“That is true. They were searching for you in Jastrzeb. Do you know that there was a police-search there?”
“Was there?”
“Yes. Gendarmes, police, and soldiers came. They almost put everybody under arrest.”
“Oh, they would not arrest them—”
The clatter of horses’ hoofs and the rattle of the horseshoes over the stony pavements interrupted for a while their conversation. From a side street ahead rode out a Cossack patrol, consisting of several scores of men. They rode slowly, with carabines resting upon their thighs and looked about cautiously. At the sight of them, Pauly became somewhat pale, while Laskowicz began to whisper:
“That is nothing. They see that I am carrying flowers from the store. They will take me for a gardener and will ride by.”
In fact they did pass by.
“They are now arresting every moment people on the streets in whole crowds,” said Laskowicz. “To some one else that would be a small matter; but if I once fall into their clutches, I will never be able to get out again.”
“Well, what do you intend to do?”
“Carry these flowers for you, little lady.”
“And after that?”
“I do not know.”
“Of course you must have some acquaintances who will hide you.”
“I have, I have! But the police have their eyes upon all my acquaintances. Every night there is a search. For the last two nights I slept in a printing establishment, but today they discovered the printing press.”
A moment of silence followed.
After which Laskowicz again spoke in a gloomy voice:
“There is now no help for me. I will deliver these flowers and go wherever my eyes will take me.”
But in the heart of the girl suddenly there awoke a great pity for him. Before that she was indifferent to him. At present she only saw in him a Polish student hunted, like a mad dog, by people whom she of old despised.
Therefore on her energetic and obstinate countenance, inflexible determination was depicted.
“Come what may, I will not desert you,” she said, knitting her dark brows.
Laskowicz was suddenly seized with a desire to kiss her hand and would have done so if they were not on the street. He was moved not only by the hope of escape, but also by the fact that this girl, who hardly knew him, who did not belong to his camp, was ready to expose herself to the greatest dangers in order to come to his aid.
“What can the little lady do? Where will she hide me?” he asked quietly.
But she walked on with brows knitted by the strain of continuous thinking, and finally said:
“I know. Let us go.”
He shifted the flower-pot to the left hand. “I must tell you,” he said with lowered voice, “that the least punishment for concealing me is Siberia. I must tell you that! And I might cause your destruction, but in the first moments — the little lady understands — the instinct of preservation — there was no time for reflection.”
The little lady did not very well understand what the instinct of preservation was, but instead understood something else. This was that if she brought him, as she intended, to Gronski’s, she would expose to danger not only Gronski but also Krzycki.
And under the influence of this thought she stood as if stupefied.
“In such a case, I do not know what I can do,” she said.
“Ah, you see, little lady,” answered the student, as if in sorrow, while she, on her part, again began to rack her brains. It never occurred to her to conduct Laskowicz to Miss Anney’s or Pani Otocka’s. She felt that here masculine help was necessary and that it was imperative to find some one who would not fear and for whom she, herself, did not care. Therefore she mentally reviewed the whole array of Miss Anney’s and Pani Otocka’s acquaintances. — Pan Dolhanski? No! — He might be afraid or else send them to the devil and sneer at them. Dr. Szremski? He had probably left the city. Ah, were it not for this “young lord” she would conduct this poor fellow to Pan Gronski, for even if he did not receive him, at the worst he would give good advice, or would direct them to somebody. And suddenly it came to her mind that if Siberia threatened the person who concealed Laskowicz, Pan Gronski would not direct them to anybody; but if he could, he would direct them to only one man, whom she also knew. And on this thought, she dusted her dress with her hands and, turning to Laskowicz, said:
“I know now! Let us try.”
After which, standing for a while, she continued:
“Let us enter this house, here, at once. You will wait with the flowers in the hallway and I will deliver the letter upstairs and return. Do not fear anything, for the doorkeeper here knows me and he is a good man. After that I may lead you somewhere.”
Saying this, she entered the gate and, leaving Laskowicz below, rang, after a moment, Gronski’s bell.
Gronski, rising that day earlier than usual, was already dressed and sat with Krzycki having tea. When Pauly handed him the letter, he read it and, laughing, showed it to Ladislaus; after which he rose and went to his writing desk to write an answer. During this time Ladislaus began to question her about the health of his mother and the younger ladies.
“I thank you, the ladies are well, but my lady has already gone down town.”
“So early? And is not your lady afraid to go alone about the city?”
“My lady went with me and bought flowers for Panna Marynia and after that she went to church.”
“To what church did she go?”
“I do not know.”
Panna Pauly knew well, but she was hurt by his asking her about her mistress; while he, conjecturing this, ceased to question her further, for he had previously resolved to converse with her as little as possible.
So, silence — a little embarrassing — ensued between them, and continued until Gronski returned with the letter.
“Here is the answer,” he said; “let the little lady bow for us to the ladies and say that to-day we both will be there, for Pan Krzycki’s imprisonment is now ended.”
“I thank you,” replied Pauly, “but I have yet a favor, — I would like to learn the address of Pan Swidwicki?”
Gronski looked at her with astonishment.
“Did the ladies request you to ask?”
“No — I just wanted to know—”
“Panna Pauly,” said Gronski, “Pan Swidwicki lives at No. 5 Oboznej, but it is not very safe for young girls to go to him.”
She colored to the ears from fear that the “young lord” might think something bad about her.
And she hesitated for a while whether she should tell that Laskowicz was in the hallway and that it was necessary to hide him, as otherwise destruction awaited him. But again she recollected that Laskowicz had been sought in Jastrzeb and that Krzycki, on account of that had been almost arrested. A fear possessed her that perhaps Gronski himself might want to hide the student and in such case would jeopardize the young lord. She looked once or twice at the shapely form of Krzycki and decided to remain silent.
But Gronski spoke further:
“I do not advise you to go to him. I do not advise it. It is said that you once gave him a tongue-lashing.”
And she, raising her head, answered at once haughtily and indignantly:
“Then I will give him a tongue-lashing a second time; but I have some business with him.”
And bowing, she left. Gronski shrugged his shoulders and said:
“I cannot understand what she is concerned about. There is something strange in that girl, and I tell you that your future lady gives evidence of holy patience, that she has not dismissed her before this. She always says that she is a violent character but has a golden heart, and that may be possible. I know, however, from Pani Otocka that the golden heart enacts for her such scenes as no one else would tolerate.”
X
In the evening of Marynia’s birthday, Ladislaus and Miss Anney for a time found themselves at some distance from the rest of the company, at a c
ottage piano, decorated with flowers. His eyes shone with joy and happiness. He felt fortunate that his imprisonment had ended and that he could again gaze upon this, his lady, whom he loved with the whole strength of a young heart.
“I know,” he told her, “that you were this morning in the city and bought flowers. I learned this from your maid, who brought the letter to Pan Gronski. Afterwards you went to church. I asked her to which one, as I wanted to go there, but the maid did not know.”
“That is strange, for she knows that I always go to the Holy Cross, and at times I even take her with me. I am there, daily, at the morning mass.”
“She told me that she did not know,” answered Ladislaus. “Will you be there to-morrow?”
“Yes; unless the weather should be very inclement.”
Ladislaus lowered his voice:
“I ask because I have a great and heartfelt prayer. Permit me to come there at the same hour and before the same altar.”
Blushes suffused Miss Anney’s countenance and her breast began to move more quickly. She inclined her head somewhat and placing the edge of the fan to her lips answered in a low voice:
“I have not the right to forbid nor to permit. The church is open to all the pious.”
“Yes. But I want to kneel a while beside you — together, and not with customary humility; but for a special purpose. As to my piety, I will candidly state that I believe in God, ah! especially now — I believe in God and in His goodness; but heretofore I have not been very pious — just like all others. When, however, a whole life is concerned, then even a man, totally unbelieving, is ready to kneel and pray. To kneel beside you, that alone is an immense boon, for it is as if one had beside him an angel. And I want to beg for something else: and that is that we should together, at the same time, say ‘Under Thy protection we flee, Holy Mother of God.’”
Ladislaus became pale from emotion and on his forehead beads of perspiration appeared. For a time he remained silent, to permit the too violent beating of his heart to subside. After which he again spoke:
“‘We flee’ — that will mean us both. Nothing more, dear, dearest lady, nothing more. After that I will go, and in the afternoon, if you permit, I will come to your residence and will tell you everything which has collected within me from the time I first saw you in Jastrzeb. In your hands, lady, lies my fate, but I must, I must divulge it all; otherwise my bosom will burst. But if you, lady, will agree to a joint prayer of ‘Under Thy protection,’ before that time, then I shall be so happy that I do not know how I will survive until to-morrow.”
And she looked at him guilelessly and straight in his eyes with the celestial streak of the hazy pupils of her eyes and answered:
“Come to church to-morrow.”
And Ladislaus whispered:
“And not to be able to fall at your feet at this moment — not to be able to fall at your feet!”
But Miss Anney tapped lightly, as if reluctantly, his hand, resting on the piano with her own, which was incased in a white glove, and walked away, for, not forgetting herself to the same extent as Ladislaus, she noticed that they were observed. Owing to Marynia’s birthday there assembled that evening at Pani Otocka’s quite a considerable gathering of acquaintances. The notary, Dzwonkowski, appeared; also, an old neighbor from the vicinity of Zalesin; and besides these Dolhanski and both Wlocek ladies, who after a previous exchange of visits, were invited by Pani Otocka. Gronski actually appeared the earliest and well nigh played the rôle of host, in which part he was assisted by the former teacher of Marynia, the violinist Bochener, not less in love with her, and finally Swidwicki, who on that day was exceptionally sober. Pani Otocka was occupied with the Wlocek ladies; Gronski conversed with Swidwicki in so far as he did not direct his eyes after Marynia, who, in her white dress, adorned with violets, slender, almost lithesome, actually looked like an alabaster statuette. But she, and with her Pani Krzycki, began to look with especial attention at Ladislaus and Miss Anney. The little ears of Marynia reddened from curiosity, while on Pani Krzycki’s countenance there appeared uneasiness, and, as if it were, a shadow of dissatisfaction.
But Miss Anney, breaking off her conversation with Ladislaus, approached directly towards his mother and sat down in a chair beside her.
“Pan Ladislaus is so happy,” she said, “that his confinement is ended.”
“I see,” answered Pani Krzycki, “but I fear that conversation fatigues him yet. What did he say to you with such animation?”
For a moment, Miss Anney inclined her head and began to smooth out with her fingers the folds of her bright dress as if troubled, but later, having evidently formed a sudden resolution, she raised her frank eyes straight at Pani Krzycki, just as she had previously at Ladislaus, and replied:
“He said such pleasant and loving things; that he wants to go to church to-morrow and say ‘Under Thy protection’ — together with me—”
In her eyes there were no interrogatories, nor uneasiness, nor challenge, but great goodness and truth.
Pani Krzycki, on the other hand, was put out of countenance by the candor of the reply, so that at first she was silent. It seemed to her that what heretofore was a doubtful, blurred, and indistinct supposition, lightened up and plainly emerged upon the surface, but she tried to disbelieve it; so, after a certain hesitation, she replied:
“Laudie otherwise would be ungrateful. He owes you so much — and I also.”
Miss Anney understood perfectly that Pani Krzycki wanted to give her to understand that the motive of Ladislaus’ words was only gratitude, but she had no time to reply to the remark, as at that time across the arm of her chair the slender form of Marynia was leaning:
“Aninka, may I trouble you to step over here for a moment?”
“Certainly,” answered Miss Anney.
And rising, she left. Pani Krzycki eyed her and sighed. There was in that beautiful form so much youth, health, radiance, so many golden tresses, glances, so much bloom, warmth, and womanly fascination, that an older and experienced woman, like Pani Krzycki, was forced to admit in her soul that it would have been rather incomprehensible if Ladislaus had remained indifferent to all those charms.
And sighing for the second time, she thought:
“Why did Zosia bring her to Jastrzeb?”
And she began to seek with her eyes Pani Otocka, who at that moment was approaching the door to greet an elderly gentleman with a white leonine mane and the same kind of white beard who, evidently being almost blind, stood on the threshold and gazed over the salon through his gold-rimmed spectacles.
Finally espying Pani Otocka, he seized both her hands and commenced to kiss them with great ardor, while she greeted him with that shy grace, peculiarly her own, which made her resemble a young village maid.
“How sweet she is and how lovable!” Pani Krzycki said to herself.
But her further meditations and regrets were interrupted by Swidwicki, who, taking the chair vacated by Miss Anney, said:
“But your son, benefactress, is a genuine Uhlan from under Somo-Sierra. What a race! what a type! I, who everywhere fancy beauty as a setter does partridges, observed this at once to Gronski. Only put a sabre in his hand and place him on horseback. Or at some exhibition! plainly on exhibition, as a notable specimen of the race. Ah, what blood with milk! The women must rave over him!”
Pani Krzycki, notwithstanding her internal worries, was pleased to hear these words, for Ladislaus’ shapeliness was from his childhood days a source of pride and joy for her. But in reality, she did not deem it proper to admit this before Swidwicki.
“I do not attach any importance to that,” she answered, “and I thank God that it is not the only thing that can be said of my son.”
And Swidwicki snapped his fingers and said:
“You do attach importance to it, madame, you do, and so do I, and those ladies only pretend that they do not — that young Englishwoman as well as even that translucent little porcelain maid; though apparently she thinks of n
ought but music.... Perhaps the least of all Pani Zosia, but only because from a certain time she too sedulously reads Plato.”
“Zosia — Plato!” exclaimed Pani Krzycki.
“I suspect so, and even am certain for otherwise she would not be so Platonic.”
“Why, she is not versed in Greek.”
“But Gronski is, and he can translate for her.”
Pani Krzycki gazed with astonishment at Swidwicki and broke off the conversation. Becoming acquainted with him only that evening and having no idea that he was a man who, for a quip, for a wretched play on words and from habit, was ready always and everywhere to talk stuff and nonsense in the most reckless manner, she could not understand why he said that to her. Nevertheless his words were for her, as it were, a ray illuminating things which heretofore she had not observed. She found new proofs that her heartfelt and secret wishes would always remain a dream without substance — and she sighed for the third time.
“Ah, then it is so,” she thought to herself in her soul.
“Yes, yes,” Swidwicki continued. “My cousin is very Platonic and in addition a trifle anæmic.”
In his laughter there was a kind of bitterness and even malice, so that Pani Krzycki again looked at him with astonishment.
In the meantime Marynia led Miss Anney to another chamber. Her ears each moment became redder and her eyes sparkled with a perfectly childish curiosity. So pressing her little nose to Miss Anney’s cheek, she began to whisper:
“Tell me! Did he propose to you at the piano? Did he propose? Tell me now.”
And Miss Anney, embraced her neck with her arms and kissing her cordially, whispered in her ear:
“Almost.”
“What? — at the piano! I guessed it at once! Ho, ho! I am thoroughly conversant with such matters. But how was that? Almost? How, almost?”
“For I know that he loves me—”
“Laudie? What did he say to you?”
“He did not even have to say it.”
“I understand, I understand perfectly.”
Miss Anney, though her eyes were moist, began to laugh, and, hugging the little violinist again, said:
Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz Page 602