citizens, Kosciuszko was not a cobbler, he never thrashed the Germans, and he did not drown, only Prince Joseph Poniatowski did. Come to me and I will give you a book about Kosciuszko, Kilinski,[4]and Prince Joseph Poniatowski, for you have made of them a bigos.[5]They began to thank me and then I asked: 'What has become of the eagle on your flag? did he go hunting for mushrooms?' They became confused. The flag-bearer started to explain why they had no eagle. 'Why, may it please the doctor,' he said, 'they told us: Do not take a flag with an eagle, for if they take the flag away from you, they will insult the eagle and you will suffer shame and disgrace.' Yes. In this manner they cheat the Polish heart of our own people."
But the notary did not want to part with his black spectacles.
"Well, what of it?" he asked. "Do you claim that if it was not for this and that there would not be any socialism amongst us?"
"There is socialism over the entire world," rejoined the doctor, "therefore there must be with us. Only if it was not for this and that, there would not accompany it highway robbery, savagery, and blindness; there would not be this modern socialism which has styled itself Polish, though its pitch can be smelt a mile away."
"Bravo!" cried Gronski. "I said the same thing in other words to another person on the road from Jastrzeb."
"Ay, Jastrzeb," said the doctor looking at his watch. "Here we are talking and it is time that we started."
"Perhaps the notary can go with us," said Gronski. "The carriage has seats for four."
"I can. Only I will take my flute with me. Well!" answered the notary.
"Well!" repeated Szremski, mimicking him. "Aha, the flute! Then there will be a serenade in Jastrzeb, while here the socialists will rob the office."
The notary who was going after his flute, suddenly turned around, sniffed vehemently, and said:
"To-day they sent me a sentence of death."
"Bah! I already have received two of them," merrily answered the doctor.
A quarter of an hour later they were on the road to Jastrzeb. On this occasion, Gronski and the doctor drew so closely to each other and talked so much, that, as Gronski said later, there was not a place in which to stick a pin.
The distance between the city and Jastrzeb was not more than a mile and a half. For this reason Gronski, the notary, and Szremski reached their destination before four o'clock. They were expected for dinner but in the meantime Ladislaus conducted the ladies over the sawmill; so the doctor repaired to Pani Krzycki and Gronski ordered the saddle unpacked and taken to Marynia's room. In a half hour the young company returned and, greeting the notary, assembled in the salon to await the dinner. The notary at the sight of Marynia forgot all about death sentences, about the outrages perpetrated in the city, about socialism and the whole world and, after kissing her hand, appropriated her exclusively for himself. Gronski began to initiate Pani Otocka into the reasons of his trip to the city, while Krzycki conversed with Miss Anney and became as engrossed with her as if there were no one else in the room. It was apparent that his exclamation on that morning that "one could lose his head" was but a confirmation of a symptom which intensified more and more with each moment. His uncommonly handsome young face glowed as if from the dawn, for in his bosom he did have the dawn of a new, happy feeling, which beamed through the eyes, the smile on the lips, through every motion, and through the words he addressed to Miss Anney. The spell held him more and more; a secret magnet drew him with steadily increasing power to this light-haired maid, looking so young, buxom, and alluring. He did not even attempt to resist that power. Gronski observed that he evinced his rapture too plainly and that in the presence of his mother he should have acted with more circumspection. Miss Anney also felt this, as from time to time blushes suffused her countenance and she pushed back her chair a little, besides glancing about at those present as if in fear that the excessive affability of the young host towards her might attract too much attention. But the matter, however, was agreeable to her, for in her eyes a certain joy flamed. Only Dolhanski gazed at her from time to time; the others were mutually occupied.
The appearance of the doctor ended the conversations. Krzycki, after introducing him to the ladies, together with them began to inquire about the health of the patient, but the doctor was evidently disinclined to speak at any length, for he answered in a few words and in accordance with his habit spoke so loudly that Dolhanski, in his surprise, placed the monocle on his eye.
"Nothing serious! Monsummano! Monsummano! or something like that! I will prescribe everything! Nothing serious! Nothing!"
"But what is Monsummano?" asked Ladislaus.
"That is a warm hole in Italy in which rheumatism is boiled out. A kind of purgatory after which salvation follows! Besides Italy, a delightful journey! I will prescribe everything in detail."
Gronski, who often had travelled over Italy, also knew this place and began to describe it to the curious ladies. In the meantime Ladislaus talked about his mother's health with the doctor, who, however, listened to him inattentively, repeating, "I will prescribe everything," shaking his head, and looking about him, as if with curiosity, at each of the ladies in rotation. Suddenly he slapped his hand on his knee with a thwack which could be heard all over the room and exclaimed:
"What marvellous faces there are in Jastrzeb and what skulls! Ha!"
Dolhanski dropped his monocle, the ladies looked amazed, but Krzycki began to laugh.
"The doctor has a habit of thinking aloud," he said.
"And bawling out yet more loudly," grumbled the notary.
"How is your flute?" the doctor replied, laughingly.
But at that moment the servant announced that dinner was ready. Hearing this, Pani Otocka turned with a peculiar smile to her sister and said:
"Marynia, your hair is all disheveled. Look at yourself in a glass."
The young lady raised her hands to her head, but as there were no mirrors in the salon, she, a little confused, said:
"Beg pardon, I will return immediately."
She hastened to her room, but soon returned still more confused with blushes and with a radiant countenance.
"A ladies' saddle!" she began to cry, "a most beautiful ladies' saddle!"
And passing her eyes over those present, she pointed at Gronski:
"Was it you?"
"I confess," said Gronski, spreading out his hands and bowing his head.
She, on her part, had such a desire to kiss his hand that if the doctor and the notary had not been present, she certainly would have done so. In the meanwhile she began to thank him with effusive and perfectly childish glee.
"I see, Panna Marynia, that you are fond of horseback riding," said Szremski.
"I am fond of everything."
"There you have it," cried the amused doctor.
"Only secure a gentle horse; otherwise it will not be hard to meet with accidents," observed the notary.
It soon became apparent that such a one could be procured, for on the economical Jastrzeb estate horses were the only item of which a strict account was not kept. Krzycki indeed maintained that they could be bred profitably, but he did not breed them for gain but from that traditional love of them, the immoderateness of which the reverend Skarga,[6]a few centuries before, censured in his ancestors in the eloquent words: "Dearer to you is the offspring of a mare than the Son of God!" Horses therefore were not wanting in Jastrzeb and the conversation about them and horsemanship continued, to the great dissatisfaction of the notary, throughout the whole dinner. Those present learned that Marynia was not entirely a novice, for at Zalesin, at her sister's, she rode in summer time almost daily in the company of the old manager on a clumsy, lanky pony, named Pierog. Her sister would not permit her to ride on any other horse and "what enjoyment could there be riding on Pierog?" She stated that this Pierog had a nasty habit of returning home, not when she wanted to, but when he desired to, and no urging nor threats could swerve him from his purpose when once formed. She also sincerely envied Miss Anney who rode so well and had ridden all the horses in Zalesin, even those unaccustomed to the saddle. But in England all the ladies ride on horseback, while with us somebody is worrying about somebody else. She hoped, however, that in Jastrzeb with so many skilled riders, "Zosia" will not have any fears about her; and that immediately after dinner they will go on an equestrian excursion and that she will be allowed to join the party, without, thank God, Pierog.
Ladislaus, in whom expectations of distant horseback jaunts in Miss Anney's company had excited fond hopes, and whom, as well as the others, the story about Pierog had put into good humor, turned to Marynia and said:
"I will give you a horse with iron legs, who is called 'Swimmer' because he can swim excellently. As for an excursion, the day is long and we could arrange one, if it were not that it is beginning to get cloudy."
"It will surely clear up," answered Marynia, "and I will dress myself right after dinner."
In fact, after dinner the guests were barely able to finish their black coffee before she appeared on the veranda, dressed in a black, tight-fitting riding-habit. In it she was simply charming, but so slender and tall that Gronski, gazing at her with his usual admiration, was the first to begin jesting:
"A real little flute," he said. "The wind will carry off such a woodcock, especially since it is commencing to blow."
And a strong blast of the western, warm wind really began to bend the tree-tops and drive here and there over the heavens clouds which on the azure background assumed large, ruddy, and globular forms.
Ladislaus, however, gave orders to saddle the horses and soon thereafter hastened to the stables to supervise the work. Miss Anney went upstairs to change her clothes; Gronski and Dolhanski followed her example. On the veranda remained only Pani Zosia, the doctor, the notary, and, attired as an equestrienne, Marynia, who cast uneasy glances alternately at the stables and at the sky, which was becoming more and more cloudy. After a time the first drops of rain began to fall and immediately thereafter a more important hindrance to their excursion occurred, for unexpectedly neighbors from Gorek, Pani Wlocek and daughter, the same who attended the funeral of Zarnowski, arrived in a carriage. In view of this, the horseback jaunt had to be abandoned.
The Wlocek ladies came to ascertain the condition of Pani Krzycki's health and at the same time to beg Ladislaus for advice and succor, for in Gorek an agricultural strike had suddenly broke out among the manor and farmhouse laborers. The old coachman could hardly be induced to drive them to Jastrzeb for he was threatened with a beating. Both ladies were much frightened, much powdered, and more pathetic than ever. After the first greetings, mutual introductions, and a short talk about Pani Krzycki's rheumatism, the mother, at the after-dinner tea, addressed Ladislaus in doleful terms, adjuring him to hasten, like a knight of old, to the defence of oppressed innocence. She said that she was not concerned about herself, as after the losses she had survived and the suffering she had undergone, "the silent grave" in the Rzeslewo cemetery was the most appropriate refuge for her; but an orphan remained who still had some claims upon life. Let him extend some friendly protection and shield from blows and attacks this lone orphan for whom she herself was ready to sacrifice her life. To this the orphan replied that she too was not concerned about herself but about the peace of Mamma;--and in this manner the conversation changed almost exclusively in to a dialogue between these ladies in which the words, "Allow me, child," "Permit me, Mamma," were repeated every minute and in which the immoderate willingness of both parties to be immolated became in the end almost tart. Ladislaus, knowing these ladies of old, listened gravely; Pani Zosia looked at the bottom of her cup, not daring to glance at Marynia, who contracted the corners of her mouth; the notary sniffed and chewed; and the doctor ejaculated his "Ha!" with such resonance that the flies whisked off the net mantle which covered the butter and pastry.
But, in the meanwhile, out-of-doors the storm and thunder began to rage and interrupted the sacrificial dialogue between mother and daughter. The rooms darkened; on the windows for a time the patter of the shower was heard; and the lightning illuminated the cloudy firmament. But this lasted a brief while; after which Ladislaus began to reply and promise aid to the ladies, always with becoming gravity but at the same time with a peculiar kind of expression on his face which portended that the young wag had a surprise concealed in his bosom. He announced, therefore, that he was ready to mount a horse and invest Gorek with his care; afterwards he quieted the ladies with the assurances that the manifestations which had so alarmed them were transient; that in Rzeslewo, it was temporarily the same, but that undoubtedly within a short time means of foiling that evil would be found. In conclusion he turned to Pani Wlocek and, pointing at Dolhanski, unexpectedly said:
"I do not know whether my protection will be effective for I must watch at the same time over Rzeslewo and over Jastrzeb, in which at present we have such agreeable guests. But here is Pan Dolhanski, a man well known for his courage, energy, and sagacity, who has given me the best advice about Rzeslewo. If he wished to aid you or if he agreed to take into his hands the affairs of Gorek and Kwasnoborz, I am certain that he would establish order there in the course of a few days, and under his wings, ladies, no dangers could befall you."
All eyes, and particularly the eyes of the mother and daughter, were now directed at Dolhanski. But if Ladislaus, who wanted to revenge himself on him for his "officiousness," calculated that he would get him into an unexpected scrape, he was mistaken, for Dolhanski coolly bowed to the ladies from Gorek and replied, drawling each word as usual:
"With the greatest pleasure, but we must wait until the rain stops."
"Then, sir, you agree to be our knight?" cried Pani Wlocek, extending her hands towards him and at the same time gazing at him with a suddenly awakened curiosity and surprise.
"With the greatest pleasure," repeated Dolhanski; "the strike will be over to-morrow."
His complete self-assurance impressed everybody, particularly the ladies from Gorek. At the same time, the cold tone in which he spoke affected Pani Wlocek so much that for a while she lost her usual pathetic volubility and after an interval she replied:
"In the name of an orphan, I thank you."
But the orphan apparently preferred to thank him herself, for she stretched out both hands towards Dolhanski and after a brief silence, which might be explained by her emotions, spoke in a voice resembling the rustle of leaves:
"I am concerned about mamma."
"So am I," Dolhanski assured her.
But the mother and daughter now turned to each other:
"Allow me, child; here I am nothing."
"Permit me, Mamma; Mamma is everything."
"But I beg pardon, child--"
"Pardon me, Mamma,--"
And the strife about the burnt offerings began anew. It did not, however, last long, as, firstly, the doctor began to make so much noise that they could be heard with difficulty and then, Pani Krzycki, whom the young physician permitted to rise and move to an armchair, sent a message asking the ladies to visit her. After their departure the doctor went to the office to write out specifically where and how the cure should be conducted; the notary became occupied with his flute in the vestibule. Gronski, Dolhanski, and Ladislaus for a while remained alone.
Then Dolhanski addressed Ladislaus:
"What are these Gorek and Kwasnoborz?"
"About fifteen hundred acres, and there is also Zabianka."
"So I have heard. And the soil?"
"Almost the same as at Rzeslewo. In Zabianka it is said to be better."
"So I have heard. The state of the fortune?"
"Bad and good. Bad, because these ladies will not invest in anything. Good, because they have no debts and every penny which flows from the husbandry, after it gets into the stockings, never beholds daylight again."
"That is what I have been waiting for," said Dolhanski.
"They are as stingy as they are pathetic, and who knows whether they are not stingier?"
"Let them hoard."
And Gronski began to laugh and quoted:
"Sic vos non vobis nidificatis aves--sic vos non vobis mellificates apes--"
"Yes," said Dolhanski.
After which suddenly to Gronski:
"To-morrow I will propose for the hand of Cousin Otocka."
"To-day you are full of surprises," replied Gronski.
"Wait! And I will be given the mitten."
"Without any doubt."
"But I want to have a clear conscience. After which I will drive over to Gorek."
"That is already known. And you will quell the agitated waves of a strike."
"In the course of a day. As you see me here."
After which he pointed at Ladislaus.
"That simplex servus Dei became unwittingly an instrument in the hands of Providence. The Lord often avails Himself of pigmies. For this, when you become bankrupt in Jastrzeb, apply to me at Gorek."
"Provided that before that time you are not reduced to the same level," responded Ladislaus, laughing. "You are an excellent leveller."
"We live in an age of universal levelling. But what is Panna Wlocek's Christian name?"
"Kajetana."
"Plait-il?"
"Kajetana," repeated Krzycki. "Her father's christian name was Kajetan and she was named in memory of him."
"Tell me then why that well-stocked Kajetana preserved herself in her virgin state until the age of thirty or more?"
"Thirty-five, to be accurate. That is what my mother said not long ago. She remembers the day of her birth. As to why she is unmarried the reason is plain. Parties were not wanting but those ladies looked too high. In the neighborhood, we only have the common nobility; and among the Krzyckis there was not a bachelor of suitable age. You, in this respect, would correspond to their fantasy--"
"That is well!" answered Dolhanski, "only that name! Kajetana! Kajetana! That seems to be a kind of carriage or boat! Do I know?"
Gronski and Ladislaus regarded Dolhanski's announcement as a joke, as one of the sallies of wit which often crossed his mind. He, however, kept his word, for on the following day he proposed to Pani Otocka with due gravity and, after receiving an equally grave refusal, rode off to Gorek and settled there for a time. The young ladies, and even Pani Krzycki, were greatly amused and interested in all this, especially when the news reached them that the agrarian strike in Gorek ended the same day on which Dolhanski appeared. And it also ended a few days later in Rzeslewo, partly from the force of circumstances, from the conviction innate in the peasant soul that the "holy land" is not to be trifled with, and partly owing to the news which spread over the village that somebody from some kind of a committee was to come and decide the whole matter. Such was the case with the manor servants. The peasants and husbandmen did not want to agree to any school and would not relinquish the possession of the manor lands, but awaited this somebody in equal fear and hope, sacredly believing that not the will nor the law but some unknown power would decide everything. In the villages, in the meantime, more peaceful days ensued, and though the daily papers brought intelligence of increased commotion in the cities, Ladislaus believed that the local storm had passed away. This belief was shared by the guests. As the doctor had announced that Pani Krzycki's departure depended upon the first signs of alleviation of her suffering, Ladislaus determined to take the best advantage he could of the brief time the young ladies were to remain in Jastrzeb. The horseback excursions began and unless prevented by rain took place every morning. They were particularly agreeable to Ladislaus because Gronski, riding leisurely, kept company with his "adoration," while he could pass hours alone with Miss Anney. Both were expert riders; they usually dashed ahead and most frequently disappeared from view in the distance. At times, they set off at full gallop, and intoxicated themselves with the mad speed, the air, the sun, and each other. At other times they rode abreast, slowly, stirrup to stirrup, and then the silence into which they fell, anxious, full of inexpressible delight, linked them with ties yet stronger than those with which their conversation bound them. With a glance Krzycki scanned the figure of the golden-haired maiden, resembling on horseback the divine Grecian forms or those on Etruscan vases, and feasted his eyes. He listened to her voice and it seemed to him that it was music still nearer perfection than that which poured forth from Marynia's violin. At times when he assisted her to mount her horse, he had to exert the full strength of his will to refrain from pressing her foot to his lips and forehead. And often he thought that if he ever dared to do so, he would desire to remain in that position as long as possible. To this feminine being all his thoughts were impelled, and through the might and flight of his feeling, his desires ceased to be like crawling serpents and became like winged birds, capable of soaring unto heaven. His love each day became more like a whirlpool which drags to itself and engulfs everything. It seemed to Ladislaus that the air, the sun, the fields, the forests, the meadows, the scent of the trees and flowers, the song of birds and the evening playing of Marynia,--all these were only some of the elements of that love which belonged to Miss Anney and entered into her being and, without her, would be insignificant and without essence. Moreover, the whirlpool seized him and plunged him more and more deeply with a power to which each day he offered less resistance, for the simple reason that the abyss appeared to him to be the abyss of happiness. Ladislaus now did not surrender her to any Englishman "with protruding jaw" or any Scot "with bare knees," and would not have given her up for the whole of England and Scotland. He ceased trying to persuade himself that this was a type of woman, which he might have loved and, instead, he confessed to himself sincerely that she was a woman whom he did love. Love generated in him a bright and determined will; so now he thought, with the strict logic of feeling, that he craved to win this, to him, most precious and most desired being, to take and retain her for his whole life. There was only one road leading to that: therefore he determined to enter upon it with that heedless willingness which a man, who desires to be happy, evinces. Sometimes also a confession quivered upon his lips. He restrained it however and deferred it from day to day, at first owing to a timidity which every enamoured heart feels, and again through calculation. For if Love is blind, it certainly is not so to whatever may bring it benefits. It can even weigh benefits and obstacles upon such delicate scales that in this regard it is perhaps the most cautious, the most prescient, and the shrewdest of human feelings. In fact Ladislaus observed that his mother and Miss Anney were bound by a sympathy which, on the part of youth, health, and strength was productive of a certain friendly care, and on the part of weakness and old age, of gratitude. All three ladies were solicitous about his mother, but neither the solicitude of Pani Otocka, nor that of Marynia, was so vigilant or so efficacious as the watchfulness of Miss Anney. Pani Krzycki candidly said that even Ladislaus could not move from room to room with such dexterity the armchair to which temporary disability had riveted her; that he could not anticipate and humor her wants as could this light-haired "good English diviner."
To Krzycki, it frequently occurred that certainly this "good diviner" did all that through kindness and sincere friendship, but also because she wanted to conciliate his mother. And his heart trembled with joy at the thought that the moment would arrive when the wishes of his mother would coincide with that for which he, himself, most strongly yearned. He feared that a premature avowal might sever the ties which were being formed and for that reason he checked the word, which often burned his lips like a flame.
After all, there was an avowal in their silence and glances. Ladislaus did not dare and, until that time, did not wish to tell her plainly that he loved her; he wanted, however, with each word to clear the path and approach that eagerly desired moment. In the meantime it happened that, either from lack of breath he could not speak at all, or else he said something entirely different from what he intended to say. Once when they rode amidst luxuriant winter corn and when a light breeze bent towards them the rye stalks, together with the red poppy and the gray fescue-grass, he decided to tell her that all Jastrzeb bowed at her feet; and he said, with a great beating of his heart, in a hollow voice not his own, "that in places the grain is lying down." After which, in his soul, he called himself an idiot and fretted at the supposition that a similar opinion of him must have crossed her mind. It seemed to him that she, beyond comparison, exercised a better self-control and that she could always say just what she wished to say. Consequently, even at times when partly through coquetry and partly because of her habit of repeating his expressions like an echo, she answered, for instance, "that in places the grain is lying down," he discerned in her words an unheard-of significance and later pondered over them for hours.
But he also had, particularly in the morning, moments of greater tranquillity of mind and greater peace, in which his words were not like a disarrayed rank of soldiers, each one marching in a different direction. At times, the themes for these quieter conversations were furnished by some external objects, but oftener by anxiety occasioned by the impending separation. Krzycki at such times hid behind his mother and in her name expressed that which he did not dare to say in his own.
"I can imagine," he said the day following the second visit of the doctor, "how Mother will long for you."
And the maiden, to whom it evidently occurred that not only the mother but the son would long for her, looked at him a little teasingly, with the hazy light of her strange eyes, and replied:
"I am such a bird of flight that your mother will soon become disaccustomed to me."
"Oh, I warrant you that she will not," exclaimed Ladislaus.
After which, he added:
"I know Mother; she has fallen in love with you immensely."
"Why, hardly ten days have elapsed since we arrived. Is it possible to fall in love so soon?"
To this Ladislaus replied with deep conviction:
"It is! I give you my word, it is!"
There was something so naïve in the manner and tone of the reply that Miss Anney could not refrain from laughing. But he observed this and began to speak rapidly as if he wished to explain and justify himself:
"For do we know whence love comes? Often at the first glance of the eye upon a human face we have such an impression as if we found some one whom we were seeking. There are certain unalterable forces which mutually attract people, although before that time they may have never met and though they had lived far away from each other."
"And must such persons always meet each other?"
"No," he answered, "I think not always. But then perhaps they are continually yearning, not knowing for what, and feel an eternal vacuity in life."
And here, in spite of his will, the sincere poetry of youth and sentiment spoke through his lips:
"You called yourself a bird of flight," he said. "Beloved also is that bird, only not as a bird which flies away but rather as a bird which flies hitherward. For it flies unexpectedly from somewhere in the distance--from beyond the mountains, from beyond the sea, and nests in the heart, and begins to sing such a song that one hearing it would fain close his eyes and never waken again."
And thus he spoke until he grew pale from emotion. For a time he was agitated, like a whirlwind, by the desire to dismount from his horse and embrace the feet of the maiden with his arms and cry: "Thou art that beloved one: therefore do not fly away, my dear bird!" But simultaneously he was seized by a prodigious fear of that night which would encompass him if his entreaty should prove futile.
So he merely uncovered his head, as if he wanted to display his heated forehead. A long silence, which fell between them, was only interrupted by the snorting of the horses, which now proceeded in an ambling pace, emitting under the bridles a white foam.
After which Miss Anney spoke in a subdued voice which sounded a little like a warning:
"I hear Pan Gronski approaching with Marynia."
In fact the other couple soon approached, happy and animated. Marynia, a few paces away, exclaimed:
"Pan Gronski was telling me such beautiful things about Rome. I am sorry that you did not hear them."
"More about the neighborhood of Rome, than Rome itself," said Gronski.
"Yes. I was in Tivoli. I was in Castel Gandolfo, in Nemi. Wonders! I will tease Zosia until in truth we will go there and Pan Gronski with us."
"Will you take me along?" asked Miss Anney.
"Of course! We will all go in the autumn or next spring. Did you folks also talk about a trip?"
For a time there was no response.
"No," Miss Anney finally replied. "We were talking about birds of flight."
"Why, now it is spring and birds do not fly away."
"Nevertheless, you ladies are making preparations for flying away," answered Ladislaus with a sigh.
"True," rejoined Marynia; "but that is because Aunt is going away; and she"--here she pointed at Miss Anney with her riding whip--"has urged us all three to go where the doctor is sending Aunt."
After which she said to Ladislaus:
"You would not believe, sir, how honest she is and how she loves Aunt."
"I, not believe? I?" cried Ladislaus with ardor.
But Miss Anney, who a short time before had asked him whether one could fall in love so soon, became greatly confused and, dropping the reins, began with both hands to set something right on her hat, wishing to cover with them her countenance which glowed like the dawn.
Ladislaus had heaven in his heart, and Marynia, for some time, gazed with her pellucid eyes, now at him and then at Miss Anney, for it was no secret to her that Krzycki was in love up to his ears, and this aroused her curiosity and amused her indescribably.