“Ah, you certainly are handsome to the point of nauseousness,” interrupted Gronski, with a certain irritation.
“Bah! — I have already three or four gray hairs.”
“Surely, from birth. How often did you meet thereafter?”
“Before I left her, I asked her whether she could not slip away the following evening. She answered that she could, because in the evening she always gathered the linen, which was being bleached upon the meadow, for fear that some one might steal it, and that besides, in summer time she did not sleep in the cabin with her parents, but on the hay in the barn. After that we met every day. I had to conceal myself from the night watch, so I slunk out of the window into the garden, though this was an unnecessary precaution, for the watch slept so soundly that one time I carried off the trumpet and staff belonging to one of them. It was amusing also that, seeing Hanka only in the night time, I did not know how she really looked; though in the moonlight she appeared to me to be pretty.”
“And in church?”
“Our collator’s pew is near the altar, while the girls knelt in the rear. There are so many of the same red and yellow shawls, studded with so many flowers, that it is difficult to distinguish one from the other. At times it seemed to me that I saw her in the distance, but I could not see her perfectly. The vacation soon ended, and when I returned the following season the Skibas were gone.”
“Did you bid her farewell?”
“I admit that I did not. I preferred to avoid that.”
“And did you ever long for her?”
“Yes. In Warsaw I longed for her intensely, and during the first month I was deeply in love with her. After my return to Jastrzeb, when I again saw the mill the feeling revived, but at the same time I was content that everything should drop, as it were, into the water and that Mother should not know anything about it.”
Conversing in this manner, they turned from the side road to the shady walk leading to the manor-house, whose low lights, from a distance of about a verst, at times glistened through the boughs of the linden, and then again hid themselves, screened by the thick foliage. The night was starry and fair. It was, however, quite dark, for the moon had not yet risen and the copper glow upon the eastern sky announced its near approach. There was not the slightest breath of air. The great nocturnal stillness was broken by the barks of dogs, barely audible, from the distant slumbering village. Involuntarily, Gronski and Ladislaus began to speak in lower tones. However, everything was not asleep, for a few hundred paces from the walk, on the meadow near the river, firelights were intermittingly flashing.
“Those are peasants pasturing the horses and catching crawfish by the lights of the resinous wood,” said Krzycki. “I even hear one of them riding away.”
And in fact at that moment they heard on the meadows the clatter of the horse’s hoofs, deadened by the grass, and immediately afterwards the loud voice of a herdsman resounded, who, amidst the nocturnal quiet, shouted in a drawling tone:
“Wojtek — Bring with you some more fagots, for these are not sufficient.”
The night rider, having reached the road, soon passed by the chatting friends like a shadow. He, however, recognized the young heir, as in riding by them he pulled off his cap and saluted:
“Praised be the Lord!”
“Now and forever.”
And for some time they walked in silence.
Ladislaus began to whistle quietly and to shout at the dog, but Gronski, who was cogitating upon what had occurred in the mill, said:
“Do you know that if you were an Englishman, for instance, your idyl would have ended, in all probability, differently, and you would throughout your life have had a chaste remembrance, in which there would be great poetry.”
“We eat less fish, therefore have a temperament differing from the Englishmen. As to poetry, perhaps there also was a little of it in our affair.”
“It is not so much different temperament as different usages, and in that is the relief. They have a soul, healthier and at the same time, more independent, and do not borrow their morality from French books.”
After which he meditated for a while and then continued:
“You say that in your relations there was a little poetry. Certainly, but looking at it only from Hanka’s side, not yours. In her, really, there is something poetical, for, deducing from your own words, she loved you truly.”
“That is certain,” said Ladislaus. “Who knows whether I ever in my life will be loved as much?”
“I think that you will not. For that reason, I am astonished that this stone should drop into the depth of your forgetfulness and that you should have so completely effaced it.”
These words touched Krzycki somewhat, so he replied:
“Candidly speaking, I related all this to you for the purpose of explaining why I do not accept the bequest, and, in the naïveté of my soul, I thought that you would praise me. But you are only seeking sore spots. Indeed, I would, after all, have preferred that this had not happened, but, since it happened, it is best not to think of it. For if I had as many millions as there are girls seduced every year in the villages, I could purchase not only Rzeslewo, but one half of the county. I can assure you that they themselves do not look upon it as a tragedy, neither do such things end in misfortune. It would plainly be laughable if I took this to heart more than Hanka who in all probability did not take it to heart and does not.”
“How do you know?”
“That is usually the case. But if it were the reverse, what can I do? Surely I will not journey across the ocean to seek her. In a book that might perhaps appear very romantic, but in reality I have an estate which I cannot abandon and a family which it is not permissible for me to sacrifice. Such a Hanka, with whom, speaking parenthetically, you have soured me by recalling, may be the most honest girl, but to marry her — of course I could not marry her; therefore what, after all, can I do?”
“I do not know; but you must agree that there is a certain moral unsavoriness in the situation in which a man, after committing a wrong, afterwards asks himself or others, ‘What can I do?’”
“Oh, that was only a façon de parler,” replied Krzycki, “for, on the whole, I know perfectly. I will publish the advertisements and with that everything will end. The penance, which the priest at the proper time imposed upon me, I have performed, and I do not intend to make any further atonement.”
To this Gronski said:
“Sero molunt deorum molæ. Do you understand what that means in Polish?”
“Having assumed the management of Jastrzeb, I sowed all my latinity over its soil, but it has not taken root.”
“That means: The mills of the gods grind late.”
Krzycki began to laugh and, pointing his hand in the direction of the old mill, said:
“That one will not grind anything any more; I guarantee that.”
Further conversation was interrupted by their meeting near the gates two indistinct forms, with which they almost collided, for though the moon had already ascended, in the old linden walk it was completely dark.
Ladislaus thought that they were the lady visitors enjoying an evening stroll, but for certainty asked, “Who is there?”
“We,” answered an unknown feminine voice.
“And who in particular?”
“Servants of Pani Otocka and Miss Anney.”
The young man recalled the young girl whose dark head obstructed his view of the lustrous hair of the English woman during the May mass.
“Aha!” he said. “Do not you young girls fear to walk in the darkness? A were-wolf might carry off one of you.”
“We are not scared,” answered the same voice.
“And perhaps I am a were-wolf?”
“A were-wolf does not look like that.”
Both girls began to laugh and withdrew a few steps; at the same time a bright ray darted through the leaves and illumined the white forehead, black eyebrows, and the whites of the eyes of one of them, which glit
tered greenishly.
Krzycki, who was flattered by the words that a werewolf did not look like that, gazed at those eyes and said:
“Good-night!”
“Good-night!”
The ladies, with Dolhanski, were already in the dining-room, as the service of the supper awaited only the hunters who, after their return, withdrew to change their apparel. Marynia sat at one end of the table with the children and conversed a little with them and a little with Laskowicz, who was relating something to her with great animation, gazing all the time at her with intense fixedness and also with wariness that no one should observe him. Gronski, however, did observe him and, as the young student had interested and disquieted him from the time he learned of his agitation among the Rzeslewo peasants, he desired to participate in the conversation. But Marynia at that moment having heard the conclusion, joined the other ladies, who, having previously heard from the balcony the shooting in the direction of the old mill, inquired about the results of the hunt. It appearing that neither Miss Anney nor the two sisters had ever seen woodcocks except upon a platter, the old servant upon Krzycki’s order brought the four lifeless victims. They viewed them with curiosity, expressed tardy commiseration for their tragic fate, and asked about their manner of life. Ladislaus, whom the animal world had interested from early years, began to relate at the supper the strange habits of those birds and their mysterious flights. While thus occupied he paid particular attention to Pani Otocka, for he was, for the first time, struck by her uncommonly fine stature. On the whole, he preferred other, less subtile kinds of beauty, and prized, above all else, buxom women. He observed, however, that on that night Pani Otocka looked extraordinarily handsome. Her unusually delicate complexion appeared yet more delicate in her black lace-stitched dress, and in her eyes, in the outlines of her lips, in the expression of her countenance, and in her whole form there was something so maidenly that whoever was not aware of her widowhood would have taken her for a maid of a good country family. Ladislaus, from the first arrival of these ladies, had indeed enlisted on the side of Miss Anney, but at the present moment he had to concede in his soul that the Englishwoman was not a specimen of so refined a race and, what was worse, she seemed to him that day less beautiful than this “subtile cousin.”
But at the same time he made a strange discovery, namely: that this observation not only did not lessen his sympathy for the light-haired lady, but in some manner moved him strongly and inclined him to a greater friendship for her; as if by that comparison with Pani Otocka he had done an undeserved wrong to the Englishwoman, for which he ought to apologize to her. “I must be on my guard,” he thought, “otherwise I will fall.” He began to search for the celestial flow in her eyes and, finding it, drank its dim azure, drop by drop.
In the meantime Pani Krzycki, desirous of learning the earliest plans of the sisters, began to ask Pani Otocka whether they were going to travel abroad, and where.
“The doctor,” she said, “sends me to mineral baths on account of my rheumatism, but I would be delighted to spend one more summer with you somewhere.”
“And to us your sojourn at Krynica left the most agreeable memories,” replied Pani Otocka; “particularly, as we are in perfect health, we willingly would remain in the village and more willingly would invite Aunt to us, with her entire household, were it not that the times are so troublous and it is unknown what may happen on the morrow. But if it will quiet down. Aunt, after her recovery, must certainly pay us a visit.”
Saying this, she ardently kissed the hand of Pani Krzycki who said:
“How good you are and how lovable! I would with all my heart go to you, only, with my health, I must not obey the heart but various hidden ailments. Besides, the times are really troublous and I understand it is rather dangerous for ladies to remain alone in the villages. Have you any reliable people in Zalesin?”
“I do not fear my own people as they were very much attached to my husband, and now that attachment has passed to me. My husband taught them, above all things, patriotism, and at the same time introduced improvements which did not exist elsewhere. We have an orphanage, hospital, baths, stores, and fruit nurseries for the distribution of small trees. He even caused artesian wells to be sunk to provide enough healthful water for the village.”
Dolhanski, hearing this, leaned towards Krzycki and whispered:
“A capitalist’s fantasy. He regarded his wife and Zalesin as two playthings which he fondled, and played the rôle of a philanthropist because he could afford it.”
But Pani Krzycki again began to ask:
“Who now is in charge of Zalesin?”
And the young widow, having cast off a momentary sad recollection, answered with a smile:
“In the neighborhood they say Dworski rules Zalesin. — He is the old accountant of my husband and is very devoted to us. — I rule Dworski, and Marynia rules me.”
“And that is the truth,” interjected Miss Anney, “with this addition, and me also.”
To this Marynia shook her head and said:
“Oh, Aunt, if you only knew how they sometimes twit me!”
“Somehow I do not see that, but I think that the time will come when somebody will rule you also.”
“It has already come,” broke out Marynia.
“So? That is curious. Who is that despot?”
And the little violinist, pointing with a quick movement of her little finger at Gronski, said:
“That gentleman.”
“Now I understand,” said Dolhanski, “why, after our return from the notary, he had a teapot full of hot water over his head.”
Gronski shrugged his shoulders, like a man who had been charged with unheard-of things, and exclaimed:
“I? A despot? Why, I am a victim, the most hypnotized of all.”
“Then Pan Laskowicz is the hypnotizer, not I,” answered the young miss, “for he himself at supper was telling me about hypnotism and explaining what it is.”
Gronski looked toward the other end of the table, in the direction of the student, and saw his eyes, strained, refractory, and glistening, fastened upon Marynia.
“Aha!” he thought, “he actually is trying his powers upon her.”
He frowned and, addressing her, said:
“Nobody in truth knows what hypnotism is. We see its manifestations and nothing more. But how did Laskowicz explain it to you?”
“He told me what I already had heard before; that the person put to sleep must perform everything which the operator commands, and even when awakened must submit to the operator’s will.”
“That is untrue,” said Gronski.
“And I think likewise. He claimed also that he could put me to sleep very easily, but I feel that he cannot.”
“Excellent! Do such things interest you?”
“Hypnotism a little. But if it is to be anything mysterious, then I prefer to hear about spirits; especially do I like to hear the stories which one of our neighbors relates about fairies. He says they are called sprites, and indulge in all kinds of tricks in old houses, and they can be seen at night time through the windows in rooms where the fire is burning in the hearth. There they join hands and dance before the fire.”
“Those are gay fairies.”
“And not malicious, though mischievous. Our aged neighbor piously believes in them and quarrels about them with the rector. He says his house is full of them and that they are continually playing pranks: sometimes pulling the coils of the clock to make it ring; sometimes hiding his slippers and other things; making noise during the night; hitching crickets to nut-shells and driving with them over the rooms; in the kitchen they skim the milk and throw peas into the fire to make them pop. If you do not vex them, they are benevolent, driving away spiders and mice, and watching that the mushrooms do not soil the floor. This neighbor of ours at one time was a man of great education, but in his old age has become queer, and he tells us this in all seriousness. We, naturally, laugh at it, but I confess that I very much wish
that such a world did exist; — strange and mysterious! There would be in it something so good and nice, and less sadness.”
Here she began to look off with dreamy eyes and afterwards continued:
“I remember also that whenever we discussed Boecklin’s pictures, those fauns, nymphs, and dryads which he painted, I always regretted that all that did not exist in reality. And sometimes it seemed to me that they might exist, only we do not see them. For, in truth, who knows what happens in the woods at noontime or night time, when no one is there; or in the mists during the moonlight or upon the ponds? Belief in such a world is not wholly childish, since we believe in angels.”
“I also believe in fairies, nymphs, dryads, and angels,” answered Gronski.
“Really?” she asked, “for you always speak to me as to a child.”
And he answered her only mentally:
“I speak as with a child, but I idolize.”
But further conversation was interrupted by the servant, who informed Ladislaus that the steward of Rzeslewo had arrived and desired to see the “bright young lord” on a very important matter. Krzycki apologized to the company and with the expression, customary with country husbandmen, “What is up now?” left the room. As the supper was almost finished, they all began to move, after the example of the lady of the house, who, however, for a while endeavored in vain to rise, for the rheumatism during the past two days afflicted her more and more. Similar attacks occurred often and in such cases her son usually conducted her from room to room. But in this instance Miss Anney, who sat nearest to her, came to her assistance and, taking her in her arms, lifted her easily, skillfully, and without any exertion.
“I thank you, I thank you,” said Pani Krzycki, “for otherwise I would have to wait for Laudie. Ah, my God, how good it is to be strong!”
“Oh, in me you have a veritable Samson,” answered Miss Anney in her pleasant, subdued voice.
But at that moment Ladislaus, who evidently recalled that he had to escort his mother, rushed into the room and, seeing what was taking place, exclaimed:
Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz Page 587