becomes the property of the said Ladislaus Krzycki."
"And I already have announced that I do not intend to accept that specific bequest," cried the young man excitedly.
All eyes were turned toward him; he added:
"I would not think of it; I would not think of it."
"Why not?" asked his mother after a while.
"Because I cannot. Let us suppose that the legatee appears, say for instance, within three years instead of two, what would happen? Would I pocket the bequest and drive her away? No! I could not do that. Finally, there are other considerations of which I do not wish to speak."
In fact, only by these "other considerations," could such a considerable bequest to a simple village girl be explained; therefore Pani Krzycki became silent. After a while she said:
"My Laudie, nobody will coerce, nor even try to persuade you to accept."
But Dolhanski asked:
"Tell me, is this some mythical disinterestedness or is it ill humor caused by your not receiving a greater bequest?"
"Do not judge by yourself," answered Krzycki; "but I will tell you something which you certainly will not believe; since this estate is to be devoted to such an object as a peasants' agricultural school, I am highly delighted and have much greater esteem for the deceased. I give you my word that I speak with entire sincerity."
"Bravo!" exclaimed Pani Otocka, "it is pleasant to hear that."
Pani Krzycki looked with pride first upon her son, then upon Pani Otocka; and, though a feeling of disappointment lingered in her heart, said:
"Well, let there be a peasants' school, if only our Jastrzeb peasants will be permitted to send their sons to it."
"That does not admit of any doubt," explained Gronski. "There will be as many pupils as accommodations can be provided for. They may come from all parts, though preference is to be given to Rzeslewo peasants."
"What do they say about the bequest?"
"There were more than a dozen of them at the opening of the will, as they expected a direct gift of all the manor lands to them. Somebody had persuaded them that the deceased left everything to them to be equally divided. So they left very much displeased. We heard them say that this was not the genuine will and that they do not need any schools."
"Most fully do I share their opinion," said Dolhanski, "and in this instance, contrary to my nature, I will speak seriously. For at present there is raging an epidemic of founding schools and no one asks for whom, for what, how are they to be taught in them, and what is the end to be attained. I belong to that species of birds who do not toil, but look at everything, if not from the top, then from the side, and, perhaps for that very reason, see things which others do not observe. So, at times, I have an impression that we are like those children, for instance, at Ostend, who build on the sea-shore forts with the sand. Every day on the beach they erect them and every day the waves wash them away until not a trace of them remains."
"In a way you are right," said Gronski; "but there, however, is this difference: the children build joyfully and we do not."
Afterwards he meditated and added:
"However, the law of nature is such that children grow while the adults rear dykes, not of sand, but of stone upon which the weaves dash to pieces."
"Let them be dashed to pieces as quickly as possible," exclaimed Ladislaus.
But Dolhanski would not concede defeat.
"Permit me then," he said, "since we have not yet grown up and have not yet started to build of stone, to remain a pessimist."
Gronski gazed for a while into the depths of the garden like a man who was pondering over something and then said:
"Pessimism--pessimism! We hear that incessantly nowadays. But in the meanwhile if there exists anything more stupid than optimism, which often passes for folly, it is particularly pessimism, which desires to pose as reason."
Dolhanski smiled a trifle biliously and, turning to the ladies, said, pointing to Gronski:
"Do not take this ill of him, ladies. It often happens for him in moments of abstraction to utter impertinences. He is a good--even intelligent--man, but has the unbearable habit of turning over everything, examining it from all sides, pondering over it, and soliloquizing."
But Marynia suddenly flushed with indignation in defence of her friend and, shaking the teapot which at that moment she held in her hand, began to speak with great ardor:
"That is just right, that is just sensible; that is what everybody ought to do--"
Dolhanski pretended to be awe-stricken and, bowing his head, cried:
"I am vanquished; I retreat and surrender arms."
Gronski, laughing, kissed her hand, while she, abashed at her own vehemence and covered with blushes, began to ask:
"Is it not the truth? Am I not right?"
But Dolhanski already recovered his presence of mind.
"That does not prove anything," he said.
"Why?"
"Because Gronski once promulgated this aphorism: It is never proper to follow the views of a woman, especially if by accident she is right."
"I?" exclaimed Gronski. "Untangle yourself from me. I never said anything like that. Do not believe him, ladies."
"I believe only you, sir," answered Marynia.
But further conversation was interrupted by Pani Krzycki, who observed that it was time for the May mass. In the Jastrzeb manor-house, there was a room especially assigned for that purpose and known as the chapel. At the main wall, opposite the windows, stood an altar with a painting of the Divine Mother of Czestochowo. The walls, altar, painting, and even the candles were decorated with green garlands. On the side tables stood bouquets of elders and jasmines whose fragrance filled the entire room. Sometimes, when the rector of Rzeslewo arrived, he conducted the services; in his absence the lady of the house. All the inmates of the house, with the exception of Laskowicz, during the entire month of May met every evening in the chapel. At present the gentlemen followed the ladies. On the way Ladislaus asked Gronski:
"Is Miss Anney a Catholic?"
"To tell you the truth, I do not know," answered Gronski, "but it seems--but look, she is entering also. So she must be a Catholic. Perhaps her name is Irish."
In the chapel the candles were already lit, though the sun had not entirely set and stood in the windows, low, golden, and ruddy, casting a lustre on the white cloth which covered the altar and on the heads of the women. At the very altar the lady of the house knelt, behind her the lady visitors; after them the female servants and the old asthmatic lackey, while the gentlemen stood at the wall between the windows. The customary songs, prayers, and litanies began. Their sweetness struck Gronski. There was in them something of spring and at the same time of the evening. The impression of the spring was created by the flowers, and of the evening by ruddy lustre entering through the
