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.
XII
“See what I received to-day,” said Ladislaus, handing Gronski a letter which came with others in the morning mail.
Gronski glanced at it and knit his brow.
“Ah!” he said, “a death sentence.”
“Yes.”
“With the seal of the P. P. S. They are distributing them quite prodigally.”
“Yes, just like the opposite party.”
“Both are alike. The notary also has one and the doctor several. What do you think of it?”
“Je m’en fiche! But the situation amuses me. I do not know whether you have heard that the Provincial guards have unearthed a secret school in Jastrzeb, which I founded a year ago because my conscience commanded me to. It is a case which I greased but have not yet greased sufficiently. As a result, I now have suspended over me the fists of the authorities and the fists of the socialists. Enjoyable, is it not?”
“It has often occurred to me that elsewhere people could not live under such conditions, and we not only live but laugh quite merrily.”
“For such is our sinewy Lechite nature.”
“Perhaps that is so. You must, nevertheless, be on your guard and it will be necessary to send the ladies away.”
“It will be necessary, it will be necessary,” repeated Ladislaus. “And abroad too, for it is unsafe in Warsaw. But please do not say anything about this foolish sentence to Mother or any one else.”
“Certainly.”
“Mother positively insists upon my accompanying her, and I do not try to shun that — oh, no, not in the least! But summer is approaching and after that there will be the harvest. The overseer is an honest man but before my departure I must give him some specific
instructions how and what he is to do. After they all leave, I would like to stay yet for a week or ten days. Mother will not be alone and without care, as in the first place the younger members of the family will be with her, and again you heard Cousin Marynia say that the ladies will go wherever Mother would be. Through all my life I will ever be grateful to Miss Anney for that proposal; for to Mother nothing could be better or more agreeable.”
“And for her son also, it seems to me,” said Gronski, laughing.
Ladislaus remained silent for a time; after which he began to press the palms of his hands on his temples and replied:
“Yes. For why should I deny that which I confessed to myself and which everybody sees but Mother, who has not observed it because she seldom saw us together. But she also has fallen in love with Miss Anney. Who would not love her? Such a dear, golden creature. I have not, as yet, said anything to Mother because she has her mind set upon Pani Otocka and it will be unpleasant for her to give up the thought. I fear she might be offended. After all, I only know what is taking place within me, and nothing more. I dare not even say that I have any reasons for my illusion. I fear that it may all at once burst like a soap-bubble. Ah! How unhappy I would be. Already I cannot see anything in this world beyond her. Candidly speaking, I do not know what to do with myself, Jastrzeb, and life.”
And grasping Gronski’s hand, he continued:
“If you would only speak with Pani Otocka and ascertain from her whether I may have hope; for they are friends and certainly do not keep any secrets from each other. If you would only do this for me; and in due time speak with Mother! But with Pani Otocka as soon as possible! Will you do it?”
“I have spoken with Pani Otocka about that,” replied Gronski, “but what, do you suppose, she answered? That she could not tell me anything as Miss Anney confided to her a certain personal secret which she was not at liberty to divulge. I admit that this surprised me. In reality, the secret cannot be anything derogatory to Miss Anney, as otherwise Pani Otocka would not be on such cordial and intimate terms with her. They are like sisters, and in Warsaw they lived together, almost door to door. After all, Pani Otocka, it seemed to me, was sincerely in your favor and, at times, I received the impression that she was concerned in having matters come to the pass which they have. As for Marynia, she wriggles her little ears and with that it ends. In any case, be assured that you have not enemies in those ladies and, if you want to know my personal views, much less in Miss Anney.”
“Would to God! Would to God!” answered Ladislaus. “You have given me a little encouragement and I breathe more easily.”
“But you, I see, have fallen unto your ears,” observed Gronski.
“I give you my word that I prefer one of her fingers or the ray of her hair to all the women in the world. I never had a conception that one could thus surrender himself. At times I do not know what is happening to me or what will occur, for only think: I have Jastrzeb, the estate, the Rzeslewo affairs, Mother’s departure, and here I cannot think of anything but her — but her — and to nothing else can I apply my mind. I regret every moment in which I do not gaze upon her. To-day, for instance, I received a summons from the Directory to come in reference to the will and Rzeslewo, and I postpone the matter until tomorrow. I cannot — plainly — I cannot! I would go at night were it not that the Directory is closed for the night.”
“Remember, however, the death sentence.”
“May the devil take them with their sentence, or let them finally shoot me in the head. I would still be thinking of her, especially after what you have told me. But how do you know that Pani Otocka is in my favor? Those are honest, golden hearts, both of those cousins! How did you say it? That they are not my enemies? Thank God, even for that! For, why should they hate me? But please speak with Pani Otocka again. I am not concerned about her betraying any secret but only that, knowing Miss Anney, she should say something one way or the other — you know what I want — certainty — even though a morsel—”
“Certainly,” said Gronski, laughing, “I will seek an opportunity to-day.”
“Thank you! Thank you!”
In fact an opportunity was easily found, as Pani Otocka also had some news which she desired to impart to Gronski, and with this object she sent her maid to him with an invitation to meet her on the yoked elm walk, near the pond. When they met there she gave him, just as Ladislaus had done a while before, a letter which arrived in the same morning’s mail and said:
“Please read it and advise me what to do with it.”
It was a letter from Laskowicz to Marynia and its tenor was as follows:
“A great idea is like a gigantic bird: her wings cast a shadow over the earth, while she hovers in the sun.
“Whoever does not fly upwards with her is surrounded by darkness.
“And darkness is death.
“In that darkness, I behold Thee, like an alabaster statuette. This night the sounds of thy music reach me.
“And lo, in my lonely chamber I think of Thee and grieve for Thee.
“For Thou couldst be a beam-feather in the wings of this gigantic bird idea and inhale the pure air of the dizzy heights and play in glory to the legions of the living; and Thou breathest the air of tombs and playest to a life which is moribund and to souls that wither; and not to people but to ghosts.
“I grieve for Thee, my silvery one.
“And my thoughts fly to Thee like eagles.
“For heretofore there was imbedded in my strength a part of human happiness but there was not in it my own happiness.
“Now Thou suddenly glidest before my eyes like a light, and through my ears like music, and hast filled my bosom with a yearning for things I had not known before, and hast filled me with Thine own indispensable quintessence and a consciousness of my happiness.
“Therefore I loved Thee the same night when I beheld Thee and heard Thee for the first time.
“Henceforth, though Thou are not near me, I am with Thee and will follow wherever Thou wilt be.
“For Thou art necessary to my existence and I am to Thee, in order to resuscitate Thee.
“In order to snatch Thee from destruction; from amidst those who are about to die.
“In order to surrender Thee to the great idea, and the exalted, and the light, and the living hosts who suffer from a dearth of bread and music.
“Thee and Thy music.
“May extermination not fail upon you both.
“Oh, beloved one.
“A certain night I summoned Thee but Thou didst not hear me and didst not come. Now I extend my hands towards Thee and say unto Thee: Come and slumber in my heart.
“And when the time of awakening comes, I will wake Thee for a brief moment of pleasure, which love gives for the toil without an end and which the idea demands.
“For toil and perchance for martyrdom.
“But in that martyrdom for the dawn of a new life, there is greater happiness than in the dusk, mephitic air, ashes and mould of graves.
“Therefore come even for martyrdom.
“And until our existence floats into the sea of nothingness, abide with me.
“Oh, beloved one.”
Gronski’s countenance reflected perturbation. For a time he and Pani Otocka walked in silence.
“What shall I do with this, and what does it mean?”
“This is a disagreeable and vexatious matter, and the letter means that Laskowicz, who never in his life saw a being like Marynia, has fallen in love with her from the first acquaintance, as he himself says. I observed that after a few days and if I did not say anything to you about it, it was because Laskowicz was soon to leave. But he has fallen in love with his head and not his heart, for otherwise, instead of high-flown expressions, borrowed, as it were, from some school of literature, he would have found simpler and more sincere words. His exaltation may be sincere, it may waste and destroy him like a fever; it may last for whole years, but its chief source is the head and not the heart.”
But Pani Otocka, who at the moment was not in the least interested in an analysis of Laskowicz’s feelings, interrupted a further disquisition:
“But what are we to do, in view of this? How are we to act? It is about Marynia that I am concerned.”
“You are right,” answered Gronski. “Pardon my untimely reflections, but it is always better to know with whom and with what one has to do. My opinion is that it would be best not to do anything, just as if this letter had not arrived. You may return it to Laskowicz, but that would be exceedingly contemptuous: this letter deserves, perhaps, to be thrown into a fireplace, but in my opinion it does not merit contempt. It is, if you will permit me to thus express myself, nervous and insolent, but it preserves a certain measure in its expressions and there is nothing brutal in it. Besides it expresses rather the thoughts which came to Laskowicz’s mind than any actual hopes, and to that extent it might be explained to Marynia that this is not a letter to her but a poem for her, not quite felicitously conceived. And Marynia? What impression did it make upon her and what does she say?”
“Marynia,” answered Pani Otocka with a certain comic uneasiness, “is a little offended, a little worried and frightened, but in the innermost recesses of her heart, she is a little proud that somebody should have written such a letter to her.”
“Oh, I was certain of that,” exclaimed Gronski, laughing involuntarily.
After a while he began to speak seriously.
“No doubt other letters will come and as these maybe more glaring, we will have to persuade the little one that she should not read them. If you will permit, I will undertake that, after which, you ladies ought to go to Warsaw, and, in a short time, journey abroad and the matter will end of itself.”
Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz Page 594