“Ah, she also called — she was there. Pani Otocka sent through her an invitation.”
“Pani Otocka sent you an invitation through Pauly. Tell that to some one else.”
“About what are you concerned?” asked Swidwicki, with jovial effrontery. “She ordered her to send the invitation through a messenger but the messengers since last night are on a strike. Now everybody strikes. Girls also, — with the exception of the ‘female associates,’ particularly the old and ugly ones. These, if they strike, then sans le vouloir.”
The reply appeared to Gronski to be satisfactory, as in reality messengers had been absent from the streets since the previous day. Then Swidwicki turned the conversation into another direction.
“I received him,” he said, “not to save an ass, but because I am bored and it just suited me. Some wise Italian once said that the divinity which holds everything in this world in restraint is called la paura, — fear; and the Italian was right. If the people did not fear, nothing would remain — not a single social form of life! On this ladder of fear there are numerous rounds and the highest is the fear of death. Death! That is a real divinity! Reges rego, leges lego, judice judico! And I confess that I, whose life has been passed in toppling from pedestals various divinities, had the most difficulty in overcoming this divinity. But I overcame it and so completely that I made it my dog.”
“What did you do?”
“A dog, which as often as it pleases me, I stroke over the hair, as for instance now, when I received that revolutionary booby. But that is yet nothing! See under what terror people live: the executioner’s axe, the gallows, the bullet, cancer, consumption, typhoid fever, tabes — suffering, pain, whole months and years of torture — and why? Before the fear of death. And I jeer at that. Me, hangman will not execute, cancer will not gnaw, consumption will not consume, pain will not break, torture will not debase, for I shout, in a given moment, at this divinity before which all tremble, as at a spaniel: ‘Lie down!’”
After which he laughed and said:
“And that mad booby of mine, however, hid himself as if before death. Tell me what would happen if people actually did not fear?”
“They would not be themselves,” answered Gronski. “They desire life, not death.”
XI
Swidwicki did not lie when he said that he did not know the name of the revolutionist to whom he promised an asylum, for in reality Pauly had made a secret of it. She so arranged it with Laskowicz on the way. The young student, learning that Swidwicki, to whom the girl was conducting him, was an acquaintance of Gronski and Pani Otocka, in the first moments became frightened inordinately. He recollected the letters which he had written to Panna Marynia, and his odious relations with Krzycki upon whom his party a short time previously perpetrated an attack. Personally he did not participate in it and the suggestion did not emanate from him, but on the other hand he did not have the slightest doubt that the committee issued the death sentence as a result of his reports designating Krzycki as the chief obstacle to their propaganda, and he remembered that he did nothing to prevent the attempt, and was even pleased in his soul that a man, hateful to him and at the same time a putative rival, would be removed from his path.
For a time he even felt, owing to this “washing of hands,” a certain internal disgust; at the intelligence, however, that the attack was unsuccessful he experienced, as it were, a feeling of disappointment. And now he was going to seek shelter with a man who was a relative of Pani Otocka and who might have heard of the letters to Marynia and his relations with Krzycki. This was a turn of affairs, clearly fatal, which might frustrate the best intentions of Panna Pauly.
Considering all this he began to beg the girl not to mention his name, giving as a reason that in case the police should find him, Swidwicki would be less culpable.
Pauly admitted the full justness of this; after a while, however, she observed that if Pan Gronski should ever visit Swidwicki then everything would be disclosed.
“Yes,” answered the student, “but I need that refuge for only a few days; after which I will look for another, or else my chiefs may dispatch me abroad.”
“What chiefs?” asked Pauly.
“Those who desire liberty and bread for all, and who will not tolerate that some one should be raised above you, little lady, either in rank or money.”
“I do not understand. How is that? I would not be a servant and would not have a mistress?”
“Yes.”
Pauly was struck by the thought that in that case she would be nearer to her “young lord,” but not having time to discuss this any longer, she repeated:
“I do not understand. Later, I will question you about it, but now let us proceed.”
And they walked hurriedly ahead, in silence, until they reached Swidwicki’s door. On the ringing of the bell, he opened it himself. With surprise but also with a smile he saw Pauly in the dark hallway and afterwards catching sight of Laskowicz, he asked:
“What is he here for? Who is he?”
“May we enter and may I speak with you in private?” asked the girl.
“If you please. The more private, the more agreeable it will be to me.”
And they entered. The student remained in the first room. The master of the house conducted Pauly to another and closed the door after him.
Laskowicz began to examine the large room, full of disorder, with books, and engravings, and an abundance of bottles with white and blue labels. On the round table, near the window, piled with daily newspapers, stood a bottle with the legend: “Vin de Coca; Mariani,” and a few ash trays with charred lighters for cigars and cigarettes. The furniture in the room was heavy and evidently when new was costly but it was now dirty. Hanging on the wall were pictures, among them a portrait of Pani Otocka, while yet a young unmarried lady. In one corner protruded the well known statue of the Neapolitan Psyche with mutilated skull.
The student placed the flower-pot with the Italian lilies on the table and began to eavesdrop. His life was involved, for if shelter was denied to him he undoubtedly would be arrested that day. Through the closed door came to him from time to time Swidwicki’s outbursts of laughter, and the conversing voices, in which the voice of the girl sounded at times as if entreating, and at other moments angry and indignant. This lasted a long time. Finally the doors opened and the first to enter was Pauly, evidently angry, and with burning cheeks; after her came Swidwicki, who said:
“Very well. Since the beautiful Pauly so wishes it, I will not tell any one who brought to me this Sir Ananias, and will keep him under cover, but on condition that Pauly will prove a little grateful to me.”
“I am grateful,” answered the girl with irritation.
“These are the proofs,” said Swidwicki, displaying marks on the back of his hands. “A cat could not scratch any better. But to only look at little Pauly, I will agree even to that. The next time we will have some candy.”
“Good-by till we meet again.”
“Till we meet. May it be as frequent as possible.”
The girl took the pot with the flowers and left. Then Swidwicki thrust his hands into his pockets and began to stare at Laskowicz as if he had before him, not a human being, but some singular animal. Laskowicz looked at him in the same way, and during that short interval they acquired for each other a mutual dislike.
Finally Swidwicki asked:
“Ah, esteemed Sir Benefactor, of what party? Socialist, anarchist, or bandit? I beg of you! without ceremony! I do not ask your name, but it is necessary to be acquainted somehow.”
“I belong to the Polish Socialist Party,” answered the student with a certain pride.
“Aha! Then to the most stupid one. Excellent. That is as if some one said: To the atheistic-Catholic or to the national-cosmopolitan? I am truly delighted to bid you welcome.”
Laskowicz was not in the least meek by nature, and besides he understood in a moment that he had before him a man with whom he would gain nothing by meekness;
so, gazing straight into Swidwicki’s eyes, he replied almost contemptuously:
“If you, sir, can be a Catholic and Pole, I can be a socialist and Pole.”
But Swidwicki laughed.
“No, Sir Chieftain,” he said, “Catholicism is a smell. One can be a cat and have a fainter or stronger odor, but one cannot be a cat and dog in one and the same person.”
“I am no chieftain; only a third-class agent,” retorted Laskowicz. “You, sir, have given me a refuge and yourself the right to mock me.”
“Exactly, exactly! But for that I shall not require any gratitude. We can, after all, change the subject. Sit down, Sir Third-class Agent. What is new? How is His Majesty, the king.”
“What king?”
“Why the one you serve and who to-day has the most courtiers; the one who, most of all, cannot endure the truth and most easily gulps adulation; the one, who in winter smells of whiskey and in summer of sour sweat, — that mangy, lousy, scabby, stinking, gracious, or rather, ungracious ruler of the day. King Rabble.”
If Laskowicz had heard the most monstrous blasphemies against a holy object, which heretofore mankind venerated, he would not have been more horrified than at the words which passed Swidwicki’s lips. For him it was as if he were struck on the head with a club, for it never crossed his mind that any one would have dared to utter anything like that. His eyes became dim, his jaws tightened convulsively, his hands began to tremble. In the first moments he was possessed by an irrepressible desire to shoot Swidwicki in the head with the revolver he carried with him and afterwards slam the door and go wherever his eyes would take him, or else to place the barrel to his ear and shatter his own head, but he lacked the strength. All night long he had toiled in the printing plant; after which he had fled over the roofs and through the streets like a wild animal. He was fatigued, hungry, and exhausted with the frightful experiences of that morning. So he suddenly staggered on his feet, became as pale as a corpse, and would have tumbled upon the ground if a chair had not stood close by, into which he sank heavily, as if dead.
“What is this? What in the devil ails you?” asked Swidwicki.
And he began to assist him. He poured out of a bottle the remainder of the cognac and forced him to drink it; afterwards he lifted him from the chair and led him to another room and almost forcibly put him in his own bed.
“What the devil!” he repeated; “how do you feel?”
“Better,” answered Laskowicz.
Swidwicki glanced at his watch.
“In about ten minutes, the old woman who serves here ought to come. I will order her to bring something to eat. In the meanwhile lie quietly.”
Laskowicz obeyed this advice, as he could not do otherwise. Lying there, however, he for a time knit his brow, and evidently his mind was laboring. Then he said:
“That king — about whom you inquired — is — starving—”
“May the devil take him!” replied Swidwicki. “The bourgeoisie will feed him, and for this he at the first opportunity will cut their throats. But do not take to heart too seriously whatever I say; for I say the same and stronger things to all parties. All! Do you understand, sir?”
The bell interrupted further conversation. Laskowicz trembled like an aspen leaf.
“That is my old woman. I recognize the ring,” said Swidwicki. “She is earlier to-day than usual. Very well. I will order her to bring food at once.”
In fact, after a quarter of an hour, food was placed on the table. Refreshed, Laskowicz came entirely to himself and did not think of forsaking his new shelter. Swidwicki began to open and rummage through various drawers. Finally, finding a passport, he handed it to Laskowicz and said:
“Before you, Sir Benefactor, become dictator of all Poland you will call yourself Zaranczko. You come from Bessarabia and have served with me a year. If they should catch you and, with you, me, repeat only one expression, ‘Mamalyga, mamalyga.’”
In this manner Laskowicz was installed in Swidwicki’s home.
XII
The morning after Marynia’s birthday was unusually gloomy. The western wind drove heavy black clouds, which hung over the city, foretelling a storm. The atmosphere became oppressive and sultry. When Ladislaus entered the church it was completely dark within. In the Chapel of the Divine Mother a quiet votive mass commenced almost with his entry, and the flickering little flames of the candles, lighted before the altar, poorly illuminated the darkness. Ladislaus began to search with his eyes for Miss Anney and he recognized her by the light hair protruding from under her hat. She knelt in the first pew, her hands crossed in prayer and resting upon an open book. Seeing Ladislaus, she nodded her head and drew aside, to make room for him, not pausing in her prayers. He wanted to speak to her but did not dare, and only kneeling, drew somewhat towards himself the book so that they might pray from it together. It was, however, so dark that he could read nothing and after a while he became convinced that he could not pray at all. He was seized by great emotion, for he understood that a new epoch in his life had commenced, and that this moment, in which by the consent of Miss Anney he knelt at her side before the altar to mutually entreat God for blessing, signified more than any other avowals, and that it was the first sanctification of their loves and their joint future lives. He was possessed by a sense of his happiness, but at the same time by some kind of solemn apprehension at the thought that everything would soon cease to be only a dream, only a fancy, only a phantom of happiness, and become realized and accomplished. Through his mind glided the interrogatories, — How will he be able to bear this happiness, what will he do with it, and how will he acquit himself, — and from these questions there was bred in him a sense of immense responsibility, surcharged with fear. It was like certain worries which hitherto, as a free man, he had not known or at least had not met face to face. And he saw before him cares more direct and immediate. The moment of his interview with his mother was approaching; there were also some secret obstacles, which Gronski mentioned, and it was incumbent upon him to weigh everything, to plan, settle various matters, and set aside anticipated difficulties. In truth, now, if ever, it was worth while and necessary to trust to the Divine favor, invoke the All-provident aid, and deliver her to the care of the Future. Ladislaus observed that similar feelings and similar thoughts must have swayed Miss Anney as her countenance was calm, composed, grave, and even sad. The little flames of the candles were reflected in her upraised eyes and for a while it seemed to Ladislaus that he saw tears in those eyes. Apparently with the whole strength of her soul she committed him and herself to God. And thus they knelt beside each other, shoulder to shoulder, heart to heart, and already united, happy, and a little timorous. Ladislaus, having suppressed the whirlwind of thoughts, at last began to pray and said to God, “Do with me whatever Thou wilt, but grant her happiness and peace.” And a prodigious overflowing wave of love deluged his bosom. His prayer became at the same time a solemn espousal and internal oath that he would never wrong that most precious being in the world, and that those eyes would never weep for his sake.
In the meantime the votive mass was nearing its close. When the priest turned from the altar, his words, in the half-empty chapel, were as if dreamy and like whispering amidst sighs — as usually happens at the early morning mass. But at times they were deafened by thunders, as the storm began outside. The windows of the chapel darkened yet more, and from time to time livid lightning illuminated the panes; after which the darkness grew yet denser, and on the altar the little flames of the candles twinkled uneasily. The priest turned around once more; “Dominus vobiscum!” after which, “Ite missa est.” Afterwards he blessed the assembled and retired. The small number of faithful who heard the mass followed his example. Only they two remained. Then she began to say in a whisper, broken by emotion, “Under Thy protection we flee. Holy Mother of God,” and the further words “Our entreaties deign not to spurn and from all evil deign to preserve us forever,” were said jointly with Ladislaus, and in this manner the e
ntire prayer concluded.
After this, silence fell between them, was broken only after a long while by Ladislaus.
“We will have to wait,” he said in a low voice. “The storm is yet continuing.”
“Very well,” answered Miss Anney.
“My dear, dearest lady—”
But she placed her finger to her lips and silence again ensued. They did not, however, have to wait very long, for the summer storms come and pass away like birds. After the lapse of a quarter of an hour they left the church. The streets were flooded by the rain, but through the rifts of the scattered and rent clouds the sun shone brightly and, it seemed, moistly. Miss Anney’s eyes winked under the flood of light and her countenance was as if she was awakened from a dream. But her composure and gravity did not pass away. Ladislaus, on the other hand, at the sight of the sun, and the bustle and life on the streets, was at once imbued with gayety and hope. He glanced once and again at his companion and she seemed to him as wonderful as a dream, charming as never before, and adorable simply beyond measure and bounds. He felt that he was capable of seizing her at that moment in his arms; of showing her to the sun, the clouds, the city, the human multitude, and exclaiming: “Behold my wealth, my treasure; this is the joy of my life!” But, conjecturing properly that Miss Anney would not assent to any manifestations like that, he subdued this impulse and directed his thoughts to more important matters.
“My adored lady,” said he, “I must give utterance to words which burn my lips. When may I come to see you?”
“To-day at four,” she replied; “I also have to tell you something upon which everything depends.”
“Everything depends upon you, lady, and upon nothing else.”
But her clear cheeks were suffused with confused blushes: her eyes shone as if with disagreeable uneasiness; and she replied:
“God grant — you do not know, sir — you do not know sir—” she repeated with emphasis. “We will be alone. — But now we must part.”
Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz Page 604