So, then, here was a strike of farm-hands and open contumacy, but Krzycki was helpless. He only ordered the aged keeper of the stockyard to tell the hired help that there would come to Rzeslewo to establish order certain gentlemen before whom the vagabonds, who were there the previous day, would abscond as soon as they heard of them; after which he turned back and in half an hour was in Jastrzeb.
A servant told him that all were still asleep, excepting Laskowicz, who had charged him with the delivery of a letter. Krzycki took it and went with it to the office. Having read its contents, he rang for the servant.
“Was he dressed when he gave you the letter?”
“Yes, sir, and was packing his things.”
“Ask him if he can come to my office, and if he can, request him to step in.”
After a while, the young student entered the room.
Krzycki motioned to him to take a seat in the chair, which was near his desk.
“Good day, sir! I learn from your letter that you wish to leave Jastrzeb and that, at once. I presume that you have cogent reasons for this step. I therefore regard any discussion of them as superfluous, and will not detain you. Here you have what is due to you and the horses will be ready at any time you desire.”
But Laskowicz, who in money matters was extremely scrupulous, after counting the money, said:
“You are paying me my whole salary, but as I am leaving before the expiration of the term, I am not entitled to pay for the last month.”
And somewhat discourteously he flung the unearned balance upon the desk.
Krzycki’s cheeks quivered slightly about the mustache, but as he had pledged himself before Gronski that he would not create any disturbance and had made the same promise to himself, he quietly replied:
“As you please.”
“As for the departure,” said Laskowicz, “I would prefer to leave at once.”
“As you please,” repeated Krzycki. “In an hour I will send after the physician for my mother and if it is convenient for you, you may go with that team.”
“Very well.”
“Then the whole thing is settled. I will give orders at once.”
Saying this, he rose and closed the desk, as if he wished to intimate that the interview was over. Laskowicz glared at him with eyes blazing with hatred. He did not seek any broil, but anticipating one, he stood before Krzycki, bent like a bow. Meanwhile nothing approaching an altercation occurred and the revolver, which he had ready for a certain contingency, was of no service to him. There was no reference even to the letter, though that was indited in harsh and rude terms. Nevertheless there was something offensive in the cold tones in which Krzycki spoke, something insulting in the eagerness with which he accepted his offer of departure. To Laskowicz, who viewed everything from his own standpoint, it seemed that the icy conversation accentuated something else, namely, the attitude of a wealthy man who owned Jastrzeb, a desk filled with money, horses, and equipages, towards a poor, homeless fellow. But it did not occur to him at that moment that he on his part had done nothing to improve their relations, but on the contrary had done a great deal to make them worse, and that from the time of his arrival he had shut himself, like a turtle in a shell, in a doctrine inimical to these people. Everything conduced to stir the bile within him to such a degree that he actually regretted that the matter did not end in a personal encounter. But as in the words of Krzycki there was nothing which gave him a pretext for one, he abruptly left the room without any leave-taking and with redoubled rancor.
Ladislaus rang to have the horses ready within an hour, and as it happened to be Friday, he ordered the gardener to catch some fish; after which he began to consider whether the affair with Laskowicz had terminated in a desirable way. He was pleased and displeased with himself. He felt a certain satisfaction and even pride in the fact that he could be laconic and firm, cold but polite, and that he did not stoop to any ruffianly dispute. But at the same time, notwithstanding his pride, a certain disrelish remained, for which he could not account as he was not sufficiently developed psychologically. He kept repeating to himself that such scenes are always disagreeable, and so was the whole business. In reality there was another reason for it. His whole behavior, which appeared to him so temperate, sensible, and well-nigh diplomatic, did not emanate from his temperament, but in direct opposition to his not too deep, but open and impulsive nature. If he had acted in keeping with it, he either would have come to blows with the young student or else would have said something like this: “You have strewn our path with thorns and have upset the minds of our people, but since you are leaving, give me your hand and may you fare well.” The one or the other act would have been more consistent with his character, and he would not have experienced that jarring which he could not understand, but felt none the less.
But further reflections were interrupted by the servant with the announcement that breakfast was ready and that the guests were at the table. In fact, all had already assembled in the dining-room, through which pervaded the odor of coffee and the hum of the samovar. At the sight of the white dresses of the ladies and their fresh, well-rested countenances, Ladislaus’ soul gladdened to such an extent that he immediately forgot all squabbles and vexations. By way of greeting, he kissed Pani Otocka’s hand; then, as if absent-mindedly, that of Miss Anney, but so forcibly that she reddened like a cherry; after which he squeezed Marynia’s hand, saluted the gentlemen and began to cry merrily:
“Coffee! coffee! From the rise of the sun I drank only two glasses of water and I am as hungry as a wolf.”
“Was that a cure? Did you have a fever?” asked Dolhanski.
“Perhaps I did have a fever, but nevertheless I had a horseback ride to Rzeslewo and transacted a thousand matters.”
“How is it in ‘rustic-angelic’ Rzeslewo,” interrupted Dolhanski.
“There is nothing further that is disturbing. Those trouble makers whom I wished to look at, in the eyes, are gone. But now above all things, I want coffee and will not answer any more questions.”
Marynia, as the substitute of Pani Krzycki, who remained in bed owing to rheumatism, poured out the coffee for him, and he also kissed the hand of his young cousin; whereat she was pleased as she fancied that it added to her dignity.
“That is due me as a vice-hostess,” she said, shaking her head.
“And especially taking age into consideration,” added Dolhanski.
She did not show him her tongue only because she was too well-bred.
But Dolhanski, who suffered from catarrh of the stomach, gazed enviously at Ladislaus, eating with such relish, and said:
“What an appetite! A genuine cannibal.”
“Go also over the road a mile before breakfast and you will have the same appetite. But cannibal or no cannibal, when I entered this room, I was ready to devour even this bouquet of flowers which is before me.”
“The time will come when the country nobility will not have anything else to eat,” replied Dolhanski.
But Marynia quickly seized the bouquet and, laughing, shoved it to the other side of the table.
“After coffee there is no fear,” cried Ladislaus. “But what beautiful field flowers! Did you ladies pick them?”
“We are sleepy-heads,” answered Pani Otocka; “they were gathered by Aninka’s servant.”
Aninka was the pet name which both sisters gave Miss Anney.
Ladislaus turned a sharp glance towards the ladies, but as their faces were perfectly calm, he thought:
“She gathered the flowers and did not mention the mishap.”
And Miss Anney, turning the bouquet about and examining it, said:
“An apple-blossom is in the middle, — the good-for-nothing girl plucked it from some little tree, for which she must be reprimanded; these are spearwort, those primroses, and those pennyroyal, which are now coming out.”
“It is, however, astonishing that you speak Polish so well,” observed Dolhanski; “why, you even know the names of plants
.”
“I heard them from the lips of the village maids in Zalesin at Zosia’s,” answered Miss Anney. “Besides, I evidently possess linguistic abilities for I learned from them to speak in a rustic style.”
“Truly,” cried Ladislaus, “could you say something in peasant fashion. Say something, Miss Anney! Do!” he entreated, folding his hands as if in prayer.
She began to laugh and feigning shyness, bowed her head and putting the back part of her hand to her forehead, as bashful peasants girls usually do, said, drawling each word somewhat:
“I would do that only I do not dare—”
Laughter and bravos resounded; only Pani Zosia glanced at her with a peculiar look and she, by becoming confused, enhanced her beauty to such an extent that Ladislaus was completely captivated.
“Ah! now one could lose his head,” he cried with unfeigned ardor. “I pledge my word, one could lose his head.”
And Gronski, who in common with the others fell into good humor, said in a low voice:
“And even consummatum est.”
But further conversation was interrupted by the rattle of the carriage wheels which could be heard in the courtyard and ceased at the balcony.
“What is that?” asked Gronski.
“I am sending for the doctor for Mother,” answered Ladislaus, rising. “Whoever has any errands in the city may speak.”
Dolhanski and Gronski also rose and went out with him into the vestibule.
“I was about to ask you for a horse,” said Gronski. “I know that you have but one saddle for ladies in Jastrzeb, so I ordered another one and must receive it in person at the post-office. I did not want to speak about it before the ladies as it is to be a surprise.”
“Good!” answered Krzycki, “but I will give you another carriage, for Laskowicz is leaving by this one and you surely would prefer not to ride with him.”
“He?” cried Dolhanski. “You do not know him then. He is ready to ride with old Aunt Beelzebub, if he could pull her by the tongue and do all the talking and descanting.”
“There is a little truth in that,” said Gronski. “I am a veritable chatterbox. Indeed, I will willingly go with Laskowicz and will try to get him into a talkative mood for, after all, he does interest me. Did you conclude with him this morning?”
“Yes. I must see Mother for a while and tell her about it. I finished with him and in addition finished peaceably. I, at least, was perfectly calm.”
“So much the better. Go to your mother and I will go to my room for a linen duster; for the dust on the road must be quite thick. I will be back soon.”
In fact he returned in a few minutes, dressed in a linen coat. About the same time a servant brought down Laskowicz’s trunk, and soon the latter appeared, wrapped up in himself and gloomy as night, for the thought that he would not behold his “alabaster statuette” filled him with pain and sorrow; the more so, as after those hypnotic exertions, when daylight restored him to his senses, he began to feel guilty of an offence against her. Instead of swallowing with unnecessary haste his breakfast in his room upstairs, he might have come downstairs and gazed upon Pani Marynia for half an hour longer; but he had not wished to do that because, in the first place, he had not cared to meet Krzycki and, again, he felt that in such company he would enact the rôle of Pilate in Credo. At that moment he regretted that he had not come down and feasted his eyes with her form for the last time.
But a pleasant surprise awaited him when the young ladies, in the company of Dolhanski and Ladislaus, came out on the balcony; and afterwards little Anusia, with whom he was always on friendly terms, having learned that he was leaving, ran with eyes overflowing with tears, pouting lips, and a bunch of flowers in her chubby fist to bid him good-bye. The young student took the flowers from her, kissed her hand, and with heavy heart sat in the carriage beside Gronski, who in the meantime was chatting with Pani Otocka.
Anusia descended the stairs of the balcony and stood close to the carriage doors; upon perceiving which Marynia hastened after her and, evidently fearing that the little girl might be jolted when the carriage started to move, took her hand and began to comfort her.
“Of course he will not forget you,” she said, bending over the little girl, “he surely will write to you and when he becomes very lonesome, will return.”
After which, raising her eyes directly at Laskowicz:
“Is it not true, sir? You will not forget her?”
Laskowicz gazed into the depths of the pellucid pupils of her eyes, as if he wished to penetrate them to the bottom, and being really moved, replied with emphasis:
“I will not forget.”
“Ah, you see,” and Marynia pacified Anusia.
But at that moment Krzycki approached.
“Mother directed me to bid you God-speed.” And he immediately shouted to the driver: “Drive on.”
The carriage moved, described a circle in the courtyard, and disappeared on the avenue beyond the gate.
Miss Anney and the two sisters now went to Pani Krzycki, desiring to keep her company at breakfast, which she on the days of her painful suffering ate in bed. Ladislaus, recalling that he ordered some fish to be caught, walked directly across the garden towards the pond to see whether the catch was successful.
But before he reached the bank, at a turning of the shady yoked elm lane, he unexpectedly met his morning’s vision of “Diana in the fountain.”
At the sight of him the maid stood still; at first her countenance flushed as if a live flame passed through it; after which she grew so pale that the dark down above her lips became more marked, and she stood motionless, with downcast eyes and heaving breast, bewildered and abashed.
But he spoke out with perfect freedom:
“Good-day! good-day! Ah, what is your name?”
“Pauline,” she murmured, not raising her eyes.
“A beautiful name.” After which, he smiled somewhat roguishly and added:
“But Panna Pauly — the next time — there is a bolt.”
“I will drown myself,” cried the maid in a hysterical voice.
And he began to speak in persuasive tones:
“Why? For what? Why, no one is to blame, — that was a pure accident. I will not tell anybody about it and that I had seen such beauty; that was only my luck.”
And he proceeded to the fishing place.
She followed his shapely form with her tear-dimmed eyes and stood on the spot for quite a while in reverie, for it seemed to her that by reason of the secret known to them alone something had transpired between them which would unite them forever.
And afterwards when she recollected how that charming young heir of Jastrzeb had seen her, she shuddered from head to foot.
X
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 i
n 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.
Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz Page 590