her connection with spheres living "from the wrongs of the proletariat," and could not get rid of the thought that if, as a result of some unheard-of social upheaval, such "a saintly doll" became dependent upon his favor or disfavor, then such a state of affairs would bring to him an indescribably coy delight.
But when Beethoven placed his hands upon his head, there awakened within him better and higher instincts. He saw during the performance the lips and eyebrows of the young lady contract, and began to concede that "she, however, felt something." In consequence of this, his ill-will towards her began to melt away, although slowly and with difficulty. He half confirmed, half conjectured that not only the hands but also the soul played. He did not have sufficient culture for music to appeal to him as it did, for instance, to Gronski, nevertheless there awakened within him a certain dismal consciousness that this was something, like the air, which all breasts can breathe, regardless of whether they love or hate. Amazement seized him at the thought that there were things lying beyond the swarm of human passions. At the conclusion he so identified music with the figure of the playing girl that when the old notary, at the end of the concert, kissed her hands, he almost felt inclined to do the same.
In the meanwhile, Ladislaus said to Miss Anney:
"As long as Jastrzeb has been Jastrzeb, never yet has such music been heard. I am not a connoisseur, but must admit that this has captivated me. Besides, though I am often in the city, it has always so happened that I never have had an opportunity of seeing a woman play on the violin. And this is so beautiful that I now have an impression that only women should play the violin."
"One gets such an impression when he hears Marynia play."
"Assuredly. I even begin to understand Pan Gronski. You, of course, know that she is his adoration?"
"The greatest in the world. And mine and everybody's who knows her,--and soon she will be yours."
"I do not deny that she will be, only I doubt whether she will be the greatest."
A temporary pause in the conversation followed, after which Ladislaus, not desiring that Miss Anney should take his words as an untimely compliment, added:
"In any event, I owe her gratitude for music which is slightly different from that which we hear every evening in spring and summer."
"What kind of music is that?"
"From dusk to moon-rise the orchestra of frogs, and afterwards the concert of nightingales, which, after all, I do not hear, as, after daily toil, I am sound asleep. The frog band has already commenced. This also has its charm. If you care to hear it, let us go out upon the veranda. The night is almost as warm as in summer."
Miss Anney rose and together they went on the veranda, which the servants, who listened under the windows to Marynia's performance, had already left, and only in the distance the blooming jasmines, shaded by the dusk, whitened. From the pond came the croakings of the confederation of frogs, drowsy and, at the same time, resembling choral prayers.
Miss Anney for a while listened to these sounds and afterwards said:
"Yes, this also has its charm, particularly on a night like this."
"Are not nights the same in England?"
"No, not as quiet. There is hardly a corner there to which the whistling of locomotives or the factory noises do not reach. I like your villages for their quiet and their distance from the cities."
"So, then, this is not the first time that you have seen a Polish village?"
"No. I have passed the last month with Zosia Otocka."
"I wish that our Jastrzeb would find favor in your eyes. It is too bad that you chanced here upon a funeral. That is always sad. I saw that you were even affected."
"It reminded me of something," answered Miss Anney.
Whereupon, evidently desiring to change the subject of the conversation, she again began to peer into the depths of the garden.
"How everything blooms and smells agreeably here!"
"Those are jasmines and elders. Did you observe on the forest road, riding to Jastrzeb, that the edges of the woods are planted with elders? That is my work."
"I only observed it at the bridge, where an old building stands. What kind of building is that?"
"That is an ancient mill. At one time there was a great deal of water in the stream beside it, but later my uncle, Zarnowski, drained it off to the fish-ponds in Rzeslewo and the mill stood still. Now it is a ramshackle building in which for over ten years we have stored hay instead of keeping it in hayricks. Folks say that the place is haunted, but I myself circulated, in its time, that myth."
"Why?"
"First, so that they should not steal the hay, and again because it was of much concern to me that no one should pry in there."
"What an invention!"
"I told them that near the bridge during night-time the horses get frightened and that something in the mill laughs; which is true, because owls laugh there."
"Perhaps it would have been better to have told them that something in there weeps."
"Why?"
"For greater effect."
"I do not know. Laughter in the night in the solitude creates a greater impression. People fear it more."
"And nobody peeps in there?"
"Not a soul. Now, if they only would not steal the hay, it would be all the same to me, but at that time I was anxious to screen myself from the eyes of men--"
Here Ladislaus bit his tongue, observing in the moonlight that Miss Anney's eyebrows frowned slightly. He understood that in repeating twice that it was important to him that no one should pry into the mill, he committed a breach of etiquette and, what was worse, had presented himself to the young English lady as some provincial boaster, who gives the impression that often he has been forced to seek various hiding-places. So desiring to erase the bad impression, he added quickly:
"When a student, I wrote verses and for that reason sought solitude. But now all that has passed away."
"That usually passes away," answered Miss Anney. And she turned to the doors of the salon, but without unnecessary haste, as if she desired to show Ladislaus that she accepted as good coin his explanations and that her return was not a manifestation of displeasure. He remained a while, angry at himself and yet more angry at Miss Anney for the simple reason that the indiscretion was committed solely by him and he could not blame her for anything.
"In any case," he said to himself, "that is some deucedly penetrating Puritan."
And he began to repeat, with some indignation, her last words:
"That usually passes away."
"Did she," he thought, "intend to give me to understand that from such grist as is in me nobody could bake any poetry. Perhaps it is true, and I know that better than anyone else, but it is unnecessary for anybody to corroborate the fact."
Under the influence of these thoughts
