Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz

by Henryk Sienkiewicz

  “Let us now return to the salon.”

  “Let us return,” answered Marynia.

  On the way she said with delighted countenance:

  “You and Zosia, thought that I saw nothing, and I — oho!”

  In the salon they chanced upon a political discussion. The tall elderly gentleman with the white mane, who was a colleague and friend of the late Otocki and at the same time editor of one of the principal dailies in Warsaw, said:

  “They think that this is a new state of affairs, which henceforth is bound to continue, but it is an attack of hysteria, after which exhaustion and prostration will follow. I have lived long in the world and often have witnessed similar phenomena. Yes, it is so. It is a stupid and wicked revolution.”

  If Swidwicki had heard from some madman that this was a wise and salutary revolution, he undoubtedly would have been of the opinion of the old editor, but, as he esteemed lightly journalists in general, he was particularly angered at the thought that the amiable old gentleman passed in certain circles as a political authority; so he began at once to dispute.

  “Only the bottomless naïvete of the conservatives,” he said, “is capable of demanding from a revolution reason and goodness. It is the same as demanding, for instance, of a conflagration that it should be gentle and sensible. Every revolution is the child of the passions — unreason and rage — and not of love. Its aim is to blow up the old forms of folly and evil and forcibly introduce into life the new.”

  “And how do you picture to yourself the new?”

  “In reality as also foolish and wicked — but new. Upon such transitions our history is based, and even the annals of mankind in general.”

  “That is the philosophy of despair.”

  “Or of laughter.”

  “If of laughter, then it is egoism.”

  “Yes, that is so. My partisanship begins with me and ends with me.”

  Gronski impatiently smacked his lips; while the editor took off his spectacles and, winking with his eyes, began to wipe them with a handkerchief.

  “I beg pardon,” he said with great phlegm. “Your party affiliations may be very interesting but I wanted to speak of others.”

  “Less interesting—”

  But the old journalist turned to Gronski.

  “Our socialists,” he said, “have undertaken the reconstruction of a new house, forgetting that we live huddled together in only a few rooms, and that in the others dwell strangers who will not assent to it; or rather, on the contrary, they will permit the demolition of those few rooms, but will not allow their reconstruction.”

  “Then it is better to blow up the whole structure with dynamite,” interjected Swidwicki.

  But this remark was passed over in silence; after which Gronski said:

  “One thing directly astonishes me, and that is that the conservatives turn with the greatest rage not against the revolutionists, but against the national patriots, who do not desire a revolution and who alone have sufficient strength to prevent it. I understand that a foreign bureaucracy does this, but why should our patres conscripti clear the way in this for them?”

  The editor replaced the spectacles, wetted his finger in the tea seeking the cup, afterwards raised it to his lips, drank, and replied:

  “The reason of that is their greater blindness and sense.”

  “Please explain!” exclaimed Swidwicki, who was a little impressed by this reply.

  And the neighbor from Zalesin, who eagerly listened to the words of the journalist, asked:

  “How is that, sir benefactor? I do not understand.”

  “Yes, it is so,” answered the editor. “Their greater blindness is due to the narrower horizon, to the lack of ability to look ahead into the future, into those times and ages which are yet to come, for which it is a hundred times more important that the great Sacred Fire. should not be extinguished than that any immediate paltry benefits should be obtained. It is necessary to have a sense of coming events, and this they do not possess. They are a little like Esau who relinquished his heritage for a pot of lentils. And for us it is not allowable to relinquish anything. Absolutely nothing! On the other hand, when concerned about isolated moments, about ranks and connections in a given instant of time, the conservatives are a hundred times more sensible, adroit — commit far less errors in details and view matters more soberly. I speak of this with entire impartiality for I myself am a nonpartisan.”

  “Who is right neither in the present time nor will be in the future,” interposed Swidwicki. “After all, I agree that the difference between the views of politicians favoring reconciliation and sentimental patriots and zealots in general lies in this, that from political moderation you can immediately coin money, though at times counterfeit, but from sentimental politics, — only in the future. History confirms at every stage that what one hundred, fifty, or twenty years ago appeared to be political or social insanity, to-day has entered into being. And it will be ever thus in the further course of time.”

  “That may be,” said Gronski, “but it is only just so far as radicalism of ideas or the furies of feeling do not strike terror in a great, stupid, immediate act. For if this occurs a crime is perpetrated, and error is born which menaces the future. This happens frequently.”

  “And I assume that this is just what the conservatives fear,” answered the journalist, “an excessively warm patriotism — and it must be admitted, often improvident and absurd in its manifestations — strikes them with terror. Formerly they feared that the peasants, who read ‘The Pole’ might take to their scythes. At present they have gooseflesh when some zealot breaks out with a word about the future kingdom of Poland.”

  “Kingdom of Poland!” said Swidwicki, snorting ironically. “I will tell you gentlemen an anecdote. A certain Russian official became insane and suffered from a mania of greatness. In reality his delusion lay in this, that he attained the highest position in heaven as well as on earth. And whom do you suppose that he imagined himself to be?”

  “Well! God?”

  “More.”

  “I confess that my imagination reels,” answered Gronski.

  “Ah, you see! In the meantime he invented a position still higher, for he represented himself as the ‘presiding officer’ of the Holy Trinity. Understand? That there was a committee consisting of God, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost — and he was its chairman. Is not that more?”

  “True, but why do you cite that anecdote?”

  “As a proof that for diseased brains there are no impossibilities and that only such brains can think of a kingdom of Poland.”

  Gronski remained silent for a while, and then said: “Twenty millions of people are something tangible, and permit me to say that the chairmanship of the Holy Trinity is a greater impossibility. What do you know about the future and who can divine it? The most you can say is that in view of the present conditions the thought of creating anything like it by force, through revolution, would be a mistake, and even a crime. But our nation will be devoured only when it allows itself to be devoured. But if it does not? If through great and noble efforts it shall bring forth enlightenment, social discipline, prosperity, science, literature, art, wealth, sanitation, a quiet internal strength, then what? And who to-day can tell what shape in the future the political and social conditions will assume? Who can vouch that the systems of government of the present day may not entirely change, that they will not fall and will not be adjudged as idiotic and criminal as to-day we regard tortures? Who can divine what governments will arise in that great sea which is humanity? The man who, for instance, in the time of Cicero would have said that social economy could exist without slavery would have been deemed crazy, and, nevertheless, to-day slavery does not exist. And in our political relations something similar might take place. To-day’s conditions of coercion might change into voluntary and free unions. I do not know whether it will be so, but you do not know that it will not be so. In view of this, I see the necessity of quiet and iron
labor, but I do not see the necessity of the repudiation or renunciation of any ideals — and I will tell you too that the Pole who does not bear that great ideal, at the bottom of his soul, is in a measure a renegade; and I do not understand why he does not renounce everything.”

  “Write that in verse and in Latin,” answered Swidwicki with impatience, “for in that manner you will upset the heads of a less number of men.”

  “Then our present day antagonists may themselves say to us: ‘Arrange matters to suit yourselves.’ At the present moment it may seem a naïve fancy, but the future carries in its bosom such surprises, as not only the shortsighted politicians have not dreamed of, but even philosophers who can look ahead.”

  After which, having evidently sufficient of this discussion, he added:

  “But enough of this. I suspend the argument and pause. To-day we must occupy ourselves not with politics, but with the young lady whose birthday we celebrate and whom undoubtedly such things weary.”

  Saying this, he turned to Marynia, standing at Miss Anney’s side, but she, shaking her little head, replied at once with great ardor:

  “On the contrary! I am of the same opinion as Pan Gronski.”

  And she blushed to her ears, for all began to laugh, while Swidwicki replied:

  “If that is so, then everything is settled.”

  Ladislaus smiled at Marynia’s embarrassment, though in truth he did not know what it all was about, as his whole soul surged in his enamoured eyes, gazing at Miss Anney. She stood between two chairs, calm, smiling, white in her light dress, cheery as the summer dawn, and only after the close of the discussion rosier than usual, and he plainly devoured her with his gaze. His thoughts and heart raged within him. He looked at her radiant countenance, on her bare arms, chiseled as if out of warm marble, at her developed strong breast, on the sinuous pliant lines of her figure, on her knees turned towards him and outlined under her light dress, and he was seized by a whirlwind of desires, which struggled with the feeling of worship and respect which he entertained for this maiden, pure as a tear. His pulse commenced to beat strangely and on his forehead appeared a braid of veins. At the thought that she was to be his wife and that all these treasures would be his, he was enveloped by a fire of blood, and at the same time by some kind of debility so great that at times he was uncertain whether he would be able to lift the chair. At the same time he quarrelled with himself. He became indignant from his whole soul at that “animal” which he could not subdue within himself, and upbraided himself to the last words because he did not love her— “that angel” — as he should love her, that is with the love which only kneels and idolizes. So, in thought, he fell on his knees before his loved one, embraced her limbs, and implored forgiveness, but when he imagined that his lips kissed her feet, again lust seized him by the hair. And in this struggle he felt not only unworthy of her, not only “a beast,” but at the same time a half-baked and ludicrous blunderer, deprived of that reason, peace, and self-control which a true man should possess.

  He was also possessed by astonishment that everything which could promise delight should also at the same time torment him. Fortunately, his further torments and meditations were interrupted by music, with which an evening at Pani Otocka’s had to conclude. Bochener sat at the piano, the irascible notary began to blow in his flute, and Marynia stood aside with the violin, and if those present were not accustomed to the sight of her, they would have been astonished at the change which took place in her. The beautiful but childish face of a delighted and inquisitive girl assumed in a single moment an expression of gravity and profound calm. Her eyes became thoughtful and sad. On the red background of the salon her slim form appeared like a design of the best style on a painted church window. There was something in her plainly hieratic.

  A trio began. The gentle tones began to rock Ladislaus’ agitated soul. His senses gradually fell asleep and his desires were extinguished. His love metamorphosed into a great winged angel who carried his loved one in his arms as if a child, and soared with her in the immeasurable space before an altar composed of the lustre of the evening twilight and the nocturnal lights of stars.

  The hour was late, when Gronski, Swidwicki, and Ladislaus left Pani Otocka’s. On the streets they met few pedestrians, but every few paces, they encountered the military and police patrol, which stopped them and asked for passports. This time Swidwicki did not pretend to be intoxicated, for he fell into a bad humor just because at Pani Otocka’s he had to content himself with two glasses of wine. So, showing the policeman the passport, he pointed to his dress-suit and white cravat and asked them surlily whether socialists or bandits dressed in that manner.

  “If only lightning would smite the one and the other,” he said, striking the sidewalk with his cane. “In addition, everything is closed, not only the restaurants in the hotels, but even the pharmacies, in which in an extreme case, vin de coca or alcohol can be procured. The pharmacies are striking! We have lived to see that! The doctors also ought to strike and then the grave-diggers will unwillingly have to strike also. May the devil seize all! At home I have not a single bottle; so throughout the entire night I will not be able to sleep a wink and to-morrow I will be as if taken off the cross—”

  “Come with us,” said Gronski, “perhaps we may find a bottle of something and black coffee.”

  “You have saved not only my life but that of my ‘associate,’ especially if two bottles are found.”

  “We will seek. But what kind of associate are you speaking of?”

  “True, you yet know nothing. I will relate it over a glass.”

  It was not far to Gronski’s residence, so soon they were seated around a table on which was found a bottle of noble Chambertin and a coffee-percolator with black coffee, steaming in a delicious manner.

  Swidwicki regained his spirits.

  “Those ladies,” he said, “are real angels, and for the reason that it is there, as if in Paradise, where happiness consists in gazing upon eternal brightness and listening to the archangel choir.”

  Here he addressed Krzycki:

  “I observed that this suffices for you and Gronski — but for me it is absolutely too little.”

  “Only do not begin to sharpen your tongue on those ladies,” replied Gronski, “for I shall order the bottle removed instanter.”

  Swidwicki hugged it with both hands.

  “I idolize — all three,” he exclaimed with comic precipitancy.

  “Of what kind of associate were you speaking?”

  Swidwicki swallowed the wine and, closing his eyes, for a while appraised its value.

  “I have with me from this morning some kind of gallows-bird, for whom the police are looking and, if they find him with me, they will probably hang us both.”

  “You, however, have given him shelter?”

  “I gave him shelter because he was brought by one whom I could not refuse.”

  “I will wager that it was some woman.”

  “That is true. I can add that she is comely and one of those who excite in me a responsive electric current. But I cannot tell you her name, as she begged me to keep that secret.”

  “I do not ask,” said Gronski, “but as to the current I have no doubt, as otherwise you would fear to place yourself in jeopardy.”

  To this Swidwicki said:

  “Know this, that I do not fear anything in the world, and this gives me in this enslaved country such an unheard of independence as is not enjoyed by any one else.”

  Saying this, he drained the glass to the bottom and exclaimed:

  “Long live liberty — but only my own.”

  “Nevertheless, all this demonstrates that you have a little good in your heart.”

  “Not in the least. I did that, firstly, because I expect a reward, on which, after all, in such virtuous company, I prefer not to dilate — unless after a second bottle — and again, because I will have some one upon whom I can vent my spleen and assert my ascendency. I assure you that my gallows-
bird will not sleep upon roses — and who knows whether after a week he will not prefer the gallows to my hospitality?”

  “That is possible. But in the meantime?”

  “In the meantime I bought for him Allen’s Waters in order to bleach the black tufts of hair on his head into a light color. ‘Are te biondegiante’ — as during Titian’s time. I feel also a little satisfaction at the thought that the police will stand on their heads to find him and will not get him.”

  “But if they find him?”

  “I doubt it. Do you remember that for a certain time I had a footman, a native of Bessarabia, whom you knew? Over two months ago he robbed me and ran away. He has already written to me from New York with a proposition which I will not repeat to you. A superb type! Perfectly modern. But before his escape he begged me to return to him his passport, as now they are asking about passports every moment. But I mislaid it in some book and could not find it. But recently — two or three days ago — I accidentally found it, so that my gallows-bird will have not only blond hair but also a passport.”

  “And will he not rob you like his predecessor?”

  “I told him that he ought to do that, but he became indignant. It seems to me that he is boiling with indignation from morning until night, and if in the end he should steal from me it would be from indignation that I could suppose anything like that of him. That little patroness who shoved him on my neck vouches also that he is honest, but did not even tell me his name. Clever girl! For she says thus: ‘If they find him, then you can excuse yourself on the plea that you did not know who he was.’ And she is right — though when some marks of gratitude are concerned, she scratches like a cat. For her, I expose myself to the halter, and when I wanted from her a little of that — then I almost got it in the snout.”

  Gronski knit his brows and began to sharply eye Swidwicki; after which, he said:

  “Miss Anney’s servant asked me this morning about your residence. Tell me, what does that mean?”

  Swidwicki again drank the wine.