Jadwiga (with an outburst).—Oh, if those flowers had not died!

Leon.—They are in my heart—and there is a tomb. Let us leave the past alone.

Jadwiga.—Yes, you are right. Leave it alone. What is dead cannot be resuscitated. I wish to speak calmly. Look at my situation. What defends me—what helps me—what protects me? I am a young woman, and it seems not ugly, and therefore no one approaches me with an honest, simple heart, but with a trap in eyes and mouth. What opposition have I to make? Weariness? Grief? Emptiness? In life even a man must lean on something, and I, a feeble woman, I am like a boat without a helm, without oar and without light toward which to sail. And the heart longs for happiness. You must understand that a woman must be loved and must love some one in the world, and if she lacks true love she seizes the first pretext of it—the first shadow.

Leon (with animation).—Poor thing.

Jadwiga.—Do not smile in that ironical way. Be better, be less severe with me. I do not even have any one to complain, and that is why I do not drive away Count Skorzewski. I detest his beauty, I despise his perverse mind, but I do not drive him away because he is a skilful actor, and because when I see his acting it awakens in me the echo of former days. (After a while.) How shall I fill my life? Study? Art? Even if I loved them, they would not love me for they are not living things. No, truly now! They showed me no duties, no aims, no foundations. Everything on which other women live—everything which constitutes their happiness, sincere sorrow, strength, tears, and smiles, is barred from me. Morally I have nothing to live on—like a beggar. I have no one to live for—like an orphan. I am not permitted to yearn for a noble and quiet life; I may only nurture myself with grief and defend myself with faded, dead flowers, and remembrances of former pure, honest, and loving Jadwinia. Ah! again I break my promise, our agreement. I must beg your pardon.

Leon.—Mme. Jadwiga, both our lives are tangled. When I was most unhappy, when everything abandoned me, there remained with me the love of an idea—love of the country.

Jadwiga (thoughtfully).—The love of an idea—country. There is something great in that. You, by each of your pictures, increase the glory of the country and make famous its name, but I—what can I do?

Leon.—The one who lives simply, suffers and quietly fulfils his duties—he also serves his country.

Jadwiga.—What duties? Give them to me. For every-day life one great, ideal love is not enough for me. I am a woman! I must cling to something—twine about something like the ivy—otherwise truly, sir, I should fall to the ground and be trampled upon (with an outburst). If I could only respect him!

Leon.—But, madam, you should remember to whom you are speaking of such matters. I have no right to know of your family affairs.

Jadwiga.—No. You have not the right, nor are you obliged nor willing. Only friendly hearts know affliction—only those who suffer can sympathize. You—looking into the stars—you pass human misery and do not turn your head even when that misery shouts to you. It is your fault.

Leon.—My fault!

Jadwiga.—Do not frown, and do not close your mouth (beseechingly). I do not reproach you for anything. I have forgiven you long ago, and now I, the giddy woman whom the world always sees merry and laughing—I am really so miserable that I have even no strength left for hatred.

Leon.—Madam! Enough! I have listened to your story—do not make me tell you mine. If you should hear it a still heavier burden would fall on your shoulders.

Jadwiga.—No, no. We could be happy and we are not. It is the fault of both. How dreadful to think that we separated on account of almost nothing—on account of one thoughtless word—and we separated forever (she covers her face with her hands), without hope.

Leon.—That word was nothing for you, but I remember it still with brain and heart. I was not then what I am to-day. I was poor, unknown, and you were my whole future, my aim, my riches.

Jadwiga.—Oh, Mr. Leon, Mr. Leon, what a golden dream it was!

Leon.—But I was proud because I knew that there was in me the divine spark. I loved you dearly, I trusted you—and nothing disturbed the security around me. Suddenly one evening Mr. Karlowiecki appeared, and already the second evening you told me that you gave more than you received.

Jadwiga.—Mr. Leon!

Leon.—What was your reason for giving that wound to my proud misery? You could not already have loved that man, but as soon as he appeared you humiliated me. There are wrongs which a man cannot bear with dignity—so those words were the last I heard from you.

Jadwiga.—Truly. When I listen to you I must keep a strong hand on my senses. As soon as the other appeared you gave vent to a jealous outburst. I said that I gave more than I took, and you thought I spoke of money and not sentiment? Then you could suspect that I was capable of throwing my riches in your face—you thought I was capable of that? That is why he could not forgive! That is why he went away! That is why he has made his life and mine miserable!

Leon.—It is too late to talk about that. Too late! You knew then and you know to-day that I could not have understood your words differently. The other man was of your own world—the world of which you were so fond that sometimes it seemed to me that you cherished it more than our love. At times when I so doubted you did not calm me. You were amused by the thought that you were stretching out to me a hand of courtly condescension, and I, in an excess of humiliation, I cast aside that hand. You knew it then, and you know it to-day!

Jadwiga.—I know it to-day, but I did not know then. I swear it by my mother's memory. But suppose it was even as you say. Why could you not forgive me? Oh God! truly one might go mad. And there was neither time nor opportunity to explain. He went away and never returned. What could I do? When you became angry, when you shut yourself up within yourself, grief pressed my heart. I am ashamed even to-day to say this. I looked into your eyes like a dog which wishes to disarm the anger of his master by humility. In vain! Then I thought, when taking leave, I will shake hands with him so honestly and cordially that he will finally understand and will forgive me. While parting my hand dropped, for you only saluted me from afar. I swallowed my tears and humiliation. I thought still he will return to-morrow. A day passed, two days, a week, a month.

Leon.—Then you married.

Jadwiga (passionately).—Yes. Useless tears and time made me think it was forever—therefore anger grew in my heart—anger and a desire for vengeance on you and myself. I wished to be lost, for I said to myself, "That man does not love me, has never loved me." I married in the same spirit that I should have thrown myself through a window—from despair—because, as I still believe, you never loved me.

Leon.—Madam, do not blaspheme. Do not provoke me. I never loved you! Look at the precipice which you have opened before me—count the sleepless nights during which I tore my breast with grief—count the days on which I called to you as from a cross—look at this thin face, at these trembling hands, and repeat once more that I never loved you! What has become of me? What is life for me without you? To-day my head is crowned with laurels and here in my breast is emptiness and exhaustless sorrow, and tears not wept—and in my eyes eternal darkness. Oh, by the living God, I loved you with every drop of my blood, with my every thought—and I was not able to love differently. Having lost you, I lost everything—my star, my strength, faith, hope, desire for life, and not only happiness, but the capacity for happiness. Woman, do you understand the dreadful meaning of those words? I have lost the capacity for happiness. I have not loved you! Oh, despair! God alone knows for how many nights I have cried to Him: "Lord, take my talent, take my fame, take my life, but return to me for only one moment my Jadwiga as she was of old!"

Jadwiga.—Enough! Lord, what is the matter with me? Leon, I love you!

Leon.—Oh, my dearest! (He presses her to his breast. A moment of silence.)

Jadwiga.—I have found you. I loved you always. Ah! how miserable I was without you! With love for you I defended myself from all temptations. You do not know it, but I used to see you. It caused me grief and joy. I could not live any longer without you, and I asked you to come—I did it purposely. If you had not come, something dreadful would have happened. Now we shall never separate. We shall never be angry—is it not so? (A moment of silence.)

Leon (as though awakening from slumber).—Madam, you must pardon me—I mistook the present for the past, and permitted myself to be carried away by an illusion. Pardon me!

Jadwiga.—Leon, what do you mean?

Leon (earnestly).—I forgot for a moment that you are the wife of another.

Jadwiga.—Oh, you are always honest and loyal. No, there shall be no guilty love between us. I know you, my great, my noble Leon. The hand which I stretch out to you is pure—I swear it to you. You must also forgive me a moment of forgetfulness. Here I stand before you, and say to you: I will not be yours until I am free. But I know that my husband will consent to a divorce. I will leave him all my fortune, and because I formerly offended your pride—it was my fault—yes, my own fault—you shall take me poor, in this dress only—will it suit you? Then I will become your lawful wife. Oh, my God! and I shall be honest, loving, and loved. I have longed for it with my whole soul. I cannot think of our future without tears. God is so good! When you return from your studio at night, you will come neither to an empty room nor to grief. I will share your every joy, your every sorrow—I will divide with you the last piece of bread. Truly, I cannot speak for tears. Look, I am not so bad, but I have been so miserable. I loved you always. Ah, you bad boy, if it were not for your pride we should have been happy long ago. Tell me once more that you love me—that you consent to take me when I shall be free—is it not so, Leon?

Leon.—No, madam!

Jadwiga.—Leon, my dearest, wait! Perhaps I have not heard well. For I cannot comprehend that when I am hanging over a precipice of despair, when I seize the edge with my hands, you, instead of helping me—you place your feet on my fingers! No! it is impossible. You are too good for that! Do not thrust me away. My life now would be still worse. I have nothing in the world but you, and with you I lost happiness—not alone happiness but everything in me which is good—which cries for a quiet and saintly life. For now it would be forever. But you do not know how happy you yourself will be when you will have forgiven me and rescued me. You have loved me, have you not? You have said it yourself. I have heard it. Now I stretch out my hands to you like a drowning person—rescue me!

Leon.—We must finish this mutual torture. Madam, I am a weak man. I would give way if—but I wish to spare you—if not for the fact that my sore and dead heart cannot give you anything but tears and pity.

Jadwiga.—You do not love me!

Leon.—I have no strength for happiness. I did love you. My heart throbbed for a moment with a recollection as of a dead person. But the other one is dead. I tell you this, madam, in tears and torture. I do not love you.

Jadwiga.—Leon!

Leon.—Have pity on me and forgive me.

Jadwiga.—You do not love me!

Leon.—What is dead cannot be resuscitated. Farewell.

Jadwiga (after a while).—Very well. If you think you have humiliated me enough, trampled on me, and are sufficiently avenged, leave me then (to Leon, who wishes to withdraw). No! no! Remain. Have pity on me.

Leon.—May God have pity on us both. (He goes away.)

Jadwiga.—It is done!

A Servant (entering).—Count Skorzewski!

Jadwiga.—Ha! Show him in! Show him in! Ha! ha! ha!



PART FOURTH

THE VERDICT

Apollo and Hermes once met toward evening on the rocks of Pnyx and were looking on Athens.

The evening was charming; the sun was already rolled from the Archipelago toward the Ionian Sea and had begun to slowly sink its radiant head in the water which shone turquoise-like. But the summits of Hymettus and Pentelicus were yet beaming as if melted gold had been poured over them, and the evening twilight was in the sky. In its light the whole Acropolis was drowned. The white walls of Propyleos, Parthenon, and Erechtheum seemed pink and as light as though the marble had lost all its weight, or as if they were apparitions of a dream. The point of the spear of the gigantic Athena Promathos shone in the twilight like a lighted torch over Attica.

In the space hawks were flying toward their nests in the rocks, to pass the night.

The people returned in crowds from work in the fields. On the road to Piraeus, mules and donkeys carried baskets full of olives and wine-grapes; behind them, in the red cloud of dust, marched herds of nannygoats, before each herd there was a white-bearded buck; on the sides, watchdogs; in the rear, shepherds, playing flutes of thin oat-stems.

Among the herds chariots slowly passed, carrying holly barlet, pulled by slow, heavy oxen; here and there passed a detachment of Hoplites or heavy armed troops, corseleted in copper, going to guard Piraeus and Athens during the night.

Beneath, the city was full of animation. Around the big fountain at Poikile, young girls in white dresses drew water, singing, laughing, or defending themselves from the boys, who threw over them fetters made of ivy and wild vine. The others, having already drawn the water, with the amphorae poised on their shoulders, were turned homeward, light and graceful as immortal nymphs.

A light breeze blowing from the Attic valley carried to the ears of the two gods the sounds of laughter, singing, kissing. Apollo, in whose eyes nothing under the sun was fairer than a woman, turned to Hermes and said:

"O Maya's son, how beautiful are the Athenian women!"

"And virtuous too, my Radiant," answered Hermes; "they are under Pallas' tutelage."

The Silver-arrowed god became silent, and listening looked into space. In the mean while the twilight was slowly quenched, movement gradually stopped. Scythian slaves shut the gates, and finally all became quiet. The Ambrosian night threw on the Acropolis, city, and environs, a dark veil embroidered with stars.

But the dusk did not last long. Soon from the Archipelago appeared the pale Selene, and began to sail like a silvery boat in the heavenly space. And then the walls of the Acropolis lighted again, only they beamed now with a pale-green light, and looked even more like a vision in a dream.

"One must agree," said Apollo, "that Athena has chosen for herself a charming home."

"Oh, she is very clever! Who could choose better?" answered Hermes. "Then Zeus has a fancy for her. If she wishes for anything she has only to caress his beard and immediately he calls her Tritogenia, dear daughter; he promises her everything and permits everything."

"Tritogenia bores me sometimes," grumbled Latona's son.

"Yes, I have noticed that she becomes very tedious," answered Hermes.

"Like an old peripatetic; and then she is virtuous to the ridiculous, like my sister Artemis."

"Or as her servants, the Athenian women."

The Radiant turned to the Argo-robber Mercury: "It is the second time you mention, as though purposely, the virtue of the Athenian women. Are they really so virtuous?"

"Fabulously so, O son of Latona!"

"Is it possible!" said Apollo. "Do you think that there is in town one woman who could resist me?"

"I do think so."

"Me, Apollo?"

"You, my Radiant."

"I, who should bewitch her with poetry and charm her with song and music!"

"You, my Radiant."

"If you were an honest god I would be willing to make a wager with you. But you, Argo-robber, if you should lose, you would disappear immediately with your sandals and caduceus."

"No, I will put one hand on the earth and another on the sea and swear by Hades. Such an oath is kept not only by me, but even by the members of the City Council in Athens."

"Oh, you exaggerate a little. Very well then! If you lose you must supply me in Trinachija with a herd of long-horned oxen, which you may steal where you please, as you did when you were only a boy, stealing my herds in Perea."

"Understood! And what shall I get if I win?"

"You may choose what you please."

"Listen, my Far-aiming archer," said Hermes. "I will be frank with you, which occurs with me very seldom. Once, being sent on an errand by Zeus—I don't remember what errand—I was playing just over your Trinachija, and I perceived Lampecja, who, together with Featusa, watches your herds there. Since that time I have no peace. The thought about her is never absent from my mind. I love her and I sigh for her day and night. If I win, if in Athens there can be found a virtuous woman, strong enough to resist you, you shall give me Lampecja—I wish for nothing more."

The Silver-arrowed god began to shake his head.

"It's astonishing that love can nestle in the heart of a merchants-patron. I am willing to give you Lampecja—the more so because she is now quarrelling with Featusa. Speaking intra parentheses, both are in love with me—that is why they are quarrelling."

Great joy lighted up the Argo-robber's eyes.

"Then we lay the bet," said he. "One thing more, I shall choose the woman for you on whom you are to try your godly strength."

"Provided she is beautiful."

"She will be worthy of you."

"I am sure you know some one already."

"Yes, I do."

"A young girl, married, widow, or divorced?"

"Married, of course. Girl, widow, or divorcee, you could capture by promise of marriage."

"What is her name?"

"Eryfile. She is a baker's wife."

"A baker's wife!" answered the Radiant, making a grimace, "I don't like that."

"I can't help it. It's the kind of people I know best. Eryfile's husband is not at home at present; he went to Megara. His wife is the prettiest woman who ever walked on Mother-Earth."

"I am very anxious to see her."

"One condition more, my Silver-arrowed, you must promise that you will use only means worthy of you, and that you will not act as would act such a ruffian as Ares, for instance, or even, speaking between ourselves, as acts our common father, the Cloud-gathering Zeus."

"For whom do you take me?" asked Apollo.

"Then all conditions are understood, and I can show you Eryfile."

Both gods were immediately carried through the air from Pnyx, and in a few moments they were over a house situated not far from Stoa. The Argo-robber raised the whole roof with his powerful hand as easily as a woman cooking a dinner raises a cover from a saucepan, and pointing to a woman sitting in a store, closed from the street by a copper gate, said:

"Look!"

Apollo looked and was astonished.

Never Attica—never the whole of Greece, produced a lovelier flower than was this woman. She sat by a table on which was a lighted lamp, and was writing something on marble tables. Her long drooping eyelashes threw a shadow on her cheeks, but from time to time she raised her head and her eyes, as though she were trying to remember what she had to write, and then one could see her beautiful eyes, so blue that compared with them the turquoise depths of the Archipelago would look pale and faded. Her face was white as the sea-foam, pink as the dawn, with purplish Syrian lips and waves of golden hair. She was beautiful, the most beautiful being on earth—beautiful as the dawn, as a flower, as light, as song! This was Eryfile.

When she dropped her eyes she appeared quiet and sweet; when she lifted them, inspired. The Radiant's divine knees began to tremble; suddenly he leaned his head on Hermes' shoulder, and whispered:

"Hermes, I love her! This one or none!"

Hermes smiled ironically, and would have rubbed his hands for joy under cover of his robe if he had not held in his right hand the caduceus.

In the mean while the golden-haired woman took a new tablet and began to write on it. Her divine lips were disclosed and her voice whispered; it was like the sound of Apollo's lyre.

"The member of the Areopagus Melanocles for the bread for two months, forty drachmas and four obols; let us write in round numbers forty-six drachmas. By Athena! let us write fifty; my husband will be satisfied! Ah, that Melanocles! If you were not in a position to bother us about false weight, I never would give you credit. But we must keep peace with that locust."

Apollo did not listen to the words. He was intoxicated with the woman's voice, the charm of her figure, and whispered:

"This one or none!"

The golden-haired woman spoke again, writing further:

"Alcibiades, for cakes on honey from Hymettus for Hetera Chrysalis, three minae. He never verifies bills, and then he once gave me in Stoa a slap on the shoulder—we will write four minae. He is stupid; let him pay for it. And then that Chrysalis! She must feed with cakes her carp in the pond, or perhaps Alcibiades makes her fat purposely, in order to sell her afterwards to a Phoenician merchant for an ivory ring for his harness."

Again Apollo paid no attention to the words—he was enchanted with the voice alone and whispered to Hermes:

"This one or none!"

But Maya's son suddenly covered the house, the apparition disappeared, and it seemed to the Radiant Apollo that with it disappeared the stars, that the moon became black, and the whole world was covered with the darkness of Chimera.

"When shall we decide the wager?" asked Hermes.

"Immediately. To-day!"

"During her husband's absence she sleeps in the store. You can stand in the street before the door. If she raises the curtain and opens the gate, I have lost my wager."

"You have lost it already!" exclaimed the Far-darting Apollo.

The summer lightning does not pass from the East to the West as quickly as he rushed over the salt waves of the Archipelago. There he asked Amphitrite for an empty turtle-shell, put around it the rays of the sun, and returned to Athens with a ready formiga.

In the city everything was already quiet. The lights were out, and only the houses and temples shone white in the light of the moon, which had risen high in the sky.

The store was dark, and in it, behind a gate and a curtain, the beautiful Eryfile was asleep. Apollo the Radiant began to touch the strings of his lyre. Wishing to awake softly his beloved, he played at first as gently as swarms of mosquitoes singing on a summer evening on Illis. But the song became gradually stronger like a brook in the mountain after a rain; then more powerful, sweeter, more intoxicating, and it filled the air voluptuously.

The secret Athena's bird flew softly from the Acropolis and sat motionless on the nearest column.

Suddenly a bare arm, worthy of Phidias or Praxiteles, whiter than Pantelican marble, drew aside the curtain. The Radiant's heart stopped beating with emotion. And then Eryfile's voice resounded:

"Ha! You booby, why do you wander about and make a noise during the night? I have been working all day, and now they won't let me sleep!"

"Eryfile! Eryfile!" exclaimed Silver-arrowed. And he began to sing:

"From lofty peaks of Parnas—where there ring In all the glory of light's brilliant rays The grand sweet songs which inspired muses sing To me, by turns, in rapture and praise— I, worshiped god—I fly, fly to thee, Eryfile! And on thy bosom white I shall rest, and the Eternity will be A moment to me—the God of Light!"

"By the holy flour for sacrifices," exclaimed the baker's wife, "that street boy sings and makes love to me. Will you go home, you impudent!"

The Radiant, wishing to pursuade her that he was not a common mortal, threw so much light from his person, that all the earth was lighted. But Eryfile, seeing this, exclaimed:

"That scurrilous fellow has hidden a lantern under his robe, and he tries to make me believe that he is a god. O daughter of mighty Dios! they press us with taxes, but there is no Scythian guard to protect us from such stupid fellows!"

Apollo, who did not wish yet to acknowledge defeat, sang further:

"Ah, open thine arms—rounded, gleaming, white— To thee eternal glory I will give. Over goddess of earth, fair and bright, Thy name above immortal shall live. I kiss the dainty bloom of thy cheek, To thy lustrous eyes the love-light I bring, From the masses of thy silken hair I speak, To thy beauty, peerless one, I sing. White pearls are thy ruby lips between— With might of godly words I thee endow; An eloquence for which a Grecian queen Would gladly give the crown from her brow. Ah! Open, open thine arms!

"The azure from the sea I will take, Twilight its wealth of purple shall give too; Twinkling stars shall add the sparks which they make, And flowers shall yield their perfume and dew. By fairy touch, light as a caress, Made from all this material so bright, My beloved rainbow, in Chipryd's rich dress Thou shalt be clothed by the God of Light."

And the voice of the God of Light was so beautiful that it performed a miracle, for, behold! in the ambrosian night the gold spear standing on the Acropolis of Athens trembled, and the marble head of the gigantic statue turned toward the Acropolis in order to hear better. Heaven and Earth listened to it; the sea stopped roaring and lay peacefully near the shore; even the pale Selene stopped her night wandering in the sky and stood motionless over Athens.

And when Apollo had finished, a light wind arose and carried the song throughout the whole of Greece, and wherever a child in the cradle heard only a tone of it, that child became a poet.

But before Latona's son had finished his divine singing, the angry Eryfile began to scream:

"What an ass! He tries to bribe me with flowers and dew; do you think that you are privileged because my husband is not at home? What a pity that our servants are not at hand; I would give you a good lesson! But wait; I will teach you to wander during the night with songs!"

So saying she seized a pot of dough, and, throwing it through the gate, splashed it over the face, neck, robe, and lyre of the Radiant. Apollo groaned, and, covering his inspired head with a corner of his wet robe, he departed in shame and wrath.

Hermes, waiting for him, laughed, turned somersaults, and twirled his caduceus. But when the sorrowful son of Latona approached him, the foxy patron of merchants simulated compassion and said:

"I am sorry you have lost, O puissant archer!"

"Go away, you rascal!" answered the angry Apollo.

"I shall go when you give me Lampecja."

"May Cerberus bite your calves. I shall not give you Lampecja, and I tell you to go away, or I will twist your neck."

The Argo-robber knew that he must not joke when Apollo was angry, so he stood aside cautiously and said:

"If you wish to cheat me, then in the future be Hermes and I will be Apollo. I know that you are above me in power, and that you can harm me, but happily there is some one who is stronger than you and he will judge us. Radiant, I call you to the judgment of Chronid! Come with me."

Apollo feared the name of Chronid. He did not care to refuse, and they departed.

In the mean time day began to break. The Attic came out from the shadows. Pink-fingered dawn had arisen in the sky from the Archipelago. Zeus passed the night on the summit of Ida, whether he slept or not, and what he did there no one knew, because, Fog-carrying, he wrapped himself in such a thick cloud that even Hera could not see through it. Hermes trembled a little on approaching the god of gods and of people.

"I am right," he was thinking, "but if Zeus is aroused in a bad humor, and if, before hearing us, he should take us each by a leg and throw us some three hundred Athenian stadia, it would be very bad. He has some consideration for Apollo, but he would treat me without ceremony, although I am his son too."

But Maya's son feared in vain. Chronid waited joyfully on the earth, for he had passed a pleasant night, and was gladsomely gazing on the earthly circle. The Earth, happy beneath the weight of the gods' and people's father, put forth beneath his feet green grass and young hyacinths, and he, leaning on it, caressed the curling flowers with his hand, and was happy in his proud heart.

Seeing this, Maya's son grew quiet, and having saluted the generator, boldly accused the Radiant.

When he had finished, Zeus was silent a while, and then said:

"Radiant, is it true?"

"It is true, father Chronid," answered Apollo, "but if after the shame you will order me to pay the bet, I shall descend to Hades and light the shades."

Zeus became silent and thoughtful.

"Then this woman," said he finally, "remained deaf to your music, to your songs, and she repudiated you with disdain?"

"She poured on my head a pot of dough, O Thunderer!"

Zeus frowned, and at his frown Ida trembled, pieces of rock began to roll with a great noise toward the sea, and the trees bent like ears of wheat.

Both gods awaited with beating hearts his decision.

"Hermes," said Zeus, "you may cheat the people as much as you like—the people like to be cheated. But leave the gods alone, for if I become angry I will throw you into the ether, then you will sink so deep into the depths of the ocean that even my brother Poseidon will not be able to dig you out with his trident."

Divine fear seized Hermes by his smooth knees; Zeus spoke further, with stronger voice:

"A virtuous woman, especially if she loves another man, can resist Apollo. But surely and always a stupid woman will resist him.

"Eryfile is stupid, not virtuous; that's the reason she resisted. Therefore you cheated the Radiant, and you shall not have Lampecja. Now go in peace."

The gods departed.

Zeus remained in his joyful glory. For a while he looked after Apollo, muttering:

"Oh, yes! A stupid woman is able to resist him."

After that, as he had not slept well the previous night, he called Sleep, who, sitting on a tree in the form of a hawk, was awaiting the orders of the Father of gods and people.



PART FIFTH

WIN OR LOSE.

A Drama in Five Acts.

CHARACTERS:

Prince Starogrodzki. Stella, his daughter. George Pretwic, Stella's fiance. Karol Count Drahomir, Pretwic's friend. Countess Miliszewska. Jan Count Miliszewski. Anton Zuk, secretary of the county. Dr. Jozwowicz. Mrs. Czeska. Mr. Podczaski. Servants.



ACT I.

The stage represents a drawing-room with the principal door leading to the garden. There are also side doors to the other rooms.

SCENE I.

Princess Stella. Mrs. Czeska.

Czeska.—Why do you tell me this only now? Really, my dear Stella, I should be angry with you. I live only a mile from here; I was your teacher before you were put into the hands of English and French governesses. I see you almost every day. I love my darling with all my soul, and still you did not tell me that for several weeks you have been engaged. At least do not torture me any longer, but tell me, who is he?

Stella.—You must guess, my dear mother.

Czeska.—As long as you call me mother, you must not make me wait.

Stella.—But I wish you to guess and tell me. Naturally it is he and not another. Believe me, it will flatter and please me.

Czeska.—Count Drahomir, then.

Stella.—Ah!

Czeska.—You are blushing. It is true. He has not been here for a long time, but how sympathetic, how gay he is. Well, my old eyes would be gladdened by seeing you both together. I should at once think what a splendid couple. Perhaps there will be something in it.

Stella.—There will be nothing in it, because Count Drahomir, although very sympathetic, is not my fiance. I am betrothed to Mr. Pretwic.

Czeska.—Mr. George Pretwic?

Stella.—Yes. Are you surprised?

Czeska.—No, my dear child. May God bless you. Why should I be surprised? But I am so fond of Count Drahomir, so I thought it was he. Mr. George Pretwic!—Oh, I am not surprised at all that he should love you. But it came a little too soon. How long have you known each other? Living at my Berwinek I do not know anything that goes on in the neighborhood.

Stella.—Since three months. My fiance has inherited an estate in this neighborhood from the Jazlowieckis, and came, as you know, from far off. He was a near relation of the Jazlowieckis, and he himself comes of a very good family. Dear madam, have you not heard of the Pretwics?

Czeska.—Nothing at all, my dear Stella. What do I care for heraldry!

Stella.—In former times, centuries ago, the Pretwics were related to our family. It is a very good family. Otherwise papa would not have consented. Well then, Mr. Pretwic came here, took possession of the Jazlowieckis estate, became acquainted with us, and—

Czeska.—And fell in love with you. I should have done the same if I were in his place. It gives him more value in my eyes.

Stella.—Has he needed it?

Czeska.—No, my little kitten—rest easy. You know I am laughed at for seeing everything in a rosy hue. He belongs to a good family, he is young, rich, good-looking, well-bred, but—

Stella.—But what?

Czeska.—A bird must have sung it, because I cannot remember who told me that he is a little bit like a storm.

Stella.—Yes, his life has been stormy, but he was not broken by it.

Czeska.—So much the better. Listen! Such people are the best—they are true men. The more I think of it, the more sincerely I congratulate you.

Stella.—Thank you. I am glad I spoke to you frankly. The fact is that I am very lonesome here: papa is always ailing and our doctor has been away for three months.

Czeska.—Let that doctor of yours alone.

Stella.—You never liked him.

Czeska.—You know that I am not easily prejudiced against any one, but I do not like him.

Stella.—And do you know that he has been offered a professorship at the university, and that he is anxious to be elected a member of parliament? Mother, you are really unjust. You know that he sacrificed himself for us.

He is famous, rich, and a great student, but notwithstanding all that he remains with us when the whole world is open to him. I would surely have asked his advice.

Czeska.—Love is not an illness—but no matter about him. May God help him! You had better tell me, dear kitten—are you very much in love?

Stella.—Do you not see how quickly everything has been done? It is true that Countess Miliszewska came here with her son. I know it was a question about me, and I feared, although in vain, that papa might have the same idea.

Czeska.—You have not answered my question.

Stella.—Because it is a hard matter to speak about. Mother, Mr. Pretwic's life is full of heroic deeds, sacrifices, and dangers. Once he was in great peril, and he owes his life to Count Drahomir. But how dearly he loves him for it. Well, my fiance bears the marks of distant deserts, long solitudes, and deep sufferings. But when he begins to tell me of his life, it seems that I truly love that stalwart man. If you only knew how timidly, and at the same time how earnestly he told me of his love, and then he added that he knows his hands are too rough—

Czeska.—Not too rough—for they are honest. After what you have told me, I am in his favor with all my soul.

Stella.—But in spite of all that, sometimes I feel very unhappy.

Czeska.—What is the matter? Why?

Stella.—Because sometimes we cannot understand each other. There are two kinds of love—one is strong as the rocks, and the other is like a brook in which one can see one's self. When I look at George's love, I see its might, but my soul is not reflected in it like a face in a limpid brook. I love him, it is true, but sometimes it seems to me that I could love still more—that all my heart is not in that love, and then I am unhappy.

Czeska.—But I cannot understand that. I take life simply. I love, or I do not love. Well Stella, the world is so cleverly constructed, and God is so good that there is nothing more easy than to be happy. But one must not make a tangle of God's affairs. Be calm. You are very much in love indeed. No matter!

Stella.—That confidence in the future is exactly what I need—some of your optimism. I knew that you would frown and say: No matter! I am now more happy. Only I am afraid of our doctor. Well (looking through the window), our gentlemen are coming. Mr. Pretwic and Count Drahomir.

Czeska (looking through the window.)—Your future husband is looking very well, but so is Count Drahomir. Since when is he with Mr. Pretwic?

Stella (looking through the window).—For the past two weeks. Mr. Pretwic has invited him. They are coming.

Czeska.—And your little heart is throbbing—

Stella.—Do not tease me again.

SCENE II.

Mrs. Czeska. Stella. George Pretwic. Count Drahomir.—The count has his left arm in a sling.—A servant.

Servant (opening the door).—The princess is in the drawing-room.

Stella.—How late you are to-day!

George.—It is true. The sun is already setting. But we could not come earlier. Do you not know that there has been a fire in the neighboring village? We went there.

Czeska.—We have heard of it. It seems that several houses were burned.

George.—The fire began in the morning, and it was extinguished only now. Some twenty families are without a roof and bread. We are also late because Karol had an accident.

Stella (with animation).—It is true. Your arm is in a sling!

Drahomir.—Oh, it is a mere trifle. If there were no more serious wounds in the world, courage would be sold in all the markets. Only a slight scratch—

Stella.—Mr. Pretwic, how did it happen?

George.—When it happened I was at the other end of the village, and I could not see anything on account of the smoke. I was only told that Karol had jumped into a burning house.

Stella.—Oh, Lord!

Drahomir (laughing).—I see that my deed gains with distance.

Czeska.—You must tell us about it yourself.

Drahomir.—They told me that there was a woman in a house of which the roof had begun to burn. Thinking that this salamander who was not afraid of fire was some enchanted beauty, I entered the house out of pure curiosity. It was quite dark owing to the smoke. I looked and saw that I had no luck, because the salamander was only an old Jewish woman packing some feathers in a bag. Amidst the cloud of down she looked like anything you please but an enchantress. I shouted that there was a fire, and she shouted too, evidently taking me for a thief—so we both screamed. Finally I seized hold of my salamander, fainting with fear, and carried her out, not even through a window, but through the door.

George.—But you omitted to say that the roof fell in and that a spar struck your hand.

Drahomir.—True—and I destroyed the dam of my modesty, and will add that one of the selectmen of the village made a speech in my honor. It seems to me that he made some mention of a monument which they would erect for me. But pray believe that the fire was quenched by George and his people. I think they ought to erect two monuments.

Czeska.—I know that you are worthy of each other.

Stella.—Thank God that you have not met with some more serious accident.

Drahomir.—I have met with something very pleasant—your sympathy.

Czeska—You have mine also—as for Mr. Pretwic, I have a bone to pick with him.

George—Why, dear madam?

Czeska.—Because you are a bad boy. (To Stella and Drahomir.) You had better go to the Prince, and let us talk for a while.

Stella.—Mother, I see you wish to flirt with Mr. Pretwic.

Czeska.—Be quiet, you giddy thing. May I not compete with you? But you must remember, you Mayflower, that before every autumn there is a spring. Well, be off!

Stella (to Drahomir).—Let us go; Papa is in the garden and I am afraid that he is feeling worse. What a pity it is that the doctor is not here.

SCENE III.

Mrs. Czeska, George, then Stella.

Czeska.—I should scold you, as I have my dear girl, for keeping the secret. But she has already told me everything, so I only say, may God bless you both.

George (kissing her hand).—Thank you, madam.

Czeska.—I have reared that child. I was ten years with her, so I know what a treasure you take, sir. You have said that your hands are too rough. I have answered her—not too rough, for they are honest. But Stella is a very delicate flower. She must be loved much, and have good care taken of her. But you will be able to do it—will you not?

George.—What can I tell you? As far as it is in human power to make happy that dearest to me girl, so far I wish to assure her happiness with me.

Czeska.—With all my soul, I say: God bless you!

George.—The Princess Stella loves you like her own mother, so I will be as frank with you as with a mother. My life has been a very hard one. There was a moment when my life was suspended by one thread—Karol rescued me then, and for that I love him as a brother; and then—

Czeska.—Stella told me. You lived far from here?

George.—I was in the empty steppe, half wild myself, among strangers, therefore very sad and longing for the country. Sometimes there was not a living soul around me.

Czeska.—God was over the stars.

George.—That is quite different. But a heart thrown on earth must love some one. Therefore, with all this capacity for love, I prayed to God that he permit me to love some one. He has granted my prayer, and has given her to me. Do you understand me now?

Czeska.—Yes, I do understand you!

George.—How quickly everything has changed. I inherited here an estate and am able to settle—then I met the princess, and now I love her—she is everything in this world to me.

Czeska.—My dear Mr. Pretwic, you are worthy of Stella and she will be happy with you. My dear Stelunia—

Stella (appearing in the doorway leading to the garden. She claps her hands).—What good news! The doctor is coming. He is already in the village. Papa will at once be more quiet and is in better humor.

Czeska.—You must not rush. She is already tired. Where is the prince?

Stella.—In the garden. He wishes you to come here.

George.—We will go.

Stella (steps forward—then stops).—But you must not tell the doctor anything of our affair. I wish to tell him first. I have asked papa also to keep the secret. (They go out.)

SCENE IV.

Jozwowicz (enters through the principal door).—Jan, carry my trunk up-stairs and have the package I left in the antechamber sent at once to Mr. Anton Zuk, the secretary of the county.

Servant (bows).—Very well, doctor.

Jozwowicz (advances).—At last (servant goes out). After three months of absence, how quiet this house is always! In a moment I will greet them as a future member of the parliament. I have thrown six years of hard work, sleepless nights, fame, and learning into the chasm which separates us—and now we shall see! (He goes toward the door leading to the garden.) They are coming—she has not changed at all.

SCENE V.

(Through the door enter Stella, Mrs. Czeska, George, followed by Drahomir, arm and arm with the Prince Starogrodzki.)

Stella.—Here is our doctor! Our dear doctor! How do you do? We were looking for you!

Czeska (bows ceremoniously).—Especially the prince.

Jozwowicz (kissing Stella's hand).—Good evening, princess. I have also been anxious to return. I have come to stay for a longer time—to rest. Ah, the prince! How is Your Highness's health?

Prince (shaking hands).—Dear boy. I am not well. You did well to come. You must see at once what is the matter with me.

Jozwowicz.—But now Your Highness will introduce me to these gentlemen.

Prince.—It is true. Doctor Jozwowicz, the minister of my interior affairs—I said it well, did I not? For you do look after my health. Count Karol Drahomir.

Drahomir.—Your name is familiar to me, therefore, strictly speaking, I alone ought to introduce myself.

Doctor.—Sir.

Prince (introducing).—Mr. George Pretwic, our neighbor, and—(Stella makes a sign) and—I wish to say—

George.—If I am not mistaken, your schoolmate.

Doctor.—I did not wish to be the first to recollect.

George.—I am glad to see you. It is quite a long time since then, but we were good comrades. Truly, I am very glad, especially after what I have heard here about you.

Drahomir.—You are the good spirit of this house.

Stella.—Oh, yes!

Prince.—Let me tell you my opinion of him.

George.—How often the best student, Jozwowicz, helped Pretwic with his exercises.

Doctor.—You have a good memory, sir.

George.—Very good, indeed, for then we did not call each other "sir." Once more, Stanislaw, I welcome you.

Doctor.—And I return the welcome.

George—But do I not remember that after you went through college you studied law?

Doctor.—And afterward I became a doctor of medicine.

Prince.—Be seated. Jan, bring the lights.

Stella.—How charming that you are acquainted!

Doctor.—The school-bench, like misery, unites people. But then, social standing separates them. George's future was assured. I was obliged to search for mine.

Prince.—He has searched also, and found adventures.

Drahomir.—In two parts of the world.

Czeska.—That is splendid.

Doctor.—Well, he followed his instinct. Even in school he broke the horses, went shooting and fenced.

George.—Better than I studied.

Doctor (laughing).—Yes—we used to call him the general, because he commanded us in our student fights.

Drahomir.—George, I recognized you there.

Czeska.—But now, I think, he will stop fighting.

Stella.—Who knows?

George.—I am sure of it.

Doctor.—As for me, I was his worst soldier. I never was fond of playing that way.

Prince.—Because those are the distractions of the nobility and not of a doctor.

Doctor.—We begin to quarrel already. You are all proud of the fact that your ancestors, the knights, killed so many people. But if the prince knew how many people I have killed with my prescriptions! I can guarantee you that none of Your Highness's ancestors can be proud of such great number.

Drahomir.—Bravo. Very good!

Prince.—And he is my doctor!

Stella.—Papa! The doctor is joking.

Prince.—Thanks for such jokes. But it is sure that the world is now upside-down.

Doctor.—Your Highness, we will live a hundred years more. (To George.) Come, tell me, what became of you? (They go out.)

Prince.—You would not believe how unhappy I am because I cannot get along with that man. He is the son of a blacksmith from Stanislawow. I sent him to school because I wished to make an overseer of him. But afterwards he went to study at the University.

Drahomir.—He is twice a doctor—he is an intelligent man. One can see that by merely looking at him.

Stella.—Very much so.

Czeska.—So intelligent that I am afraid of him.

Drahomir.—But the prince must be satisfied.

Prince.—Satisfied, satisfied! He has lost his common sense. He became a democrat—a sans culotte. But he is a good doctor, and I am sick. I have some stomach trouble. (To Drahomir.) Have you heard of it?

Drahomir.—The prince complained already some time ago.

Czeska.—For twenty years.

Prince.—Sorrow and public service have ruined my health.

Czeska.—But Your Highness is healthy.

Prince (angrily).—I tell you that I am sick. Stella, I am sick—am I not?

Stella.—But now you will feel better.

Prince.—Because he alone keeps me alive. Stella would have died also with heart trouble if it had not been for him.

Drahomir.—If that is so, he is a very precious man.

Stella.—We owe him eternal gratitude.

Prince (looking at George).—He will also be necessary to Pretwic. What, Stella, will he not?

Stella (laughing).—Papa, how can I know that?

Drahomir.—Truly, I sometimes envy those stalwart men. During the battle they strengthen in themselves the force which lessens and disappears in us, because nothing nourishes it. Perhaps we are also made of noble metal, but we are eaten up with rust while they are hardened in the battle of life. It is a sad necessity.

Czeska.—How about Mr. Pretwic?

Drahomir.—George endured much, it is true, and one feels this although it is difficult to describe it. Look at those two men. When the wind blows George resists like a century-old tree, and men like the doctor subdue it and order it to propel his boat. There is in that some greater capacity for life, therefore the result is more easy to be foreseen. The tree is older, and although still strong, the more it is bitten by the storms, the sooner it will die.

Prince.—I have said many times that we die like old trees. Some other thicket grows, but it is composed only of bushes.

Stella.—The one who is good has the right to live—we must not doubt about ourselves.

Drahomir.—I do not doubt, even for the reason that the poet says: "Saintly is the one who knows how to be a friend" (bows to Stella) "with saints."

Stella.—If he has not secured their friendship by flattery.

Drahomir.—But I must be permitted not to envy the doctor anything.

Stella.—The friendship is not exclusive, although I look upon the doctor as a brother.

Prince.—Stella, what are you talking about? He is your brother as I am a republican. I cannot suffer him, but I cannot get along without him.

Czeska.—Prince, you are joking—

Drahomir (smiling).—Why should you hate him?

Prince.—Why? Have I not told you? He does with us what he pleases. He does as he likes in the house, he does not believe anything, and he is ambitious as the deuce. He is already a professor in the University, and now he wishes to be a member of parliament. Do you hear?—he will be a member of parliament! But I would not be a Starogrodzki if I had permitted it. (Aloud.) Jozwowicz!

Doctor (he is near a window).—Your Highness, what do you order?

Prince.—Is it true that you are trying to become a member of parliament.

Doctor.—At your service, Your Highness?

Prince.—Mrs. Czeska. Have you heard—the world is upside down, Jozwowicz!

Doctor.—What is it, Your Highness?

Prince.—And perhaps you will also become a minister.

Doctor.—It may be.

Prince.—Did you hear? And do you think that I will call you "Your Excellency"?

Doctor.—It would be proper.

Prince.—Jozwowicz, do you wish to give me a stroke of apoplexy?

Doctor.—Be calm, Your Highness. My Excellency will always take care of your Grace's bile.

Prince.—It is true. The irritation hurts me. What, Jozwowicz—does it hurt me?

Doctor.—Yes, it excites the bile, but it gives you an appetite. (He approaches with George.)

Stella.—What were you talking about?

Doctor.—I have been listening to George. Horrible! Dreadful! George made a mistake by coming into the world two hundred years too late. Bayards are not appreciated nowadays.

Czeska.—Providence is above all.

Drahomir.—I believe it also.

Doctor.—Were I a mathematician, without contradicting you I would say that, as in many cases we do not know what X equals, we must take care of ourselves.

Prince.—What are you saying?

Stella.—Doctor, pray do not talk so sceptically, or there will be a war—not with papa, but with me.

Doctor.—My scepticism is ended where your words begin, therefore I surrender.

Stella.—How gallant—the member of parliament.

SCENE VI.

The same Servant.

Servant.—Tea is served.

George.—I must bid you good-bye.

Stella.—Why, why are you going so early to-night?

Doctor (aside).—My old schoolmate is at home here.

George.—You must excuse me. I am very happy with you, but to-night I must be going home. I will leave Drahomir—he will replace me.

Stella.—To be angry with you would be to make you conceited. But you must tell me why you are going.

George.—The people who have lost their homes by fire are in my house. I must give some orders and provide for their necessities.

Czeska (aside).—He is sacrificing pleasure to duty. (Aloud.) Stella!

Stella.—What is it?

Czeska.—To-morrow we must make some collections for them, and provide them with clothing.

Doctor.—I will go with you, ladies. It will be the first case in which misery did not search for the doctor, but the doctor searched for misery.

Czeska.—Very clever.

Prince (rapping with the stick).—Pretwic!

George.—Your Highness, what do you order?

Prince.—You say that this rabble is very poor?

George.—Very poor, indeed.

Prince.—You say that they have nothing to eat?

George.—Almost nothing, my prince.

Prince.—God punishes them for voting for such a man (he points to Jozwowicz) as that one.

Doctor (bows).—They have not elected me yet.

Stella.—Papa.

Prince.—What did I want to say? Aha! Pretwic!

George.—I listen to you, my prince.

Prince.—You said that they were starving?

George.—I said—almost.

Prince.—Very well, then. Go to my cashier, Horkiewicz, and tell him to give that rabble a thousand florins. (He raps with the stick.) They must know that I will not permit any one to be hungry.

Stella—Dear father!

Drahomir.—I knew it would end that way.

Prince.—Yes, Mr. Jozwowicz! Noblesse oblige! Do you understand, your Excellency, Mr. Jozwowicz?

Doctor.—I understand, Your Highness.

Prince (giving his arm to Mrs. Czeska).—And now let us take some tea. (George takes leave and goes out.)

Doctor.—I must also be going. I am tired and I have some letters to write.

Prince.—Upon my honor, one might think that he was already a minister. But come to see us—I cannot sleep without you.

Doctor.—I will be at the service of Your Highness.

Prince (muttering).—As soon as this Robespierre arrived, I immediately felt better.

Stella.—Doctor, wait a moment. I do not take any tea. I will only put papa in his place, and then I will be back immediately. I must have a talk with you.

SCENE VII.

Jozwowicz alone—then Stella.

Doctor.—What are these people doing here, and what does she wish to tell me? Is it possible—But no, it is impossible. I am uneasy, but in a moment everything will be cleared up. What an ass I am! She simply wishes to talk to me about the prince's health. It is this moonlight that makes me so dreamy—I ought to have a guitar.

Stella (entering).—Mr. Jozwowicz?

Doctor.—I am here, princess.

Stella.—I did my best not to make you wait too long. Let us be seated and have a talk, as formerly, when I was small and not well and you took care of my health. I remember sometimes I used to fall asleep, and you carried me in your arms to my room.

Doctor.—The darling of every one in the house was very weak then.

Stella.—And to-day, if she is well, it is thanks to you. If she has any knowledge, it is also thanks to you. I am a plant of which you have taken good care.

Doctor.—And my greatest pride. There were few calm, genial moments in my life—and peace I found only in that house.

Stella.—You were always good, and for that reason I look upon you as an older brother.

Doctor.—Your words form the only smile in my life. I not only respect you, but I also love you dearly—like a sister, like my own child.

Stella.—Thank you. I have not the same confidence in any one else's judgment and honesty as I have in yours, so I wished to speak to you about an important matter. I hope even that what I am going to tell you will please you as much as it pleases me. Is it true that you are going to become a member of parliament?

Doctor (with uneasiness).—No, it is only probable. But speak of what concerns you.

Stella.—Well, then—ah, Lord! But you will not leave papa, will you?

Doctor (breathing heavily).—Oh, you wish to speak of the prince's health?

Stella.—No, I know that papa is getting better. I did not expect that it would be difficult—I am afraid of the severe opinion that you have of people.

Doctor (with simulated ease).—Pray, do not torture my curiosity.

Stella.—Then I will close my eyes and tell you, although it is not easy for any young girl. You know Mr. George Pretwic well, do you not?

Doctor (uneasily).—I know him.

Stella.—How do you like him? He is my fiance.

Doctor (rising).—Your fiance?

Stella.—Good gracious!—then you do not approve of my choice? (A moment of silence.)

Doctor.—Only one moment. Your choice, princess, if it is of your heart and will, must be good—only—it was unexpected news to me; therefore, perhaps, I received it a little too seriously. But I could not hear it with indifference owing to the affection I have for—your family. And then, my opinion does not amount to anything in such a matter. Princess, I congratulate you and wish you all happiness.

Stella.—Thank you. Now I shall be more easy.

Doctor.—You must return to your father. Your news has been so sudden that it has shocked me a little. I must collect my wits—I must familiarize myself with the thought. But in any event, I congratulate you.

Stella.—Good night. (She stops in the door, looks at the Doctor and goes in.)

SCENE VIII.

Jozwowicz (alone).—Too late!

END OF ACT I.

* * * * *



ACT II.

The stage represents the same drawing-room.

SCENE I.

Jozwowicz. Anton.

Doctor.—Anton, come here. We can talk quietly, for they are preparing my room. What news from the city?

Anton.—Good news. In an hour or so a delegation of the voters will be here. You must say something to them—you understand? Something about education—public roads, heavy taxes. You know what to say better than I do.

Doctor.—I know, I know; and how do they like my platform?

Anton.—You have made a great hit. I congratulate you. It is written with scientific accuracy. The papers of the Conservative party have gone mad with wrath.

Doctor.—Very good. What more?

Anton.—Three days ago your election was doubtful in the suburbs. I learned about it, however—gathered the electors and made a speech. "Citizens," I said, in the end, "I know only one remedy for all your misery—it is called Jozwowicz. Long live Progress!" I also attacked the Conservative party.

Doctor.—Anton, you are a great boy. Then there is a hope of victory?

Anton.—Almost a surety. And then, even if we do not win now, the future is open to us. And do you know why? Because—leaving out the details of the election, you and I, while talking of our business affairs, need not laugh at each other, like Roman augurs. Progress and truth are on our side, and every day makes a new breach in the old wall. We are only aiding the centuries and we must conquer. I am talking calmly: Our people, our electors are merely sheep, but we wish to make men of them, and therein lies our strength. As for me, if I were not persuaded that in my principles lie truth and progress, I would spit on everything and become a monk.

Doctor.—But it would be a dreadful thing if we do not win this time.

Anton.—I am sure we will win. You are a fearful candidate for our adversaries. You have only one antagonist who is at all dangerous—Husarski, a rich and popular nobleman.

Doctor.—Once I am in parliament, I will try to accomplish something.

Anton.—I believe in you, and for that reason I am working for you. Ha! ha! "They have already taken from us everything," said Count Hornicki at the club yesterday, "importance, money—even good manners." Well, at least I have not taken their good manners from them. To the devil with them!

Doctor.—No, you have truly not taken their good manners from them.

Anton.—But it is said in the city that your prince has given a thousand florins to those whose houses were burned. This may be bad for us. You must do something also.

Doctor.—I did what I could.

Anton.—I must also tell you that yesterday—What is the matter with you? I am talking to you and you are thinking about something else.

Doctor.—Excuse me. I am in great trouble. I cannot think as calmly as usual.

Anton.—The idea!

Doctor.—You could not understand it.

Anton.—I am the coachman of the carriage in which you are riding—I must know everything.

Doctor.—No. It does not concern you.

Anton.—It does concern me, because you are losing your energy. We have no need of any Hamlets.

Doctor (gloomily).—You are mistaken. I have not given up.

Anton.—I see. You close your mouth on this subject. It is not in your character to give up.

Doctor.—No. You must work to have me elected. I would lose doubly if we were bitten.

Anton.—They must have burned you like the deuce, for you hiss dreadfully.

Doctor.—An old story. A peasant did not sleep for six years, did not eat, bent his neck, wounded his hands, and carried logs for a hut. After six years a lord came along, kicked the hut and said: "My castle shall stand here." We are sceptical enough to laugh at such things.

Anton.—He was a real lord!

Doctor.—A lord for generations. He carried his head so high that he did not notice what cracked beneath his feet.

Anton.—I like the story. And what about the peasant?

Doctor.—According to the peasant tradition, he is thinking of a flint and tinder.

Anton.—Glorious idea! Truly we despise tradition too much. There are good things in it.

Doctor.—Enough. Let us talk of something else.

Anton (looking around).—An old and rich house. It would make a splendid cabin.

Doctor.—What do you say?

Anton.—Nothing. Has the old prince a daughter?

Doctor.—Yes. Why?

Anton (laughing).—Ha, ha! Your trouble has the scent of a perfume used by a lady. I smell here the petticoat of the princess. Behind the member of parliament is Jozwowicz, just as behind the evening dress there is the morning gown. What a strong perfume!

Doctor.—You may sell your perspicacity at another market. It is my personal affair.

Anton.—Not at all, for it means that you put only half your soul into public affairs. To the deuce with such business! Look at me. They howl at me in the newspapers, they laugh at me—but I do not care. I will tell you more! I feel that I shall never rise, although I am not lacking in strength nor intelligence. I could try to get the first place in camp to command, but I do not do it. Why? Because I know myself very well. Because I know that I am lacking in order, authority, tact. I have been and I am a tool, used by such as you, and which to-morrow may be kicked aside when it is no more needed. But my self-love does not blind me. I do not care most for myself—I am working for my convictions—that is all. Any day I may be ousted from my position. There is often misery in my house, and although I love my wife and children—no matter. When it is a question of my convictions, I will work, act, agitate. I put my whole soul in it. And for you, the petticoat of a princess bars your way. I did not expect this from you. Tfu! spit on everything and come with us.

Doctor.—You are mistaken. I have no desire for martyrdom, but for victory. And the more personal ties there are between me and public affairs, the more I will serve them with my mind, heart, and deeds—with all that constitutes a man. Do you understand?

Anton.—Amen. His eyes shine like the eyes of a wolf—now I recognize you.

Doctor.—What more do you wish?

Anton.—Nothing more. I will only tell you that our motto should be: Attack the principles, and not the people.

Doctor.—Your virginal virtue may rest assured. I shall not poison any one.

Anton.—I believe you, but I must tell you that I know you well. I appreciate your energy, your learning, your common sense, but I should not like to cross you in anything.

Doctor.—So much the better for me.

Anton.—But if it is a question of the nobility, notwithstanding our programme I make you a present of them. You shall not cut their heads off.

Doctor.—To be sure. And now go and get to work for me—or rather, for us.

Anton.—For us, Jozwowicz. Do not forget that.

Doctor.—I will not swear it to you, but I promise you that I will not forget.

Anton.—But how will you manage that nobleman?

Doctor.—Do you require that I make you my confidant?

Anton.—In the first place, I do not need your confidence, because in our camp we have sufficient perspicacity. There is the matter of the prince's daughter—that is all. But I am always afraid that for her sake you will abandon public affairs. As I am working for you, I am responsible for you, therefore we must be frank.

Doctor.—Let us be frank.

Anton.—Therefore you have said to yourself: I shall get rid of that nobleman. Do it then. It is your business—but I ask you once more: Do you wish to become a member of parliament for us, or for the princess? That is my business.

Doctor.—I throw my cards on the table. I, you, we are all new people, and all of us have this quality—we are not dolls, painted with the same color. There is room in us for convictions, love, hatred—in a word, as I told you, for everything of which a man of complex nature is composed. Nature has given me a heart and the right to live, therefore I desire for happiness; it gave me a mind, therefore I serve my chosen idea. One does not exclude the other. Why should you mix the princess with our public affairs—you, an intelligent man? Why do you wish to replace life by a phrase? I have the right to be happy, and I shall achieve it. And I shall know how to harmonize the idea with the life, like a sail with a boat. I shall sail more surely then. You must understand me; in that is our strength—that we know how to harmonize. In that lies our superiority over others, for they do not know how to live. What I will amount to with that woman, I do not know. You call me a Hamlet—perhaps I may become a Hamlet, but you have no need of it.

Anton.—It seems to me that you are again right. But thus you will fight two battles, and your forces will have to be divided.

Doctor.—No! I am strong enough.

Anton.—Say frankly—she is betrothed.

Doctor.—Yes.

Anton.—And she loves her fiance.

Doctor.—Or she deceives herself.

Anton.—At any rate, she does not love you.

Doctor.—In the first place, I must get rid of him. In the mean while, go and work.

Anton (consulting watch).—In a few moments the committee will be here to see you.

Doctor.—Very well. The prince is coming with the Countess Miliszewska and her son, my opponent. Let us be going.

SCENE II.

Prince, Stella, Mrs. Czeska, Countess Miliszewska, Jan Miliszewski, Podczaski.

Countess.—It is impossible to understand. The world grows wild nowadays.

Prince.—I say the same. Stella, do I not say so?

Stella.—Very often.

Countess (low to her son).—Sit near the princess and entertain her. Go ahead!

Jan.—I am going, mamma.

Countess.—There is too much of that audacity. I have sent Mr. Podczaski to the electors, and they say: "We do not need representatives without heads." I am only surprised that the prince is not more indignant. I rush here and there, I pray and work, and they dare to oppose to my son Mr. Jozwowicz.

Prince.—But madam, what can I do?

Countess.—And who is Mr. Jozwowicz—a physician? What does a doctor amount to? Jan has influence, importance, social position, relatives—and what has the doctor? From whence did he come here? Who ever heard of him? Really, I cannot speak calmly, and I think it must be the end of the world. Is it not, Mr. Podczaski?

Podczaski (saluting).—Yes, countess, God's wrath. There were never such loud thunders.

Prince.—Thunders? Mrs. Czeska, what? Have your heard thunder?

Czeska.—It is a very usual thing at the end of spring. Do not mind it.

Countess (in a low voice).—Jan, go ahead.

Jan.—Yes, mamma, I am going.

Countess.—Prince, you will see that Jan will not be elected purely on account of the hatred against us. They say that he does not know the country, and does not understand its needs. But before all we must not allow such people as Jozwowicz to become important in the country. Prince, is it not so?

Prince.—He will not ask your permission.

Countess.—That is exactly why the world must be coming to an end—that such people can do as they please! They dare to say that Jan will not be able to make a good representative, and that Mr. Jozwowicz will. Jan was always an excellent student in Metz. Jan, were you not a good student?

Jan.—Yes, mamma.

Podczaski.—Countess, you are perfectly right. It is the end of the world.

Stella.—What did you study especially?

Jan.—I, madam? I studied the history of heresy.

Princess.—Mrs. Czeska—what? Have studied what?

Countess.—They reproach us with not having talent, but for diplomacy one must have talent.

Podczaski.—The count does even look like a diplomat.

Prince (aside).—Well, not very much.

Czeska.—The count does not have much to say.

Jan.—No, madam, but sometimes I speak quite enough.

Countess.—For my part, I declare that if Jan is not elected, we will leave the country.

Podczaski.—They will be guilty of it.

Countess.—It will be the fault of the prince.

Prince.—Mine?

Countess.—How can you permit such as Jozwowicz to compete with society people? Why do you retain him?

Prince.—Frankly speaking, it is not I who keep him—it is he who keeps me. If it were not for him, I should long since be (he makes a gesture).

Countess (angrily).—By keeping him, you serve the democracy.

Prince.—I—I serve the democracy? Stella, do you hear? (He raps with his stick.)

Countess.—Every one will say so. Mr. Jozwowicz is the democratic candidate.

Prince.—But I am not, and if it is so I will not allow him to be. I have enough of Mr. Jozwowicz's democracy. They shall not say that I am the tool of democracy. (He rings the bell. A servant enters.) Ask the doctor to come here.

Countess.—Now the prince is a true prince.

Prince.—I serve democracy, indeed!

Stella.—Papa, dear.

Countess.—We must bid the prince good-bye. Jan, get ready. Good-bye, dear Stella. Good-bye, my child. (To her son.) Kiss the princess's hand.

SCENE III.

The same.

Jozwowicz.—Your Highness must excuse me if I am too late, but I was obliged to receive the delegates.

Countess.—What delegates are here? Jan, go ahead.

Doctor (saluting).—Count, you must hasten, they are leaving.

Podczaski.—I am Your Highness's servant. (Countess, Jan, Podczaski go out. Stella and Mrs. Czeska follow them.)

SCENE IV.

Jozwowicz. Prince. (A moment of silence.)

Prince (rapping with his stick).—I forbid you to become a member of parliament.

Doctor.—I shall not obey.

Prince.—You make me angry.

Doctor.—Your Highness closes to me the future.

Prince (angrily).—I have brought you up.

Doctor.—I preserve Your Highness's life.

Prince.—I have been a second father to you.

Doctor.—Your Highness, let us speak calmly. If you have been to me a father, I have until now been to you a son. But the father must not bar to his son the road to distinction.

Prince.—Public distinction is not for such people as you, sir.

Doctor (laughing).—A moment ago Your Highness called me a son.

Prince.—What son?

Doctor.—Your Highness, were I your son I would be rich and have a title—in a word everything Your Highness possesses. But being a poor man, I must make my way, and no one has the right to bar it to me, especially if my road is straight and honest. (Laughing.) Unless Your Highness would like to adopt me in order to preserve the family.

Prince.—What nonsense you are talking.

Doctor.—I am only joking. Well, Your Highness, let us cease this irritation.

Prince.—It is true, it hurts me. Why will you not give up the idea of becoming a member of parliament?

Doctor.—It is my future.

Prince.—And in the mean time I am vexed by every one on that account. When I was young I was in many battles and I did not fear. I can show my decorations. I was not afraid of death on the battlefield, but those Latin illnesses of yours—Why do you look at me in that way?

Doctor.—I am looking as usual. As for your illness, I will say that it is more the imagination of Your Highness than anything else. The constitution is strong, and with my assistance Your Highness will live to the age of Methusaleh.

Prince.—Are you sure of it?

Doctor.—Positive.

Prince.—Good boy! And you will not leave me?

Doctor.—Your Highness may be assured of that.

Prince.—Then you may become a member of parliament or whatever you please. Stella! Oh, she is not here! Upon my honor, that Miliszewski is an ass. Don't you think so?

Doctor.—I cannot contradict Your Highness.

SCENE V.

The same. Stella and Mrs. Czeska.

Stella.—I came because I was afraid you would quarrel. Well, what is the end of the discussion?

Prince.—Well, that good-for-nothing man will do what he pleases.

Doctor.—The fact is that the prince has approved of my plans and has granted me permission to try my luck at the election.

Mrs. Czeska.—We had better all go to the garden. Mr. Pretwic and Count Drahomir are waiting—we are going for a sail on the lake.

Prince.—Then let us be going (they go out). You see, madam, that Miliszewska!

SCENE VI.

Jozwowicz, Stella. Then Drahomir.

Stella.—How is my father's health?

Doctor.—All that can be expected. But you are pale, princess.

Stella.—Oh, I am well.

Doctor.—It is the consequence of the betrothal.

Stella.—It must be.

Doctor.—But health requires one to be merry—to enjoy life.

Stella.—I do not wish for any other distraction.

Doctor.—If not distraction, at least enjoyment. We here are too grave for you. Perhaps we cannot understand you.

Stella.—You are all too good.

Doctor.—At least solicitous. If you have a moment to spare let us be seated and have a talk. My solicitude must explain my boldness. With the dignity of a fiance, serenity and happiness generally go hand in hand. When the heart is given willingly, all longing ceases and the future is viewed with serenity.

Stella.—My future contains something which might cause even the most valiant to fear.

Doctor.—Of what are you talking? You have called me a sceptic, but it is I who says: who loves, believes.

Stella.—What then?

Doctor.—Who doubts?

Stella.—Doctor.

Doctor.—Princess, I do not inquire. There are moments when the serenity visibly departs from your face, therefore I question you, which is my duty as a physician and a friend. Be calm. Pray, remember that this is asked by a man whom a while ago you called "brother," and who knows how dear to him is the happiness of such a sister! I have no one in this world—all my love of family is centred in your house. My heart has also its sorrows. Pray, quiet my apprehensions—that is all I ask you.

Stella.—What apprehensions?

Doctor.—Apprehensions of which I dare not speak. Since my return I have watched you constantly, and the more I watch you the more do I fear. You fear the future—you do not look into it with confidence and hope.

Stella.—Permit me to go.

Doctor.—No, madam. I have the right to ask, and if you fear to look into the bottom of your heart, then I have the right to say that you lack courage, and for such sinful weakness one pays later with his own happiness and the happiness of others. I suffer also—but I must—I must. Madam, listen to me. If in your heart there is even the shadow of a doubt, you have mistaken your sentiments.

Stella.—Is it possible to make such a mistake?

Doctor.—Yes. Sometimes—often one mistakes sympathy, pity, commiseration for love.

Stella.—What a dreadful mistake!

Doctor.—Which one recognizes as soon as the heart flies in another direction. The dignity of a fiance is a hidden pain. If I am mistaken, pray forgive me.

Stella.—Doctor, I do not wish to think of such things.

Doctor.—Then I am not mistaken. Do not look on me with fear. I wish to save you, my dear child. Where is your heart? The moment that you recognize you do not love Mr. Pretwic, that moment will tell you whom you do love. No, I shall not withdraw my question. Where is your heart? By God, if he is not equal to you, he shall rise to your height! But no, I have become a madman.

Stella.—I must be going.

Doctor (barring the way).—No, you shall not go until you have given me an answer. Whom do you love?

Stella.—Doctor, spare me—otherwise I shall doubt everything. Have pity on me.

Doctor (brutally)—Whom do you love?

SCENE VII.

The same. Drahomir

Drahomir.—Princess.

Stella.—Ah!

Drahomir.—What! Have I frightened you? I came to tell you that the boats are waiting. What is the matter with you?

Stella.—Nothing. Let us be going.

(Drahomir offers his arm—they go out.)

SCENE VIII.

Doctor (alone—looking after them).—Oh! I—under—stand!

END OF ACT II.

* * * * *



ACT III.

The same Drawing-room.

SCENE I.

(Mr. Podczaski enters, followed by a servant.)

Podczaski.—Tell the Doctor that Mr. Podczaski wishes to see him on an important matter.

Servant.—The Doctor is very busy. The princess is ill. But I will tell him (goes out).

Podczaski (alone).—I have enough of this work for nothing. The countess sends me about to agitate for her, but when I ask her for some money, she answers: We shall see about it after the election. She is an aristocrat and she refuses a hundred florins to a nobleman. To the deuce with such business. I had better try elsewhere, to serve the Doctor. He pays because he has common sense. And as he will bite them, then I will rise in consideration.

SCENE II.

Podczaski. Jozwowicz.

Podczaski.—Your servant, sir.

Doctor.—What can I do for you?

Podczaski.—Well, sir, I am going to come right to the point. You know what services I have rendered the Countess Miliszewski?

Doctor.—Yes, you have been agitating against me in favor of Count Miliszewski. Podczaski.—No, not at all, sir. Well, sir, it was so, but I am going to change that, and you may be certain—

Doctor.—In a word, what do you wish, sir?

Podczaski.—God sees, sir, that I served the countess faithfully, and it cost me quite a little, but on consulting my conscience I have concluded not to act any more against such a man as you, sir, for the sake of the country.

Doctor.—I appreciate your sentiments, which are those of a good citizen. You do not wish to act against me any longer?

Podczaski.—No, sir!

Doctor.—You are right. Then you are with me?

Podczaski.—If I may offer my services—

Doctor.—I accept.

Podczaski (aside).—He is a man—I have a hundred florins in my pocket already. (Aloud) My gratitude—

Doctor.—Mine will be shown after the election.

Podczaski.—Oh!

SCENE III.

The same. Jan Miliszewski—then Anton.

Jan.—Good-morning, doctor. Is my mother here?

Doctor.—The countess is not here.

Jan.—We came together, but mamma went directly to the prince's apartment. I remained alone and I cannot find my way to the prince's apartment. (Seeing Podczaski, who bows to him) Ah! Mr. Podczaski, what are you doing here?

Podczaski.—Your servant, sir. Well, I came to consult the doctor—I have rheumatism in my feet.

Jan.—Doctor, will you be kind enough to show me to the Prince's apartment?

Doctor.—They are in the left wing of the chateau.

Jan.—Thank you. But later I would like to have a talk with you.

Doctor.—I will be at your service, sir.

(Jan goes toward the door. He knocks against Anton.)

Anton.—I beg your pardon, sir.

Jan.—Pardon (he adjusts his monocle and looks at Anton—then goes out).

Anton (to Doctor).—I was told you were here and I rushed. Listen, a matter of great importance. (Seeing Podczaski) What! You are here? Our adversary here?

Podczaski (speaking in Anton's ear).—I am no longer your adversary.

Anton (looking at him).—So much the better then—but leave us alone just the same.

Podczaski (aside).—Bad. (Aloud) Gentleman, do not forget me. (Aside) The devil has taken my hundred florins. (He goes out.)

Anton.—What did he wish?

Doctor.—Money.

Anton.—Did you give it to him?

Doctor.—No.

Anton.—You did well. We do not bribe. But no matter about that. What good luck that they put up Miliszewski for a candidate. Otherwise you would be lost because Husarski would have had the majority.

Doctor.—Anton, I am sure that we will be defeated.

Anton.—No! What am I for? Uf! How tired I am. Let me rest for five minutes (he sits down). Good gracious! how soft the furniture is here. We must donate some money for some public purpose. Have you any money?

Doctor.—I have some.

Anton.—We are going to give that money to build a school.

Doctor.—Here is the key of my desk—you will find some ready money there, and some checks.

Anton.—Very well, but I must rest a moment. In the mean while what is the news here? You are not looking well. Your eyes have sunken. Upon my word, I was not so much in love with my wife. Speak—I will rest in the mean while—but speak frankly.

Doctor.—I will be frank with you.

Anton.—What more?

Doctor.—That marriage will be broken off.

Anton.—Why.

Doctor.—Because there are times when these people do not succeed in anything.

Anton.—To the garret with those peacocks. And what about that cannibal Pretwic?

Doctor.—A long story. The princess has mistaken the sympathy which she feels for him for something more serious. To-day she knows that she does not love him.

Anton.—That is good. Truly, it looks as though they were pursued by fate. It is the lot of races that have lived too long.

Doctor.—Implacable logic of things.

Anton.—Then she is not going to marry him. I pity them, but to the deuce with sentimentality!

Doctor.—She would marry him if it killed her to keep her word. But there is a third person entangled in the matter—Count Drahomir.

Anton.—At every step one meets a count! He betrays Pretwic?

Doctor.—What a blockhead you are.

Anton.—Well, frankly speaking, I do not care one whit for your drawing-room affairs.

Doctor.—Drahomir and she do not know that they love each other. But something attracts them to each other. What is that force? They do not ask. They are like children.

Anton.—And how will you profit from all this?

Doctor.—Listen, you democrat. When two knights are in love with one noble damsel, that love usually ends dramatically—and the third party usually gets the noble damsel.

Anton.—And the knights?

Doctor.—Let them perish.

Anton.—What then do you suppose will happen?

Doctor.—I do not know. Pretwic is a passionate man. He does not foresee anything—I see only the logic of things which is favorable to me, and I shall not be stupid enough to place any obstacles to my happiness.

Anton.—I am sure you will help it along in case of need.

Doctor.—Well, I am a physician. It is my duty to assist nature.

Anton.—The programme is ready. I know you. I only wish to ask you how you know what you say is so. Maybe it is only a story.

Doctor.—I can have verification of it through the princess's ex-governess.

Anton.—You must know as soon as possible.

Doctor.—Mrs. Czeska will be here in a moment. I asked her to come here.

Anton.—Then I am going. Do you know what? Do not help nature too much, because it would be—

SCENE IV.

The same. Mrs. Czeska.

Czeska (entering).—You wished to speak to me?

Doctor.—Yes, madam.

Anton (bows to Mrs. Czeska, then speaks to Jozwowicz).—I am going to get the money and I will be back in a moment.

Doctor.—Very well. (Anton goes out.)

Czeska.—Who is that gentleman?

Doctor.—A pilot.

Czeska.—What do you mean?

Doctor.—He guides the boat in which I am sailing. As for the rest, he is a horribly honest man.

Czeska.—I do not understand very well. What did you wish to speak to me about?

Doctor.—About the princess. You are both like mother and daughter, and you should have her entire confidence. What is the matter with her? She conceals something—some sorrow. As a doctor I must know everything, because in order to cure physical disease one must know the moral cause. (Aside) The spirit of Aesculapius forgive me this phrase.

Czeska.—My good sir, what are you asking about?

Doctor.—I have told you that the princess conceals some sorrow.

Czeska.—I do not know.

Doctor.—We both love her; let us then speak frankly.

Czeska.—I am willing.

Doctor.—Then, does she love her fiance?

Czeska.—How can you ask me such a question? If she did not, she would not be betrothed to him. It is such a simple thing that even I do not talk to her about it any more.

Doctor.—You say: "I do not talk about it any more"; so you have already talked about it.

Czeska.—Yes. She told me that she was afraid she did not love him enough. But every pure soul fears that it does not fulfil its duty. Why did you ask me that?

Doctor (saluting her).—I have my reasons. I wished to know. (Aside) I am wasting my time with her.

SCENE V.

The same. Jan Miliszewski.

Jan.—I could not find mamma. Good-morning, madam. Do I intrude?

Czeska.—Not at all, sir. (To Jozwowicz) She will do her duty; rest assured of that.

Doctor.—Thank you. (Czeska goes out.)

Jan.—Doctor.

Doctor.—I am listening to you, sir.

Jan.—Let us speak frankly. Mamma wishes me to become a member of parliament, but I do not care for it.

Doctor.—You are too modest, sir.

Jan.—You are sneering, and I do not know how to defend myself. But I am frank with you—I would not care a bit about being elected to parliament if it were not for my mamma. When mamma wishes for something it must be accomplished. All women of the family of Srokoszynski are that way, and mamma is of that family.

Doctor.—But, count, you have a will of your own.

Jan.—That is the trouble—the Miliszewskis are all ruled by the women. It is our family characteristic, sir.

Doctor.—A knightly characteristic indeed! But what can I do for you?

Jan.—I am not going to oppose you.

Doctor.—I must be as frank with you as you are with me. Until now you have helped me.

Jan.—I don't know how, but if it is so, then you must help me in your turn.

Doctor.—In what?

Jan.—It is a very delicate question. But you must not tell mamma anything about it.

Doctor.—Certainly not.

Jan.—Mamma wishes me to marry the princess, but I, sir, I do not want—

Doctor.—You do not want?

Jan.—It astonishes you?

Doctor.—I must be frank—

Jan.—I do not wish to because I do not wish to. When a man does not feel like marrying, then he does not feel like it. You will suppose that I am in love with some one else? It may be. But it is not with the princess. Naturally, when mamma says: "Jan, go ahead," I go ahead, because I cannot help it. The Miliszewskis knew how to manage the men, but not the women.

Doctor.—I do not understand—how can I be useful to you?

Jan.—You can do anything in this house, so you must help me secretly, to be refused.

Doctor.—Count, you may rely on me in that matter.

Jan.—Thank you.

Doctor.—And it will be so much the easier done because the princess is betrothed.

Jan.—I did not know that any one dared to compete with me.

Doctor (aside).—What an idea! (Aloud) It is Mr. George Pretwic.

Jan.—Then they wished to make sport of me.

Doctor.—Mr. Pretwic is an audacious man. You were perfectly right when you said the question was a delicate one. The people are afraid of Mr. Pretwic; if you were to give up, people would say that—

Jan.—That I am also afraid? Then I will not give up. My dear sir, I see you do not know the Miliszewskis. We do not know how to handle the women, but there is not a coward in our family. I know that people laugh at me, but the one who would dare to call me a coward would not laugh. I will show them at once that I am not a coward. Where is Mr. Pretwic?

Doctor.—He is in the garden (pointing through the window). Do you see him there, near the lake?

Jan.—Good-bye.

SCENE VI.

Jozwowicz alone—then Anton.

Doctor.—The men who have not such sons are great! Ha! ha! ha!

Anton (rushing in).—You are here? Here are your receipts for the money. Why are you laughing?

Doctor.—Miliszewski has gone to challenge Pretwic.

Anton.—Are they crazy?

Doctor.—What an opinion she would have of Pretwic if he were to quarrel with such an idiot!

Anton.—You have done it.

Doctor.—I told you that I shall assist nature.

Anton.—Do as you please; I withdraw.

Doctor.—Good-bye. Or no, I am going also. I must prevent the adventure from going too far.

Anton.—I wanted to tell you that I must buy some food for my children. I will return the money—later on. Is it all right?

Doctor.—How can you ask? (Goes out.)

SCENE VII.

Stella and Drahomir. (They enter from the garden.)

Stella.—That walk tired me. See how weak I am (sits down). Where is Mr. Pretwic?

Drahomir.—Young Miliszewski asked to speak to him a moment. The countess is speaking to the prince. It seems that their conversation is very animated because the countess did not know that you were betrothed, and she had some designs on you. But pray excuse me; I laugh and you suffer by it.

Stella.—I would laugh too if I did not know how much it troubles my father. And then, I pity Count Miliszewski.

Drahomir.—I understand how a similar situation would be painful to a man who was in love, but such is not the case with the count. He will console himself if his mother orders it.