On account of Marynia’s birthday, Miss Anney with her maid went to buy flowers. The day before, Gronski told her that he saw in one of the stores Italian rosy lilies, such as are sold in whole bundles in the vicinity of Lucca and Pisa, but which are cultivated but little in the conservatories of Warsaw and seldom imported into the country. As Marynia had inquired about them with great curiosity. Miss Anney decided to purchase for her all that could be found in the store. The previous evening she bantered Gronski, telling him that she would forestall him in the purchase, for he, as a known sleepy-head, would be unable to leave his home early enough. Determined to play a joke upon him, she left the house at eight in the morning, so as to be present at the opening of the store. She had, besides, a letter prepared, with the words “They are already bought,” which she intended to send to Gronski by Pauly, and exulted at the thought that Gronski would receive it at his morning coffee.
In fact everything went according to her plans, for she was the first buyer at the store. She was disappointed only in this: that there were too few lilies. There was only one flower-pot, containing about a dozen stalks with flowers. So the decoration of Marynia’s whole room with them was out of the question. But for just this reason Miss Anney eagerly bought the one sample and, paying the price asked for it, directed that it be sent to the Otocka residence. She was annoyed, however, when informed in the store that the gardener delivering flowers could not come until noon-time, for she desired that Marynia should have them before she rose from bed.
“In that case,” she said, turning to Pauly, “call a hack and we will take the flower-pot with us.”
But Pauly, who, though she behaved quite indifferently and even refractorily in respect to her mistress and also to Pani Otocka, had a sort of exceptional adoration, bordering on sympathy, for Marynia, replied:
“Let Madame permit me to carry these flowers alone. In the hack they will be shaken up and may fall off.”
“But you are to go with the letter to Pan Gronski and, besides, you will tire yourself with the flower-pot.”
“Pan Gronski’s residence is on the way; and what if I do tire myself a little for the golden little lady. May I not do that much for her?”
Miss Anney understood that a refusal would cause her great vexation, therefore she said:
“Very well. You are an honest soul. But if it should be too heavy for you, take a hack. I will go to church.”
And she went to church to pray for Ladislaus, who was that day to leave the house for the first time and pass the evening at Pani Otocka’s, owing to Marynia’s birthday. She expected that the following day he would visit her and she wanted also to commit that day to divine protection.
Pauline, taking the lilies, went in an opposite direction towards Gronski’s residence. After a few score of steps the flower-pot filled with earth began to grow heavy; so, shifting it from one arm to the other, she thought:
“If it was for any one else, I would throw everything upon the ground, but she is such a bird that it is hard not to love her—I would carry for her even two such flowerpots and I would not do her any harm.—Even in case—he loved her alone.”
And at this gloomy thought her countenance darkened yet more. In her heart, capable only of extreme feelings, began a struggle between her strange adoration for Marynia and her blind and passionate love for Krzycki; it was accompanied by the terrible and hopeless consciousness that under no circumstance could he be hers, as he was a young lord, heir, almost prince royal, and she a simple girl for sewing, setting the parlor in order, and household work. To this was added immediately a feeling of a prodigious wrong. Why, she might have been born also a “little lady” and not brought up in an orphan asylum, under the care of sisters of charity, but in a rich lordly home. Why was it not so, instead of the vile work of the servant’s station awaiting her till death?
And here it occurred to her mind that there is now, however, a kind of people, a kind of “party,” which wants to take away property from the rich, distribute it among the poor, level all people, so that there will be no rich men and paupers, no servants and lords, no wrong of any kind in the world; and in the place thereof, all ranks will be one and the same, and liberty will be identical. She had heard of this from the servants in the house, from the craftsmen, from the salesmen in the stores to which she went to make purchases, and also through overhearing the conversations of the “gentility.” It surprised her that these people were called socialists, for heretofore a “socialist” and a madman roaming over the streets with knife in hand meant to her one and the same thing. For a time after the attack upon Krzycki, when the report was spread that the socialists did it, she even felt for them such furious and blind hatred that she was willing to poison them or bake them upon live fires. Later, when the servants in Jastrzeb began to repeat that the young heir was waylaid not by them, but by people of Rzeslewo, this hatred became extinguished. But subsequently, when the girl learned more accurately what the socialists aimed at and who they were, she was but little interested in them. She partly regarded their ideas as foolish and partly thought of other things more personal, and finally, she distinguished in Poland only “her own” and “not her own,” loving, not knowing why, the first, and hating indiscriminately all the others. It was not until the last few days that it began to dawn in her head that among her own there existed terrible and painful differences; that for some there was wealth, for others poverty; that for a few there was enjoyment and for others toil; for some, laughter, for others, tears; for some, happiness, for others, woe and injury.
This became clear to her, particularly at that moment when with greater suffering than ever before she became aware that this young gentleman, to whom her soul and body were urged, was simply an inaccessible star, on which she was barely permitted to gaze. And although nothing had happened that day which particularly irritated her and nothing had altered, she was possessed by a despair such as she never felt before.
But the course of her gloomy meditations was finally interrupted by an external incident. Notwithstanding the early hour, she observed on the corner of the precinct a large crowd of people, agitated by some uneasiness. Their faces were turned towards the depth of a cross street, as if something unusual was taking place there. Some rushed forward while others retreated with evident fear. Some, arguing heatedly and pointing at something with their hands, looked upwards to the roofs of the houses. From all directions flocked new crowds of workingmen and striplings. Among the hack-drivers standing on the corner an unusual commotion prevailed: the drivers, in groups of varying numbers, wheeled their horses about in different directions as though they wished to blockade the street. Suddenly shrill cries resounded and then shots. In one moment an indescribable confusion arose. The throng swung to and fro and began to scamper; the cries sounded shriller and shriller each moment. It was evident that they were pursuing somebody. The girl, with her lilies, stood as if thunderstruck, not knowing what to do. Then, suddenly from amidst the hacks, a man dashed out, bent forward with lowered head, and at full speed ran towards her. On the way he flung away his cap and snatched a hat from the head of a stripling who, understanding the situation in the twinkle of an eye, did not even quiver. The hack-drivers began yet more zealously to block the street, evidently with a view to make the pursuit more difficult. But right behind them again rattled the revolver shots, and amidst the general cries and tumult already could be heard the shrill sounds of the police whistles and the hoarse, bellowing shouts of “Catch him! catch him!” A blind, excessive fright now seized Pauly, and she began to run, squeezing unconsciously to her bosom the flower-pot with the lilies, as if she wanted to save her own child.
But she had barely run a dozen or more steps when a panting, low voice began to cry close behind her:
“Lady, give me the flowers! For the mercy of God, lady, give me the flowers! Save!”
The girl turned about suddenly with consternation, and indescribable amazement was reflected in her eyes, for she recognized Laskowicz.
He, having violently wrested from her the flower-pot, to which, not knowing what she was doing, she clung with all her strength, whispered further:
“Perhaps they will not recognize me. I will tell them that I am a gardener. Save me, little lady! Perhaps they will not recognize. I am out of breath!”
She wanted to run farther but he restrained her.
In the meantime, from among the chaos of hacks, a dozen or more policemen and civil agents emerged. The majority of the mob moved at a running pace in a direction opposite to the one in which Laskowicz and the girl were going, and undoubtedly they intentionally moved that way in order to deceive the pursuers. To better hoodwink the police, cries of “Catch him!” resounded among the laborers. Some workingman began to whistle shrilly on his fingers, imitating the sound of a police whistle. Accordingly the policemen and agents plunged headlong after the dense mob. At the intersection of the streets only a few stood still, and these, after a moment’s irresolution, set off in the other direction, but they ran at full speed by the girl and the man with the light hat, carrying flowers. Rushing ahead they seized a few workingmen, but other workingmen rescued them in a moment. Pauly and Laskowicz walked farther.
“They missed me,” said the student. “Here no one would betray. They missed! Those flowers and another’s hat fooled them. I thank you, little lady; I thank you from my whole soul, and until my death I will never be able to sufficiently repay you.”
But she, not having yet entirely recovered from her amazement, began to ask:
“What happened? Where did you come from?”
“From the roof; they pounced upon us in a printing plant. The others will get a year or two and nothing more will happen to them—but for me, there would be the halter.”
“How did you manage to escape?”
“When we got on the roof, I slid down the gutter-pipe. I might have broken my neck. It was not until I reached the street that they observed me. They fired shots at me, but luckily I was not hit, for the blood would have betrayed me. Whoever was alive helped me, and I was hidden by the hacks. They did not see how I changed a cap for a hat. But if it was not for my female associate it would have been all over with me.”
“What female associate?”
“I speak of you, little lady, thus. Amongst us such is the custom.”
“Then do not call me that, for I am no female associate.”
“That is a pity. But this is not the time to speak of that. Once more I thank you for the rescue, though it is for a short time.”
“Why for a short time?”
“Because I do not know what to do with myself, where to go, and where to hide. Every night I sleep in a different place but they are seeking for me everywhere.”
“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.”