“For what? — for what?” she whispered with her pallid lips.
Pani Otocka sat at her side and placed her palm on her hand. Gronski was seized with a desire to throw himself on the ground and beat his head on the floor, while the patient asked further in an amazed and mournful whisper:
“For what? — for what?”
God alone could answer that question. But in the meantime the doctor approached and said:
“Do not speak, child, for that harms.”
So she became silent, but the expression of affliction did not disappear from her countenance, and tears continued to flow.
Her sister began to wipe them off; repeating in a subdued voice:
“Marynia, Marynia, calm yourself — you will be well — you are not dangerously wounded — no, no — the doctor guarantees that—”
Marynia raised her eyes at her as if she desired to divine whether she was telling the truth. It appeared, however, that she listened to her sister’s words with a certain hope.
After which, she said:
“It is sultry.—”
The doctor opened the window of the room. Out in the open air the night was fair and starry. Waves of fresh air brought the scent of the acacias.
The patient lay for some time calm, but suddenly she began again to seek somebody with her eyes and asked:
“Is Pan Gronski here?”
“I am, dear, I am—”
“You, sir — will not — let me? — Truly—”
To Gronski it seemed at that moment that he was enveloped by a deep night and that amidst that impenetrable darkness he answered in a strange voice:
“No, no!”
And she spoke with terror, her countenance growing more and more pallid:
“I do not want to die — I am afraid—”
And again tears began to trickle from her eyes — tears inconsolable, tears of a wronged child.
The entrance of a priest relieved the harrowing moment. It was the same old prelate, a relative of the Krzyckis and the Zbyltowskis, who previously shrived Pani Krzycki. Drawing nearer, he sat beside Marynia’s bed and bending over her with a cheering smile, full of hope, said:
“How are you, dear child? Ah, the wretches! — But God is more powerful than they and everything will end well. I only came to ask about your health. God be praised the bullet is already extracted. — Now only patience is necessary and you will be patient — will you not?”
Marynia winked her eyes as a token of acquiescence.
The amiable old man continued in a more genial and as if jubilant voice:
“Ah! I knew that you would. Now I will tell you that there is something which often is more efficacious than all the medicines and bandages. Do you know what it is? The Sacrament! Ho! how often in life have I seen that people, who were separated from death by a hair, became at once better after confession, communion, and anointment, and after that recovered their health entirely. You, my dove, are surely far from death, but since it is a Christian duty, which helps the soul and body, it is necessary to perform it. Well, child?”
Marynia again winked her eyes in sign of assent.
Those present retired from the room and returned only upon the sound of the little bell to be witnesses to the Communion. The patient, after receiving it, lay for some time with closed eyelids and a quiet brightness in her countenance, after which the moment of extreme unction arrived.
In the room assembled, besides those previously present, the servants of the house; suppressing their sobs, they heard the customary prayers before the rite.
“Lord, Jesus Christ, who hast said through Thy apostle Saint James, ‘Is any man sick among you? Let him bring in the priests of the Church and let them pray over him, anointing him with oil in the name of the Lord.’ We implore Thee, Lord God, our Redeemer, for the grace of The Holy Ghost: have mercy upon this sick one, heal her wounds, pardon her sins, and banish from her all pains of soul and body and in Thy mercy return health completely to her, in order that, restored to life, she may again give herself up to good deeds. Oh Thou, who being God, livest and reignest with the Father and Holy Ghost, now and forever. Amen.”
The priest appeared to hurry. Quickly he took the vessel standing between two candles under the crucifix and approaching the patient he whispered the second, brief prayer required by the ritual, and at the same time began to administer extreme unction. He first touched the girl’s eyelids, saying, “Through this holy unction and His own most tender mercy, may the Lord pardon thee whatever sins or faults thou hast committed by sight”; after that he anointed her ears to purge the sins which she might have committed through the sense of hearing; after that the lips; after that the hands, resembling two white lilies, which that day were to have played for the poor; and finally he blessed her whole body from head to feet — already purified of all blemish and already as truly angelic and immaculate as a lily in the field.
A half hour passed. To those present it seemed that the patient again succumbed to slumber. But unexpectedly she opened her eyes wide, and cried in a stronger, as if joyful, voice:
“How much bread! — How much bread!—”
And she expired calmly.
During the depth of the night, a young man came to the gate and asked the doorkeeper whether the little lady was still alive and, hearing that she had died, he left in silence.
An hour later in the garret of one of the houses near the Vistula a shot from a revolver was fired, and, filled with consternation, the inmates suddenly awakened from their sleep. The people in the neighboring rooms flocked to the place of the accident. The locked doors of the room were battered down but all aid was futile. On the bed lay the dead body of the student with his breast perforated by a shot.
The gloomy, tragic soul had already flown into darkness.
XVI
The room in which Marynia died was changed into a funeral chamber. The coffin stood in the middle, high, amidst burning candles and a whole forest of plants and flowers, of which such a number were amassed that they filled not only the chamber but even the anteroom and the stairway. The coffin was still open and in the brightness of the day, blended with the light of the wax-candles, Marynia could be seen dressed in that same dress in which she was to have appeared at the concert. The little metal cross which she held in her folded hands glittered like a sparkling spot on a dark background of plants. Her face was pensive, but without the slightest trace of suffering, — and at the same time as if she was absorbed in listening to voices, sounds, and tones, which were inaudible and incomprehensible to mortals.
Though the open windows there blew in from time to time a breeze, extinguishing here and there the unsteady flames of the candles and causing the leaves of the plants to rustle. On the acacias in front of the house the sparrows chirped boisterously; one would think that they were relating to each other feverishly what had happened; while at the side of the catafalque a human stream flowed. There came with wreaths, workingmen, for whose benefit the concert was to have been given, and at the sight of the barbarously slain little lady, they left with fire in their eyes and clenched fists. The intelligence of the monstrous and reckless crime attracted whole throngs of students, who determined to carry the coffin on their shoulders. In the meantime they moved slowly and quietly about the catafalque, gazing with bosoms swelling with sympathy and grief at the silvery profile of the girl, turned towards heaven, and unconsciously they recalled the words of the poet:
“And now in pale satin enshrouded,
In silence, hands folded, she lies.”
Horror, indignation, and at the same time curiosity aroused the city from centre to circumference. Even the streets in front of the house were thronged by great crowds — uneasy, being unable to explain to themselves how such a thing happened — and, as if, alarmed by the thought of what the future might bring forth, what other crimes might be committed and what other victims the uncertain morrow might devour.
The remains of Marynia were to be conveyed to t
he railway and from there to Zalesin where the tombs of the Otockis were located. Immediately after noon the coffin was taken off the stretchers and then, before its sealing, came for Pani Otocka and for Gronski the dreadful moment of viewing for the last time in life that beloved being who was for them a light and sun. If she had died of some sickness their despair might not have been less, but it would have been more intelligible to them. But she was murdered! They murdered this sweet and innocent child, just at a time when she wanted to aid people and when she rejoiced at the thought of that aid. Murdered was that incarnate song, that fragrant flower, sent by God for the joy of mankind! And in just this there was something which could not be confined within the limits of despair, but reached into the borders of madness. For lo, this is the last moment for beholding that love, that youth, that maidenly charm, that white victim of crime and mistake; and after that nothingness, darkness, — solitude.
But overstrained pain kills itself like a scorpion, it covers the intellect with darkness, and commands the blood to congeal in the veins. That happened with the sister of the slain. For a long time Dr. Szremski was uncertain whether he would be able to restore her to life. In the consternation and confusion it was hardly observed that into the chamber there rushed an insane woman and, whining mournfully, she flung herself upon the ground. Swidwicki led her away with the aid of the students and intrusted her to their care.
In the meantime the coffin was sealed; the youths placed it on their shoulders and the funeral party moved towards the railway. After them marched a long procession, at the end of which empty carriages jogged along. The ever-increasing swarm flowed along the middle of the streets and sidewalks; and not until they reached the bridge did those who joined the procession only through curiosity begin to return home.
Swidwicki approached Dr. Szremski, and for some time both walked in silence, not perceiving that they were remaining more and more behind the procession.
“You knew the deceased?” asked the doctor.
“Otocki was my relative.”
“Ah, what a horrible mistake it was?”
But Swidwicki blurted out:
“That was no mistake. That is the logical result of the times, and in those that are coming such accidents will become a customary, every-day occurrence.”
“How do you understand that?”
“The way it should be understood. That coffin has greater meaning than it seems. That is an announcement! A mistake? No! That was only an incident. Lo, to-day we are burying a harp, which wanted to play for the people, but which the rabble trampled upon with their filthy feet. — Wait, sir! Let things continue to proceed thus, and who knows whether, after ten or twenty years, we will not thus bury learning, art, culture, bah! even the entire civilization. And that not only here but everywhere. There will be an endless series of such events. — To me, after all, it is all one, but absolutely it is possible.”
The doctor ruminated for some time in silence over Swidwicki’s words; finally he exclaimed:
“Ah, knowledge, knowledge, knowledge.”
Swidwicki stood still, seized the doctor by the flap of his coat and shaking his goat-like beard, said:
“Hear, sir, an atheist, or at least, a man who has nothing to do with any religion: knowledge without religion breeds only thieves and bandits.”
The procession paused for a while on account of an obstruction on the road; so conversing, they drew nearer to the coffin; nevertheless, Swidwicki, though lowering his voice, did not cease to talk:
“Ay, sir — a great many people think the same as I do; only they have not the courage to say it aloud. After all, I reiterate it is all one to me, — we are lost past all help. With us there are only whirlpools. — And these, not whirlpools upon a watery gulf, beneath which is a calm depth, but whirlpools of sand. Now the whirlwind blows from the East and the sterile sand buries our traditions, our civilization, our culture — our whole Poland — and transforms her into a wilderness upon which flowers perish and only jackals can live.”
Here he pointed to Marynia’s coffin:
“Lo, there is a flower which has withered. Do you know, sir, why I, though a relative, seldom visited them? Because I felt ashamed before her eyes.”
They reached the station and went upon the roadway, from which could be seen the coach, decorated with flowers and fir-tree boughs.
“Are you riding to Zalesin?” asked the doctor.
“I am. I want to gaze at Pani Otocka. God knows what now will become of her. And see, sir, how Gronski looks. An old man — what? Now his Latin and books will not help him.”
“Who would not have felt this,” answered the doctor. “Krzycki also looks as if he were taken off the cross.”
“Krzycki? But perhaps it is because his matrimonial plans are broken.”
Further conversation was interrupted by the orchestra which began to play Chopin’s “Funeral March.”
XVII
Dr. Szremski upon his return to the hotel began to ponder over Swidwicki’s words, which were imbedded deeply in his memory. Before his eyes there glided a picture of the funeral procession and that coffin, with the victim, murdered by those to whom she wanted to do good. “Yes, yes!” he said to himself, “that apparently was a mistake, but similar mistakes are the logical consequences of the unbridled, blind, animal instincts. We must admit that we are flying at break-neck speed into some bottomless abyss. And not only we. But is it allowable to conclude from this, that, as to-day we conducted song, murdered by the rabble, so after ten, twenty, or fifty years we will witness the burial of learning, culture, and civilization? Apparently — yes. It is high time that God, Who rules the world, should give new proofs that He in reality rules. It ought to thunder so that the earth would tremble — or what? Mankind are entering upon a road which is directly opposite to entire nature. For the whole endeavor of nature is to create as perfect beings as possible and through them to ennoble the species; and humanity perversely kills them as it did that angelic child, or else seizes them by the hair to drag them from the heights to the general level. And nevertheless this is but a specious appearance. If the engineers determined to excavate all the mountains and make the earth as smooth and even as a billiard ball, some convulsions would take place, some eruptions of volcanoes would occur, which would create new abysses and new heights. Of the Aryan spirit can be said that which the Grecians, enamoured with the soothing architectonical lines, said of the Roman arches: ‘The arch will never fall asleep.’ Likewise the Aryan spirit. The humanity, which possesses it, is incapable of drifting into infinity on one wave, thinking one thought and living in one idea. That which is to-day — will pass away. On the summits of reason, feeling, and will, new whirlwinds will generate and they will raise new waves.”
Here the doctor’s thoughts were apparently directed nearer to matters lying more on his heart, for he began to clench his fist and pace with big, uneasy steps about the room.
“Will we,” he said to himself, “however, remain amidst these convulsions, waves, and whirlwinds? Whirlpools? Whirlpools! — and of sand! Sand is burying the whole of Poland and transforming her into a wilderness, on which jackals live. If this is so, then it would be best to put a bullet in the head. — I am curious as to what Gronski would say to this — but lightning has struck his head and it is of no use to speak to him. — We are lost past all help? That is untrue! Beneath these whirlpools which are whirling upon the surface of our life is something which Swidwicki did not perceive. There is more than elsewhere, for there is a bottomless depth of suffering. There plainly is not in the world greater misfortune than ours. With us the people awake in the morning and follow the plough in the field, go to the factory, to the offices, behind the benches in the shops, and all manner of labor — in pain. They go to sleep in pain. That suffering is as boundless as the expanse of the sea while the whirlpools are but ripples upon that expanse. And why do we suffer thus? Of course, we might, at once, to-morrow, breathe more freely and be happier. It would be
sufficient for every one to say to Her, that Poland, of whom Swidwicki says that she is perishing, ‘Too much dost Thou pain me, too much dost Thou vex me; therefore I renounce Thee and from this day wish to forget Thee.’ — And nevertheless nobody says that; not even such a Swidwicki, who prevaricated when he said it is all one to him; not even they who throw bombs, and murder sisters and brothers! — And if it is so that we prefer to suffer than renounce Her, then where are the jackals and where is Her destruction? Jackals seek carrion, not suffering! So She lives in every one of us, in all of us together, and will survive all the whirlpools in the world. And we will set our teeth and will continue to suffer for Thee, Mother, and we — and if God so wills it, — and our children and grandchildren will not renounce neither Thee nor hope.”
Here Szremski was touched by his own thoughts, but dawn brightened his countenance. He found an answer to the question which Swidwicki thrust into his soul. Walking, he began to repeat: “For nothing, nobody would consent to suffer thus.” After which it occurred to his mind that to suffer for Her was not yet sufficient, for he began to rub his hands and turn up his rumpled sleeves, as if he wanted at once to do some important and urgent work. But, after a while, he observed that he was in the hotel, so he smiled, with his sincere, peculiar smile, and said aloud:
“Ha! It cannot be helped. To-morrow I must return to my hole and push the wheelbarrow along.”
And suddenly he sighed:
“To my solitary hole.”
After which, he, himself, not knowing why, recollected what Swidwicki had told him about the breaking of Krzycki’s matrimonial engagement, and his thoughts, like winged birds, began to fly to Zalesin.
Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz Page 615
