But she was mistaken in thinking that Ladislaus did not understand that just for these two reasons he ought to act directly contrary, in order to efface in her the memory of sin and to raise her in her own eyes and to respect her as his future wife. He understood this quite clearly, and often it happened that after parting from her he upbraided himself, not mincing words, and in his soul made a solemn promise of reformation. But as in his easy life he had not accustomed himself to contend with anything and, above all, with himself, therefore this lasted but a short time — as long only as he was away from her, as long as he was not enveloped by the warmth emanating from her; only when he was not absorbed with her eyes; did not feel her hand in his own, and did not intoxicate himself with her feminine attractions. Then reason blinded in him and darkened; he became the slave of blood, full of sophisms, the agent of senses, and the recollection of the former Hanka, instead of repressing the temptation, only increased it the more.
Under such conditions, sooner or later, the storm had to break above the heads of both and create desolation. Accordingly it burst sooner than Krzycki could have foreseen.
One day, coming at the twilight hour to Hanka, he found her in a strange and unusual condition. She was agitated, her countenance was suffused with blushes, her eyes were red, and the hand which she tendered to him, palpably trembled. At the beginning she did not want to tell him what was the matter, but when they sat beside each other, he began to beg of her that she would not make anything a secret with him, but to tell him what occurred, not only as a fiancé, but as her best friend.
Hanka was always conciliated by an appeal to friendship. Therefore after a while she said, smiling sadly:
“I was not concerned about any secret but I preferred to keep to myself an unpleasantness. Did you, sir, ever notice my servant, Pauly?”
(Hanka from a certain time addressed her fiancé as “sir,” believing that in this manner she would hold him more easily at a proper distance.)
“Pauly?” repeated Ladislaus, and though, after all, he thus far had done nothing with which to reproach himself, a sudden disquiet arose in him. “Pauly? Why of course! Why, she was at Jastrzeb and I saw her here everyday. What happened?”
“She created for me a horribly disagreeable scene and has left me.”
“Why?”
“That is just what I do not know. She always was very violent and nervous, but very honest. So I was attached to her and I thought that she would be attached to me. But for some time I have observed in her something like a dislike to me, with each day greater. Really, I never was harsh to her; even the contrary. So I attributed everything to the nerves. In the meantime, to-day, it came to an outburst and it is so disagreeable to me! so disagreeable!”
Hanka’s voice faltered, and it could be seen that she felt the whole occurrence deeply. So Ladislaus pressed her hand to his lips and asked with sympathy:
“What kind of outburst was it?”
“This afternoon, or rather after Marynia’s return from the rehearsal, we were to ride up town with Zosia. So, desiring to change my dress, I ordered her to hand it to me. Pauly went after it as usual and brought it, but suddenly she threw it upon the ground and began to trample upon it, and in addition screamed in a loud, shrill voice that she would serve me no longer. At first I was stupefied, for it occurred to me that she had become insane.”
“She surely is insane!” interrupted Ladislaus; “but what further?”
“She slammed the door and left. I did not see her any more. About an hour later somebody came for her things and wages.”
Here Hanka began to shake her head.
“And nevertheless when I recall her dislike and what she told me in the last moments, I do not think that it was an attack of insanity; it was only an outburst of hatred, which she could no longer restrain in herself. And for me this is such a disappointment, such a disappointment!”
“My lady — Hanus,” said Ladislaus, seizing both of her hands, “is it worth while to take to heart the deed of a foolish vixen? For she is a foolish vixen — nothing more. It is enough to look at her. Calm yourself, Hanus, — this is only a momentary matter which it is necessary to forget as soon as possible. Remember who you are and who she is! Such times have come that everything is turned topsy-turvy. Such occurrences now take place everywhere. But they will pass away. In the meantime we two have so many reasons for joy that in view of them such wretched smarts ought to disappear.”
And he began to press alternately her hands to his lips and to his breast and gaze in her eyes, but this increased her grief; for Hanka desiring to spare unnecessary disagreeableness to her betrothed and herself did not confess everything to him. She was particularly reticent about this, that the infuriated servant, on leaving, screamed at her in her eyes, “You base peasant. You ought to serve me, not I you! Your place is with cows, not in the palace!” Perhaps Hanka might not have taken these words so much to heart were it not for the previous friction in her relations with Ladislaus, and were it not for the thought that he transgressed certain bounds perhaps because she was his former sweetheart and a peasant. But just this reason caused the thorn to be imbedded in her heart more deeply and bred in her a fear as to future life in which similar scenes might be repeated more frequently.
So, also, his words about the happiness awaiting them were only drops overflowing the cup of bitterness, and his caresses affected the aggrieved girl like a child, who the more she is consoled the more disconsolate she becomes. There came to her a moment of weakness and exhaustion. The usual strength deserted her, her nerves were unstrung, and she began to sob, but feeling at the same time ashamed of her tears she buried her face in his breast.
“Hanus, my Hanus!” repeated Ladislaus.
And he began to kiss her light hair. Afterwards clasping her temples with his palms, he raised her tear-stained face and kissed off her tears. She did not defend herself; so after a while he sought with his mouth her quivering lips.
“Hanus! Hanus!” he whispered in a panting voice.
The ferment of desire more and more obscured his reason, obscured his heart, his memory. He drank from the girl’s lips while his breath held out, he forgot himself like a drunkard and finally seized her in his arms.
“Hanus! Hanus!”
And it happened that he offended her grievously, that to the humiliation, which she had met that day, he added a new humiliation; to insult, a new insult — that an abyss plainly separated them!
XI
When on the morning of the following day Ladislaus awoke after a brief feverish sleep, he was seized by grief and an insane rage at himself. He recalled everything which had taken place. He remembered that his parting with Hanka the day before was equivalent to being shown the door; there returned to him as a wicked echo his own wretched and dreadful words said in his passion at the time of separation, that if her resistance flowed from fear that later he might break their engagement, then let her know that it was an idle fear. And so he imputed this resistance to miserable motives. And he, a man who prided himself not only upon his good breeding but also upon a subtile sense of honor and personal worthiness — he, Krzycki, could act the way he did and say what he said. In the first moments after opening his eyes, it seemed to him that this was a point-blank impossibility; some kind of a continuation of the nightmare which throttled his slumber, which ought to disappear with the light of day.
But that nightmare was a heavy reality. It was incumbent upon him to take it into account and remedy it in some manner. He sat down to write a letter, in which he smote himself upon the breast, complained, and apologized. He said that no one was able to condemn him as he had condemned himself, and if he dared to beg for forgiveness it was only in hope that perhaps some voice, some echo of the better moments would intercede for him in her heart and would procure for him forgiveness. At the close he begged for an opportunity of repeating in person the words of the letter and for an answer, even in case the sentence pronounced against him was final.
But when the messenger who took the letter informed him upon his return that there was no answer, he fell into genuine despair. As a really spoiled child of life, unaccustomed to opposition and obstacles, and one convinced that everything was due him, it began to appear to him that this was more than he deserved; that he was the injured party. He would not admit, however, that all was lost. He indulged in the hope that Hanka might, before opening the letter, have announced that there was no answer and that after reading it she would be moved, would relent, and rescind her resolution. Sustained by this hope, he dressed himself, strolled over the city for an hour in order to give Hanka time to reckon with her heart, and afterwards rang the bell of her residence.
But he was not received. Then it occurred to him to apply to Pani Otocka. After a while, he nevertheless perceived that the causes of his rupture with Hanka were of such a nature that it was impossible to discuss them either with Pani Otocka or his mother. In his soul he now began to accuse Hanka of downright cruelty, but at the same time the greater the difficulties interposed between them the greater was his grief. He could not, in any measure, be reconciled to the thought that whatever he regarded as his own should be taken away from him; and as is usual with weak persons, he began to commiserate himself.
From Pani Otocka he went to Gronski, regarding him as the only person with whom he could speak frankly and whose mediation would be effective. And here disappointment awaited him. Gronski had suffered for several days with his eyes and was not allowed to read; this put him into a bad humor, and for this reason he received Ladislaus more indifferently than usual. Ladislaus became convinced that it was difficult to speak of the rupture not only with Pani Otocka and his mother, but even with a man and old friend who knew of his former relations with Hanka. A feeling of shame plainly choked the words in his throat, and he began to beat about the bush and palliate things, talk in empty phrases about a misunderstanding and the necessity of a friendly mediation, so that Gronski at last asked, with a shade of impatience:
“Tell me plainly about what you had a falling out, and then I can tell whether I will undertake to bring you together again.”
And evidently he did not attach much importance to the matter for he waved his hand and said:
“It would be best if you made it up between yourselves.”
“No,” replied Ladislaus; “this is more serious than you think, and we ourselves cannot come to any agreement.”
“Well, finally, what was it about?”
Shame, exertion, and constraint were depicted upon Ladislaus’ face.
“In a moment of forgetfulness and ecstasy,” he said, “I passed — that is — I wanted to pass — certain limits—”
And he stopped abruptly.
Gronski began to look at him with amazed eyes and asked:
“And she?”
“Why, if anything had happened there would not have been any rupture and I surely would not speak of it now. She ordered me to the door and not to show myself there any more.”
“May God bless her,” exclaimed Gronski.
Silence ensued. Gronski walked with big paces over the room repeating every little while, “It is unbelievable!” and again, “An unheard-of thing!” and in addition his face became more and more severe and cold.
After which he sat down and, looking at Ladislaus, began to speak deliberately:
“I have known many people even among our aristocracy, in whom beneath the veneer of society, beneath high descent and all the pretensions of elegant breeding were concealed the ordinary coarse, low, peasant instincts. If this observation can be applied to you as a comfort, accept it, for I have no other for you.”
A sudden wave of anger swept over Ladislaus’ heart and brain. For a while he struggled with himself in order not to explode and answer insult with insult; in the end he subdued himself and replied in a hollow voice:
“I deserve it.”
But Gronski, not disarmed by this confession, continued:
“No, my dear sir, I will not undertake your defence, for I should act contrary to my convictions. To you less than to any one else was it allowable to indulge yourself, even out of regard for the past. And your fiancée must have so understood it, and besides she did not forget her extraction. To you it was less permissible! She was a hundred times right in showing you the door. The matter is really more serious than I thought, and so serious that I do not see any help for it. You did not respect Hanka, your future wife, and therefore yourself and your own honor. In view of this how can she honor you and what can she think of you?”
“I know,” said Ladislaus in the same hollow voice, “and I have said all this to myself in almost the same words. I wrote a letter to her this morning, begging for forgiveness — there was no answer. I went to her personally — I was not received. So I came to you as the last refuge — for — for me there pleads only one thing — I acted badly, brutally, and scurvily, but I have not ceased to love her. There is no life for me without her, and though you may not believe it, nevertheless it is so that under the frenzy which possessed me, under that froth which blinded me and under which I to-day sink, lies the feeling not only deep but pure—”
Gronski again began to measure with great steps the room for he was somewhat touched by Ladislaus’ words.
While the latter continued:
“If she will not read my letters and will not receive me, then I will not be able to tell her that. Hence it is imperative that some one should speak to her in my name. I cannot apply either to Mother or Pani Zosia in this. I thought that you, sir — but since you decline, I now have no one.”
“Look, however, into the eyes of reality,” said Gronski more gently, “for it may be that her love for you was at once torn into shreds. In such case from where will she take it when she no longer possesses it?”
“Let her tell me so; that at least is yet due to me.”
Again silence fell.
“Listen,” Gronski finally said, “I always was a friend of yours and of your mother, but this mission which you want to intrust to me I cannot undertake. I cannot among other reasons, because if your fiancée does not reply to you, so likewise she may not reply to me. One look, one word, will close my mouth and with this it would end. But try another method. Panna Hanka comes quite often with Marynia to the rehearsals, at which I am always present, and afterwards I escort both home. Come with me. You may find an opportunity to speak with her. During the return home I will take Marynia and you will remain with her. I think that she will not repel you even though out of regard for Marynia, to whom she would not wish to divulge what had passed between you. — Then tell her what you have said to me and also beg her for an interview, which, if it cannot be otherwise — will be final. It will be necessary somehow to give to the world some plausible excuse for your rupture; so I presume she will agree to that. If not, we will think of something else.”
Ladislaus began to wring his hands and said:
“Perhaps through Zosia we could ascertain whether this is forever.”
“You understand that she may not have wished to discuss the cause of your rupture even with Pani Zosia.”
“I understand, I understand.”
“But you now have a fever,” said Gronski, “your hands are burning. Go, try to cool off and calm yourself.”
XII
Laskowicz now beheld Marynia, indeed from a distance, but daily. Even on rainy days, when she did not walk to the rehearsals, but rode, he lay in wait on the stairway of the edifice, in order to see her alight from the carriage. On fair days he usually waited near her home, and afterwards followed after her to the hall. As among the employees in the building were found a few “associates,” these facilitated his admittance to the rehearsals. To hide in the boxes or in the seats at the end of the rows was easy, as during the rehearsals only the stage was fully lit up and in the auditorium itself the dusk was illumined by only a few lamps, which were lit in order that the handful of privileged lovers of music, who o
ccupied the seats behind the orchestra, might not be plunged in complete darkness. Amidst these privileged ones, Laskowicz often recognized acquaintances, — Gronski, Pani Otocka, the old notary. Miss Anney, sometimes Krzycki, and two or three times, Dr. Szremski. But notwithstanding his hatred of Ladislaus and dislike of the doctor and Gronski, he was little occupied by them and thought of them very little, as his eyes could not even for a moment be torn from Marynia. He encompassed with his gaze her girlish form, standing out on the edge of the stage, bathed in a lustre of electricity, luminous of her own accord, and involuntarily she reminded him of that alabaster statuette, which the venerable canon deemed his greatest treasure. Laskowicz was not an educated man. His one-sided study of physics had contracted his intellectual horizon and he was incapable of rendering to himself a clear account of certain impressions. Nevertheless, when he gazed on that maid, with violin in hand, on her pure calm countenance, on the elongated outlines of her figure and dress, there awakened in him a half conscious feeling that in her there was something of poetry, and something of the church. She seemed to him an artless supernal vision, to which one might pray.
Accordingly he deified her in his wild, fanatical soul. But there raged within him a revolt against all divinities, therefore he fought with his own feelings and struggled to depress and weed them out to the last extremity. Intentionally he plucked off the wings of his own thoughts: intentionally he imposed fetters upon his vagaries and unchained his concupiscence. He discomfited himself, tortured himself, and suffered.
Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz Page 612