Whirlpools

"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,[9 - Mamalyga, a kind of porridge in Bessarabia, made principally of corn.]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 entire 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."

Ladislaus escorted her to the carriage, kissed her hands and remained alone. Her words, corroborating that which Gronski had intimated as a result of his interviews with Pani Otocka, disquieted him, however, but only for a short time, as he was too much in love to suppose that it could change his love or swerve him from his purpose. At the mere thought of this he shrugged his shoulders.

"Women," he said to himself, "are always full of scruples and to actual difficulties they add chimerical ones."

After which, he returned home in the best of humor, and besides Gronski, found there Dolhanski.

"Behold," exclaimed Gronski, "lo, here is Dolhanski the bachelor. Congratulate him for he is going to marry."

"No?" Truly? asked Ladislaus, amused.

"With Panna Kajetana Wlocek," added Dolhanski, with sangfroid and extraordinary gravity.

"Then I tender my best wishes from the whole heart. When is the wedding?"

"Very soon, on account of the weather, famine, fire, and war, also similar exceptional circumstances. In a week. Without publication of the banns, on an indult. After the wedding, the same night a trip abroad."

"And you say all this seriously?"

"With the greatest seriousness in the world. Observe the exquisite consequences."

"Here Dolhanski spread out his fingers and began to enumerate:"

"Primo, my credit is resurrected, as a Hindoo fakir, who, buried in the ground for a whole month, awakes after exhumation to a new life; secundo: Gorek is without a copper coin of indebtedness and without society; tertio: my marriage settlement surpasses my expectations; quarto: my fiancée from good luck has grown so beautiful that you would not recognize her."

"What are you saying?" cried Ladislaus, ingenuously.

XIII

Promptly at four, Ladislaus appeared at Miss Anney's. She received him feelingly and for a greeting offered both hands which he began to press alternately to his lips and his forehead. Afterwards they sat beside each other and for a long time heard only the quickened beating of their own hearts and the faint sounds of the clock on the writing-desk. They reciprocally glanced at each other but neither was able to say the first word. After a while life could glow for them like a new dawn, glistening with joy and happiness, but, for the time being, it was heavy, embarrassing, the more embarrassing the longer the silence continued.

Finally, Ladislaus from a feeling, that, if he kept silent much longer, he would appear ridiculous, mustered enough courage and spoke in a broken voice, whose sounds appeared strange to him!

"From this morning I have a little hope-and nevertheless my heart beats as if I did not have any-I could not say a single word until I caught my breath-but that is nothing strange as my whole life is concerned. – Lady, you long ago, of course, surmised how deeply-how with my whole soul I love you, – you knew this long ago-is it not so?"

Here he again inhaled the air, took a deep breath, and continued:

"To-day in the church I said to myself this: 'If she will hear me, if she does not spurn me, if she consents to be my own for my whole life-my wife-then I vow solemnly to God before this altar that I will love and honor her; that I will never wrong her and will give her all the happiness which is in my power.' And I swear to you that this is the truth-It only depends upon you, lady, that it shall be so-upon your consent-upon your faith in me."

Saying this, he again raised Miss Anney's hands to his lips and imprinted upon them a long imploring kiss and she leaned towards him so that her hair lightly brushed his forehead, and quietly replied:

"I consent and believe with my whole soul-but this does not depend upon me alone."

"Only upon you, lady," exclaimed Ladislaus.

And believing that Miss Anney had his mother in mind, he began to say with a brightened face and deep joy in his voice:

"My mother desires my happiness above all things and I assure you that she will come here with me to beg of you; and with me she will thank you for this great, this ineffable boon, and in the meantime I on my knees thank-"

He wanted to drop on his knees before her and embrace her limbs with his arms, but she began to restrain him and say with feverish haste:

"No, no. Do not kneel, sir, – you must first hear me. I consent, but I must confess things upon which everything depends. Please calm yourself."

Ladislaus rose, again sat beside her and said, with anxious surprise:

"I listen, my dearest lady."

"And I must compose myself a little," replied Miss Anney.

After which she rose, and approaching the window, pressed her forehead against the pane.

For some time silence again ensued.