Children of the Soil
by Henryk Sienkiewicz · English · Gutenberg #44939 · 1,469,650 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Children of the Soil
Author: Henryk Sienkiewicz
Translator: Jeremiah Curtin
Release date: February 17, 2014 [eBook #44939]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
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Transcriber's Note
Certain typographical features such as italics and small capital letters
cannot be reproduced in this version. Italics are denoted using the
underscore character as a delimiter (e.g., _italic_). Any words printed
in small capitals have been simply shifted to all upper case. The 'oe'
ligature is rendered here as separate characters.
Quoted text was printed in a smaller font. These passages are indented
here to indicate this.
The few footnotes, which appeared at the bottom of the page containing
their references, have been moved to the end of each chapter.
Please consult the notes at the end of this text for more detail about
the text and the resolution on any printing anomalies.
CHILDREN OF THE SOIL
WORKS OF
Henryk Sienkiewicz
IN DESERT AND WILDERNESS
WITH FIRE AND SWORD
THE DELUGE. _2 Vols._
PAN MICHAEL
CHILDREN OF THE SOIL
"QUO VADIS"
SIELANKA, A FOREST PICTURE
THE KNIGHTS OF THE CROSS
WITHOUT DOGMA
WHIRLPOOLS
ON THE FIELD OF GLORY
LET US FOLLOW HIM
CHILDREN OF THE SOIL.
BY
HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ,
AUTHOR OF
"WITH FIRE AND SWORD," "THE DELUGE," "PAN MICHAEL,"
"WITHOUT DOGMA," "YANKO THE MUSICIAN,"
"LILLIAN MORRIS," ETC.
_AUTHORIZED AND UNABRIDGED TRANSLATION FROM
THE POLISH BY_
JEREMIAH CURTIN.
BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1917
_Copyright, 1895_,
BY JEREMIAH CURTIN.
_All rights reserved._
Printers
S. J. PARKHILL & CO., BOSTON, U.S.A.
TO HIS EXCELLENCY,
HON. FREDERIC T. GREENHALGE,
Governor of Massachusetts.
SIR,--You are at the head of a Commonwealth renowned for
mental culture; you esteem the Slav Race and delight in good
literature;--to you I beg to dedicate this volume, in the hope
that it will give pleasure to you and to others in that State which
you govern so acceptably.
JEREMIAH CURTIN
WARREN, VERMONT,
April 19, 1895.
INTRODUCTORY STATEMENT.
The title of this book in the original is Rodzina Polanieckich
(The Family of the Polanyetskis); "Children of the Soil" has been
substituted, because of the difficulty of the Polish title for American
and English readers, because the Polanyetskis are called children
of the soil in the text of the volume, and because all the other
characters are children of the soil in the same sense.
For most readers this book will have a double interest,--the interest
attaching to a picture of Polish life, and the general human interest
inseparable from characters like those presented in the narrative of
Pan Stanislav's fortunes.
The Poles form a part of the great Slav race, which has played so
important a rôle in the world's history already, and which is destined
to play a far more important one yet in the future.
The argument involved in the career and meditations of Pan Stanislav
is of interest to every person in civilized society; it is an argument
presented so clearly, and reinforced with such pointed examples, that
neither comment nor explanation is needed.
Were it not for the change of title, I might escape even this brief
statement; but now I may add that the following translation was made
in many places, in different countries, at various intervals, and at
moments snatched from other work. I began "Children of the Soil" in
Cahirciveen, Ireland, and continued it in London, Edinburgh, Fort
William near the foot of Ben Nevis, Rome, Naples, and Florence,
Tsarskoe Selo, Russia, and South Uist, an island of the Outer Hebrides.
From the Outer Hebrides I was called home before I wished to come, and
left that little granite kingdom in the Atlantic with sincere regret.
The translation was finished in Warren, Vermont, and revised carefully.
To new readers of Sienkiewicz I may state that Pan, Pani, and Panna,
when prefixed to names, mean Mr., Mrs., and Miss respectively.
JEREMIAH CURTIN.
CHILDREN OF THE SOIL.
CHAPTER I.
It was the first hour after midnight when Pan Stanislav Polanyetski
was approaching the residence in Kremen. During years of childhood he
had been twice in that village, when his mother, a distant relative
of the present owner of Kremen, was taking him home for vacation. Pan
Stanislav tried to remember the place, but to do so was difficult. At
night, by the light of the moon, everything took on an uncertain form.
Over the bushes, fields, and meadows, a white mist was lying low,
changing the whole region about into a shoreless lake, as it were,--an
illusion increased by choruses of frogs in the mist.
It was a July night, very calm and perfectly bright. At moments, when
the frogs became silent, landrails were heard playing in the dew; and
at times, from afar, from muddy ponds, hidden behind reeds, the call of
the bittern sounded as if coming from under the earth.
Pan Stanislav could not resist the charm of that night. It seemed to
him familiar in some way; and that familiarity he felt all the more,
since he had returned only the previous year from abroad, where he had
spent his first youth and had become engaged afterward in mercantile
matters. Now, while entering that sleeping village, he recalled his
childhood, memorable through his mother, now five years dead, and
because the bitterness and cares of that childhood, compared with the
present, seemed perfect bliss to him.
At last the brichka rolled up toward the village, which began with a
cross standing on a sand mound. The cross, inclining greatly, seemed
ready to fall. Pan Stanislav remembered it because in his time under
that mound had been buried a man found hanging from a limb in the
neighboring forest, and afterward people were afraid to pass by that
spot in the night-time.
Beyond the cross were the first cottages, but the people were sleeping;
there was no light in any window. As far as the eye could reach, only
roofs of cottages were gleaming on the night background of the sky,
lighted up by the moon, and the roofs appeared silvery and blue. Some
cottages were washed with lime and seemed bright green; others, hidden
in plum orchards, in thickets of sunflowers or pole beans, barely came
out of the shadow. In the yards, dogs barked, but in their sleep, as it
were, accompanying the croaking of frogs, the calling of landrails and
bitterns, and all those sounds with which a summer night speaks, and
which strengthen the impression of silence still more.
The brichka, moving slowly along the soft sandy road, entered at last a
dark alley, spotted only here and there by the moonlight, which pushed
in between the leaves. Beyond the alley, night watches whistled; and in
the open was seen a white dwelling, in which some windows were lighted.
When the brichka rattled up to the entrance, a serving-man hurried
out of the house and began to assist Pan Stanislav to alight; but in
addition the night watch appeared and two white dogs, evidently very
young and friendly, for, instead of barking, they began to fawn and to
spring on the guest, showing such delight at his coming that the watch
had to moderate their effusiveness with a stick.
The man took Pan Stanislav's things from the brichka, and after a
moment the guest found himself in a dining-room where tea was waiting.
Nothing had changed from the time of his childhood. At one wall was
a sideboard in walnut; at one end of this a clock with heavy weights
and a cuckoo; at the other were two badly painted portraits of women
in robes of the eighteenth century; in the centre of the room stood a
table with a white cloth, and surrounded by chairs with high arms. That
room, lighted brightly, full of steam rising from a samovar, seemed
rather hospitable and gladsome.
Pan Stanislav began to walk along the side of the table; but the
squeaking of his boots struck him in that silence, therefore he went
to the window and looked through the panes at the yard filled with
moonlight. Over this yard the two white dogs, which had greeted him so
effusively, were chasing each other.
After a time the door of the next room opened, and a young lady entered
in whom Pan Stanislav divined the daughter of the master of Kremen by
his second wife; at sight of her he stepped from the window curtains,
and, approaching the table in his squeaking boots, bowed, and announced
his name. The young lady extended her hand, and said,--
"We learned of your arrival from the despatch. Father is a trifle ill,
and was obliged to lie down; but he will be glad to see you in the
morning."
"I am not to blame for coming so late," answered Pan Stanislav; "the
train reaches Chernyov only at eleven."
"And from Chernyov it is ten miles to Kremen. Father tells me that this
is not your first visit."
"I came here with my mother when you were not in the world yet."
"I know. You are a relative of my father."
"I am a relative of Pan Plavitski's first wife."
"Father esteems family connections very highly, even the most distant,"
said the young lady; and she began to pour out tea, pushing aside from
time to time the steam, which, rising from the samovar, veiled her
eyes. When conversation halted, only the tick of the clock was heard.
Pan Stanislav, who was interested by young ladies, looked at Panna
Plavitski carefully. She was a person of medium height, rather slender;
she had dark hair, a face calm, but subdued, as it were, a complexion
sunburnt somewhat, blue eyes, and a most shapely mouth. Altogether it
was the face of a self-possessed and delicate woman. Pan Stanislav,
to whom she seemed not ill-looking, but also not beautiful, thought
that she was rather attractive; that she might be good; and that under
that exterior, not too brilliant, she might have many of those various
qualities which young ladies in the country have usually. Though he
was young, life had taught him one truth,--that in general women gain
on near acquaintance, while in general men lose. He had heard also
touching Panna Plavitski, that the whole management in Kremen--a place,
by the way, almost ruined--lay on her mind, and that she was one of the
most overworked persons on earth. With reference to those cares, which
must weigh on her, she seemed calm and unmoved; still he thought that
surely she must wish to sleep. This was evident, indeed, by her eyes,
which blinked in spite of her, under the light of the hanging lamp.
The examination would have come out on the whole in her favor, were
it not that conversation dragged somewhat. This was explained by the
fact that they saw each other for the first time in life; besides, she
received him alone, which might be awkward for a young lady. Finally,
she knew that Pan Stanislav had not come to make a visit, but to ask
for money. Such was the case in reality. His mother had given, a very
long time before, twelve thousand and some rubles for a mortgage on
Kremen, which Pan Stanislav wished to have redeemed,--first, because
there were enormous arrears of interest, and second, since he was a
partner in a mercantile house in Warsaw, he had entered into various
transactions and needed capital. He had promised himself beforehand to
make no compromise, and to exact his own absolutely. In affairs of that
sort, it was a point with him always to appear unyielding. He was not
such by nature, perhaps; but he had made inflexibility a principle, and
therewith a question of self-love. In consequence of this, he overshot
the mark frequently, as people do who argue something into themselves.
Hence, while looking at that agreeable, but evidently drowsy young
lady, he repeated to himself, in spite of the sympathy which was roused
in him,--
"That is all well, but you must pay."
After a while he said, "I have heard that you busy yourself with
everything; do you like land management?"
"I love Kremen greatly," answered she.
"I too loved Kremen when I was a boy; but I should not like to manage
the place,--the conditions are so difficult."
"Difficult, difficult. We do what we can."
"That is it,--you do what you can."
"I assist father, who is often in poor health."
"I am not skilled in those matters, but, from what I see and hear,
I infer that the greater number of agriculturists cannot count on a
future."
"We count on Providence."
"Of course, but people cannot send creditors to Providence."
Panna Plavitski's face was covered with a blush; a moment of awkward
silence followed; and Pan Stanislav said to himself,--
"Since thou hast begun, proceed farther;" and he said,--
"You will permit me to explain the object of my coming."
The young lady looked at him with a glance in which he might read,
"Thou hast come just now; the hour is late. I am barely alive from
fatigue: even the slightest delicacy might have restrained thee from
beginning such a conversation." She answered aloud,--
"I know why you have come; but it may be better if you will speak about
that with my father."
"I beg your pardon."
"But I beg pardon of you. People have a right to mention what belongs
to them, and I am accustomed to that; but to-day is Saturday, and on
Saturday there is so much work. Moreover, in affairs of this sort, you
will understand--sometimes, when Jews come, I bargain with them; but
this time I should prefer if you would speak with my father. It would
be easier for both."
"Then till to-morrow," said Pan Stanislav, who lacked the boldness to
say that in questions of money he preferred to be treated like a Jew.
"Perhaps you would permit me to pour you more tea?"
"No, I thank you. Good-night." And, rising, he extended his hand; but
the young lady gave hers far less cordially than at the greeting, so
that he touched barely the ends of her fingers. In going, she said,--
"The servant will show you the chamber."
And Pan Stanislav was left alone. He felt a certain discontent, and
was dissatisfied with himself, though he did not wish to acknowledge
that fact in his heart. He began even to persuade himself that he had
done well, since he had come hither, not to talk politely, but to get
money. What was Panna Plavitski to him? She neither warmed nor chilled
him. If she considered him a churl, so much the better; for it happens
generally that the more disagreeable a creditor, the more people hasten
to pay him.
But his discontent was increased by that reasoning; for a certain
voice whispered to him that this time it was not merely a question of
good-breeding, but also in some degree of compassion for a wearied
woman. He felt, besides, that by acting so urgently he was satisfying
his pose, not his heart, all the more because she pleased him. As
in that sleeping village and in that moonlight night he had found
something special, so in that young lady he found something which
he had looked for in vain in foreign women, and which moved him more
than he expected. But people are often ashamed of feelings which are
very good. Pan Stanislav was ashamed of emotions, especially; hence he
determined to be inexorable, and on the morrow to squeeze old Plavitski
without mercy.
Meanwhile the servant conducted him to the bed-chamber. Pan Stanislav
dismissed him at once, and was alone. That was the same chamber which
they gave him, when, during the life of Plavitski's first wife, he
came to Kremen with his mother; and remembrances beset him again. The
windows looked out on a garden, beyond which lay a pond; the moon was
looking into the water, and the pond could be seen more easily than
in former times, for it was hidden then by a great aged ash-tree,
which must have been broken down by a storm, since on that spot there
was sticking up merely a stump with a freshly broken piece at the
top. The light of the moon seemed to centre on that fragment, which
was gleaming very brightly. All this produced an impression of great
calm. Pan Stanislav, who lived in the city amid mercantile labors,
therefore in continual tension of his physical and mental powers, and
at the same time in continual unquiet, felt that condition of the
country around him as he would a warm bath after great toil. He was
penetrated by relief. He tried to reflect on business transactions, how
were they turning, would they give loss or profit, finally on Bigiel,
his partner, and how Bigiel would manage various interests in his
absence,--but he could not continue.
Then he began to think of Panna Plavitski. Her person, though it
had made a good impression, was indifferent to him, even for this
reason, that he saw her for the first time; but she interested him as
a type. He was thirty years old and something more, therefore of the
age in which instinct, with a force almost invincible, urges a man
to establish a domestic hearth, take a wife, and have a family. The
greatest pessimism is powerless against this instinct; neither art nor
any calling in life protects a man against it. In consequence of this,
misanthropes marry in spite of their philosophy, artists in spite of
their art, as do all those men who declare that they give to their
objects not a half, but a whole soul. Exceptions confirm the principle
that, in general, men cannot live a conventional lie and swim against
the currents of nature. For the great part, only those do not marry
for whom the same power that creates marriage stands in the way of it;
that is, those whom love has deceived. Hence, celibacy in advanced
life, if not always, is most frequently a hidden tragedy.
Stanislav Polanyetski was neither a misanthrope nor an artist; neither
was he a man proclaiming theories against marriage. On the contrary,
he wanted to marry, and he was convinced that he ought to marry. He
felt that for him the time had arrived; hence he looked around for the
woman. From that came the immense interest which women roused in him,
especially unmarried ones. Though he had spent some years in France
and Belgium, he had not sought love among married women, even among
those who were over giddy. He was an active and occupied person, who
contended that only idle men can romance with married women, and in
general that besieging other men's wives is possible only where men
have very much money, little honor, and nothing to do, consequently
in a society where there is a whole class long since enriched, sunk
in elegant idleness, and of dishonest life. He was himself, in truth,
greatly occupied, hence he wished to love in order to marry; therefore
only unmarried women roused in him curiosity of soul and body. When he
met a young lady, the first question he asked himself was, "Is she not
the woman?" or at least, "Is she not the kind of woman?" At present
his thoughts were circling around Panna Plavitski in this manner.
To begin with, he had heard much of her from her relative living in
Warsaw; and he had heard things that were good and even touching. Her
calm, mild face was before his eyes now. He recalled her hands, very
shapely, with long fingers, though somewhat sunburnt, her dark blue
eyes, then the slight shadow over her mouth. Her voice too pleased him.
Notwithstanding all this, he repeated his promise that he would make
no compromise and must have his own; still he was angry at the fate
which had brought him to Kremen as a creditor. Speaking to himself in
mercantile language, he repeated in spirit, "The quality is good, but I
will not 'reflect,' as I did not come for it."
Still he "reflected," and that to such a degree that after he had
undressed and lain down, he could not sleep for a long time. The cocks
began to crow, the window panes were growing pale and green; but under
his closed eyelids he saw yet the calm forehead of Panna Plavitski,
the shadow over her mouth, and her hands pouring out the tea. Then,
when sleep became overpowering, it seemed to him as though he were
holding those hands in his own and drawing her toward him, and she was
pulling back and turning her head aside, as if to escape a kiss. In the
morning he woke late, and remembering Panna Plavitski, thought, "Ah,
she will look like that!"
CHAPTER II.
He was roused by the servant, who brought coffee and took his clothes
to be brushed. When the servant brought them back, Pan Stanislav asked
if it were not the custom of the house to meet in the dining-room for
coffee.
"No," answered the servant; "because the young lady rises early, and
the old gentleman sleeps late."
"And has the young lady risen?"
"The young lady is at church."
"True, to-day is Sunday. But does not the young lady go to church with
the old gentleman?"
"No; the old gentleman goes to high Mass, and then goes to visit the
canon, so the young lady prefers early Mass."
"What do they do here on Sunday?"
"They sit at home; Pan Gantovski comes to dinner."
Pan Stanislav knew this Gantovski as a small boy. In those times they
nicknamed him "Little Bear," for he was a thick little fellow, awkward
and surly. The servant explained that Pan Gantovski's father had died
about five years before, and that the young man was managing his estate
in the neighboring Yalbrykov.
"And does he come here every Sunday?"
"Sometimes he comes on a week day in the evening."
"A rival!" thought Pan Stanislav. After a while he inquired,--
"Has the old gentleman risen?"
"It must be that he has rung the bell, for Yozef has gone to him."
"Who is Yozef?"
"The valet."
"And who art thou?"
"I am his assistant."
"Go and inquire when it will be possible to see the old gentleman."
The servant went out and returned soon.
"The old gentleman sends to say that when he dresses he will beg you to
come."
"Very well."
The servant went out; Pan Stanislav remained alone and waited, or
rather was bored, a good while. Patience began to fail him at last;
and he was about to stroll to the garden, when Yozef came with the
announcement that the old gentleman begged him to come.
Yozef conducted him then to a chamber at the other end of the house.
Pan Stanislav entered, and at the first moment did not recognize Pan
Plavitski. He remembered him as a person in the bloom of life and very
good-looking; now an old man stood before him, with a face as wrinkled
as a baked apple,--a face to which small blackened mustaches strove in
vain to lend the appearance of youth. Hair as black as the mustaches,
and parted low at the side of the head, indicated also pretensions as
yet unextinguished.
But Plavitski opened his arms: "Stas! how art thou, dear boy? Come
hither!" And, pointing to his white shirt, he embraced the head of
Pan Stanislav, and pressed it to his bosom, which moved with quick
breathing.
The embrace continued a long time, and for Pan Stanislav, much too
long. Plavitski said at last,--
"Let me look at thee, Anna, drop for drop! My poor beloved Anna!" and
Plavitski sobbed; then he wiped with his heart finger[1] his right
eyelid, on which, however, there was not a tear, and repeated,--
"As like Anna as one drop is like another! Thy mother was always for me
the best and the most loving relative."
Pan Stanislav stood before him confused, also somewhat stunned by a
reception such as he had not expected, and by the odor of wax, powder,
and various perfumes, which came from the face, mustaches, and shirt of
the old man.
"How is my dear uncle?" asked he at last, judging that this title,
which moreover he had given in years of childhood to Plavitski, would
answer best to the solemn manner of his reception.
"How am I?" repeated Plavitski. "Not long for me now, not long!
But just for this reason I greet thee in my house with the greater
affection,--I greet thee as a father. And if the blessing of a man
standing over the grave, and who at the same time is the eldest member
of the family, has in thy eyes any value, I give it thee."
And seizing Pan Stanislav's head a second time, he kissed it and
blessed him. The young man changed still more, and constraint was
expressed on his face. His mother was a relative and friend of
Plavitski's first wife: to Plavitski himself no affectionate feelings
had ever attracted her, so far as he could remember; hence the
solemnity of the reception, to which he was forced to yield, was
immensely disagreeable to him. Pan Stanislav had not the least family
feeling for Plavitski. "This monkey," thought he, "is blessing me
instead of talking money;" and he was seized by a certain indignation,
which might help him to explain matters clearly.
"Now sit down, dear boy," said Plavitski, "and be as if in thy own
house."
Pan Stanislav took a seat, and began, "Dear uncle, for me it is very
pleasant to visit uncle. I should have done so surely, even without
business; but uncle knows that I have come also on that affair which my
mother--"
Here the old man laid his hand on Pan Stanislav's knee suddenly. "But
hast thou drunk coffee?" asked he.
"I have," answered Pan Stanislav, driven from his track.
"Marynia goes to church early. I beg pardon, too, that I have not given
thee my room; but I am old, I am accustomed to sleep here. This is my
nest." Then, with a circular sweep of the hand, he directed attention to
the chamber.
Unconsciously Pan Stanislav let his eyes follow the motion of the hand.
On a time this chamber had been to him a ceaseless temptation, for
in it had hung the arms of Plavitski. The only change in it was the
wall, which in the old time was rose-colored, and represented, on an
endless number of squares, young shepherdesses, dressed _à la Watteau_,
and catching fish with hooks. At the window stood a toilet-table with
a white cover, and a mirror in a silver frame. On the table was a
multitude of little pots, vials, boxes, brushes, combs, nail files,
etc. At one side, in the corner, was a table with pipes and pipe-stems
with amber mouth-pieces; on the wall, above the sofa, was the head of
a wild boar, and under it two double-barrelled guns, a hunting-bag,
horns, and, in general, the weapons of hunting; in the depth was
a table with papers, open shelves with a certain number of books.
Everywhere the place was full of old furniture more or less needed and
ornamental, but indicating that the occupant of the chamber was the
centre around which everything turned in that house, and that he cared
greatly for himself. In one word, it was the chamber of an old single
man,--an egotist full of petty anxiety for his personal comfort, and
full of pretensions. Pan Stanislav did not need long reflection to
divine that Plavitski would not give up his chamber for anything, nor
to any man.
But the hospitable host inquired further, "Was it comfortable enough
for thee? How didst thou spend the night?"
"Perfectly; I rose late."
"But thou wilt stay a week or so with me?"
Pan Stanislav, who was very impulsive, sprang up from his chair.
"Doesn't uncle know that I have business in Warsaw, and a partner, who
at present is doing all our work alone? I must go at the earliest; and
to-day I should like to finish the business on which I have come."
To this Plavitski answered with a certain cordial dignity, "No, my
boy. To-day is Sunday; and besides, family feeling should go before
business. To-day I greet thee, and receive thee as a blood relative;
to-morrow, if thou wish, appear as a creditor. That is it. To-day
my Stas has come to me, the son of my Anna. Thus will it be till
to-morrow; thus should it be, Stas. This is said to thee by thy eldest
relative, who loves thee, and for whom thou shouldst do this."
Pan Stanislav frowned a little, but after a while he answered, "Let it
be so till to-morrow."
"Anna spoke through thee then. Dost smoke a pipe?"
"No, only cigarettes."
"Believe me, thou doest ill. But I have cigarettes for guests."
Further conversation was interrupted by the rattle of an equipage at
the entrance.
"That is Marynia, who has come from early Mass," said Plavitski.
Pan Stanislav looked out through the window, and saw a young lady in a
straw hat stepping out of the equipage.
"Hast made the acquaintance of Marynia?" asked Plavitski.
"I had the pleasure yesterday."
"She is a dear child. I need not tell thee that I live only for her--"
At that moment the door opened, and a youthful voice asked, "May I come
in?"
"Come in, come in; Stas is here!" answered Plavitski.
Marynia entered the chamber quickly, with her hat hanging by ribbons
over her shoulder; and when she had embraced her father, she gave
her hand to Pan Stanislav. In her rose-colored muslin, she looked
exceedingly graceful and pretty. There was about her something of the
character of Sunday, and with it the freshness of that morning, which
was bright and calm. Her hair had been ruffled a little by her hat; her
cheeks were blooming; and youth was breathing from her person. To Pan
Stanislav, she seemed more joyous and more shapely than the previous
evening.
"High Mass will be a little later to-day," said she to her father;
"for immediately after Mass the canon went to the mill to prepare Pani
Siatkovski; she is very ill. Papa will have half an hour yet."
"That is well," said Plavitski; "during that time thou wilt become more
nearly acquainted with Stas. I tell thee, drop for drop like Anna! But
thou hast never seen her. Remember, too, Marynia, that he will be our
creditor to-morrow, if he wishes; but to-day he is only our relative
and guest."
"Very well," answered the young lady; "we shall have a pleasant Sunday."
"You went to sleep so late yesterday," said Pan Stanislav, "and to-day
you were at early Mass."
She answered merrily, "The cook and I go to early Mass that we may have
time afterward to think of dinner."
"I forgot to mention," said Pan Stanislav, "that I bring you
salutations from Pani Emilia Hvastovski."
"I have not seen Emilia for a year and a half, but we write to each
other often. She is about to visit Reichenhall, for the sake of her
little daughter."
"She was ready to start when I saw her."
"But how is the little girl?"
"She is in her twelfth year; she has grown beyond measure, and is pale.
It does not seem that she is very healthy."
"Do you visit Emilia often?"
"Rather often. She is almost my only acquaintance in Warsaw. Besides, I
like Pani Emilia very much."
"Tell me, my boy," inquired Plavitski, taking a pair of fresh gloves
from the table, and putting them into a breast-pocket, "what is thy
particular occupation in Warsaw?"
"I am what is called an 'affairist;' I have a commission house
in company with a certain Bigiel. I speculate in wheat and sugar,
sometimes in timber; in anything that gives profit."
"I have heard that thou art an engineer?"
"I have my specialty. But on my return I could not find occupation
at any factory, and I began at mercantile transactions, all the more
readily that I had some idea of them. But my specialty is dyeing."
"How dost thou say?" inquired Plavitski.
"Dyeing."
"The times are such now that one must take up anything," said
Plavitski, with dignity. "I am not the man to take that ill of thee. If
thou wilt only retain the honorable old traditions of the family, no
occupation brings shame to a man."
Pan Stanislav, to whom the appearance of the young lady had brought
back his good nature, and who was amused by the sudden "grandezza" of
the old man, showed his sound teeth in a smile, and answered,--
"Praise God for that!"
Panna Plavitski smiled in like manner, and said, "Emilia, who likes you
very much, wrote to me once that you conduct your business perfectly."
"The only difficulty in this country is with Jews; still competition
is easy. And with Jews it is possible to get on by abstaining from
anti-Semitic manifestoes. As to Pani Emilia, however, she knows as much
about business as does her little Litka."
"Yes; she has never been practical. Had it not been for her husband's
brother, Pan Teofil Hvastovski, she would have lost all she has. But
Pan Teofil loves Litka greatly."
"Who doesn't love Litka? I, to begin with, am dying about her. She is
such a marvellous child, and such a favorite; I tell you that I have a
real weakness for her."
Panna Marynia looked attentively at his honest, vivacious face, and
thought, "He must be a little whimsical, but he has a good heart."
Plavitski remarked, meanwhile, that it was time for Mass, and he began
to take farewell of Marynia in such fashion as if he were going on
a journey of some months; then he made the sign of the cross on her
head, and took his hat. The young lady pressed Pan Stanislav's hand
with more life than at the morning greeting; he, when sitting in the
little equipage, repeated in his mind, "Oh, she is very nice, very
sympathetic."
Beyond the alley, by which Pan Stanislav had come the night before, the
equipage rolled over a road which was beset here and there with old and
decayed birches standing at unequal distances from one another. On one
side stretched a potato-field, on the other an enormous plain of wheat,
with heavy bent heads, which seemed to sleep in the still air and in
the full light of the sun. Before the carriage, magpies and hoopoes
flew among the birches. Moving along paths through the yellow sea of
wheat, and hidden in it to their shoulders, went village maidens with
red kerchiefs on their heads, which resembled blooming poppies.
"Good wheat," said Pan Stanislav.
"Not bad. What is in man's power is done, and what God gives He gives.
Thou art young, my dear, so I give thee a precept, which in future will
be of service to thee more than once, 'Do always that which pertains to
thee, and leave the rest to the Lord God.' He knows best what we need.
The harvest will be good this year; I know that beforehand, for when
God is going to touch me with anything, He sends a sign."
"What is it?" asked Pan Stanislav, with astonishment.
"Behind my pipe-table--I do not know whether thou hast noted where it
stands--a mouse shows himself to me a number of days in succession when
any evil is coming."
"There must be a hole in the floor."
"There is no hole," said Plavitski, closing his eyes, and shaking his
head mysteriously.
"One might bring in a cat."
"I will not bring in a cat, for if it is the will of God that that
mouse should be a sign to me, or forewarning, I shall not go against
that will. Nothing has appeared to me this year. I mentioned this to
Marynia; maybe God desires in some way to show that He is watching
over our family. Listen, my dear; people will say, I know, that we are
ruined, or at least in a very bad state. Here it is; judge for thyself:
Kremen and Skoki, Magyerovka and Suhotsin, contain about two hundred
and fifty vlokas of land; on that there is a debt of thirty thousand
rubles to the society, not more, and about a hundred thousand mortgage,
including thy sum. Therefore we have about a hundred and thirty
thousand. Let us estimate only three thousand rubles a vloka; that
will make seven hundred and fifty thousand,--altogether eight hundred
and eighty thousand--"
"How is that?" asked Pan Stanislav, with astonishment; "uncle is
including the debt with the property."
"If the property were worth nothing, no one would give me a copper for
it, so I add the debt to the value of the property."
Pan Stanislav thought, "He is a lunatic, with whom it is useless to
talk;" and he listened further in silence.
"I intend to parcel out Magyerovka. The mill I will sell; but in Skoki
and Suhotsin I have marl, and knowest thou at how much I have estimated
it? At two million rubles."
"Has uncle a purchaser?"
"Two years ago a certain Shaum came and looked at the fields. He went
away, it is true, without speaking of the business; but I am sure that
he will come again, otherwise the mouse would have appeared behind the
pipe-table."
"Ha! let him come again."
"Knowest thou another thing that comes to my head? Since thou art an
'affairist,' take up this business. Find thyself partners, that is all."
"The business is too large for me."
"Then find me a purchaser; I will give ten per cent of the proceeds."
"What does Panna Marynia think of this marl?"
"Marynia, how Marynia? She is a golden child, but still a child! She
believes that Providence watches over our family."
"I heard that from her yesterday."
Meanwhile they had drawn near Vantory and the church, on a hill among
linden-trees. Under the hill stood at number of peasant-wagons with
ladder-like boxes, some brichkas and carriages. Pan Plavitski made the
sign of the cross, and said, "This is our little church, which thou
must remember. All the Plavitskis lie here, and I, too, shall be lying
here soon. I never pray better than in this place."
"There will be many people, I see," said Pan Stanislav.
"Gantovski's brichka, Zazimski's coach, Yamish's carriage, and a
number of others are there. Thou must remember the Yamishes. She is
an uncommon woman; he pretends to be a great agriculturist and a
councillor, but he is an old dotard, who never did understand her."
At that moment the bell began to sound in the church tower.
"They have seen us, and are ringing the bell," said Plavitski; "Mass
will begin this moment. I will take thee, after Mass, to the grave of
my first wife; pray for her, since she was thy aunt. She was an honest
woman; the Lord light her."
Here Plavitski raised his finger again to rub his right eye. Pan
Stanislav therefore asked, wishing to change the conversation,--
"But was not Pani Yamish once very beautiful? or is this the same one?"
Plavitski's face gleamed suddenly. He thrust out for one moment the
end of his tongue from his blackened little mustaches, and patting Pan
Stanislav on the thigh, said,--
"She is worth a sin yet,--she is, she is."
Meanwhile they drove in, and after walking around the church, entered
the sacristy at the side; not wishing to push through the crowd, they
sat on side seats near the altar. Plavitski occupied the collator's
place, in which were also the Yamishes. Yamish was a man very old in
appearance, with an intelligent face, but weighed down; she was a woman
well toward sixty, dressed almost like Panna Marynia,--that is, in a
muslin robe and a straw hat. The bows, full of politeness, which Pan
Plavitski made to her, and the kind smiles with which she returned
them, showed that between those two reigned intimate relations founded
on mutual adoration. After a while the lady, raising her glasses to
her eyes, began to observe Pan Stanislav, not understanding apparently
who could have come with Pan Plavitski. In the seat behind them one of
the neighbors, taking advantage of the fact that Mass had not begun
yet, was finishing some narrative about hunting, and repeated a number
of times to another neighbor, "My dogs, well--" then both stopped
their conversation, and began to speak to Plavitski and Pani Yamish so
audibly that every word reached the ears of Pan Stanislav. The priest
came out to the altar then.
At sight of the Mass and that little church, Pan Stanislav's memory
went back to the years of his childhood, when he was there with his
mother. Wonder rose in him involuntarily when he thought how little
anything changes in the country, except people. Some are placed away in
consecrated earth; others are born. But the new life puts itself into
the old forms; and to him who comes from afar, after a long absence,
all that he saw long ago seems of yesterday. The church was the same;
the nave was filled, as of old, with flaxen-colored heads of peasants,
gray coats, red and yellow kerchiefs with flowers on the heads of the
maidens; it had precisely the same kind of odor of incense, of sweet
flag, and the exhalations of people. Outside one of the windows grew
the same birch-tree, whose slender branches, thrown against the panes
by the wind as it rose, cast shade which gave a green tinge to light in
the church. But the people were not the same: some of the former ones
were crumbling quietly into dust, or had made their way from beneath
the earth in the form of grass; those who were left yet were somehow
bent, as if going under ground gradually. Pan Stanislav, who plumed
himself on avoiding all generalizing theories, but who in reality had
a Slav head, which, as it were, had not emerged yet from universal
existence, occupied himself with them involuntarily; and all the time
he was thinking that there is still a terrible precipice between that
passion for life innate in people and the absoluteness of death. He
thought, also, that perhaps for this reason all systems of philosophy
vanish, like shadows; but Mass is celebrated, as of old, because it
alone promises further and unbroken continuity.
Reared abroad, he did not believe in it greatly; at least, he was not
certain of it. He felt in himself, as do all people of to-day, the
very newest people, an irrestrainable repugnance to materialism; but
from it he had not found an escape yet, and, what is more, it seemed
to him that he was not seeking it. He was an unconscious pessimist,
like those who are looking for something which they cannot find. He
stunned himself with occupations to which he was habituated; and only
in moments of great excess in that pessimism did he ask himself, What
is this all for? Of what use is it to gain property, labor, marry,
beget children, if everything ends in an abyss? But that was at times,
and did not become a fixed principle. Youth saved him from this, not
the first youth, but also not a youth nearing its end, a certain mental
and physical strength, the instinct of self-preservation, the habit of
work, vivacity of character, and finally that elemental force, which
pushes a man into the arms of a woman. And now from the recollections
of childhood, from thoughts of death, from doubts as to the fitness of
marriage, he came to this special thought, that he had no one to whom
he could give what was best in him; and then he came to Panna Marynia
Plavitski, whose muslin robe, covering a young and shapely body, did
not leave his eyes. He remembered that when he was leaving Warsaw,
Pani Emilia, a great friend of his and of Panna Marynia's, had said
laughingly,--
"If you, after being in Kremen, do not fall in love with Marynia, I
shall close my doors against you." He answered her with great courage
that he was going only to squeeze out money, not to fall in love, but
that was not true. If Panna Plavitski had not been in Kremen, he would
surely have throttled Plavitski by letter, or by legal methods. On the
way he had been thinking of Panna Marynia and of how she would look,
and he was angry because he was going for money, too. Having talked
into himself great decision in such matters, he determined above all
to obtain what belonged to him, and was ready rather to go beyond the
mark than not to reach it. He promised this to himself, especially the
first evening, when Marynia, though she had pleased him well enough,
had not produced such a great impression as he had expected, or rather
had produced a different one; but that morning she had taken his eye
greatly. "She is like the morning herself," thought he; "she is nice
and knows that she is nice,--women always know that."
This last discovery made him somewhat impatient, for he wished to
return as soon as possible to Kremen, to observe the young woman
further. In fact, Mass was over soon. Plavitski went out immediately
after the blessing, for he had two duties before him,--the first, to
pray on the graves of his two wives who were lying under the church;
the second, to conduct Pani Yamish to her carriage. Since he wished
to neglect neither of these, he had to count with time. Pan Stanislav
went with him; and soon they found themselves before the stone slabs,
erected side by side in the church wall. Plavitski kneeled and prayed
awhile with attention; then he rose, and wiping away a tear, which was
hanging really on his lids, took Pan Stanislav by the arm, and said,
"Yes, I lost both; still I must live."
Meanwhile Pani Yamish appeared before the church door in the company
of her husband, of those two neighbors who had spoken to her before
Mass, and of young Gantovski. At sight of her Pan Plavitski bent to Pan
Stanislav's ear and said,--
"When she enters the carriage, take notice what a foot she has yet."
After a while both joined the company; bows and greetings began. Pan
Plavitski presented Pan Polanyetski; then, turning to Pani Yamish, he
added, with the smile of a man convinced that he says something which
no common person could have hit upon,--
"My relative, who has come to embrace his uncle, and squeeze him."
"We will permit only the first; otherwise he will have an affair with
us," said the lady.
"But Kremen[2] is hard," continued Plavitski; "he will break his teeth
on it, though he is young."
Pani Yamish half closed her eyes. "That ease," said she, "with which
you scatter sparks, _c'est inoui!_ How is your health to-day?"
"At this moment I feel healthy and young."
"And Marynia?"
"She was at early Mass. We wait for you both at five. My little
housekeeper is breaking her head over supper. A beautiful day."
"We shall come if neuralgia lets me, and my lord husband is willing."
"How is it, neighbor?" asked Plavitski.
"I am always glad to go," answered the neighbor, with the voice of a
crushed man.
"Then, _au revoir_."
"_Au revoir_," answered the lady; and turning to Pan Stanislav, she
reached her hand to him. "It was a pleasure for me to make your
acquaintance."
Plavitski gave his arm to the lady, and conducted her to the carriage.
The two neighbors went away also. Pan Stanislav remained a while with
Gantovski, who looked at him without much good-will. Pan Stanislav
remembered him as an awkward boy; from the "Little Bear," he had grown
to be a stalwart man, somewhat heavy perhaps in his movements, but
rather presentable, with a very shapely, light-colored mustache. Pan
Stanislav did not begin conversation, waiting till the other should
speak first; but he thrust his hands into his pockets, and maintained a
stubborn silence.
"His former manners have remained with him," thought Pan Stanislav, who
felt now an aversion to that surly fellow.
Meanwhile Plavitski returned from Yamish's carriage.
"Hast taken notice?" asked he of Pan Stanislav, first of all. "Well,
Gantos," said he then, "thou wilt go in thy brichka, for in the
carriage there are only two places."
"I will go in the brichka, for I am taking a dog to Panna Marynia,"
answered the young man, who bowed and walked off.
After a while Pan Plavitski and Pan Stanislav found themselves on the
road to Kremen.
"This Gantovski is uncle's relative, I suppose?" asked Pan Stanislav.
"The tenth water after a jelly. They are very much fallen. This Adolph
has one little farm and emptiness in his pocket."
"But in his heart there is surely no emptiness?"
Pan Plavitski pouted. "So much the worse for him, if he imagines
anything. He may be good, but he is simple. No breeding, no education,
no property. Marynia likes him, or rather she endures him."
"Ah, does she endure him?"
"See thou how it is: I sacrifice myself for her and stay in the
country; she sacrifices herself for me and stays in the country. There
is no one here; Pani Yamish is considerably older than Marynia; in
general, there are no young people; life here is tedious: but what's to
be done? Remember, my boy, that life is a series of sacrifices. There
is need for thee to carry that principle in thy heart and thy head.
Those especially who belong to honorable and more prominent families
should not forget this. But Gantovski is with us always on Sunday for
dinner; and to-day, as thou hast heard, he is bringing a dog."
They dropped into silence, and drove along the sand slowly. The magpies
flew before them from birch to birch, this time in the direction of
Kremen. Behind Plavitski's little carriage rode in his brichka Pan
Gantovski, who, thinking of Pan Stanislav, said to himself,--
"If he comes as a creditor to squeeze them, I'll break his neck; if he
comes as a rival, I'll break it too."
From childhood, he had cherished hostile feelings toward Polanyetski.
In those days they met once in a while. Polanyetski used to laugh at
him; and, being a couple of years older, he even beat him.
Plavitski and his guest arrived at last, and, half an hour later, all
found themselves at table in the dining-room, with Panna Marynia. The
young dog, brought by Gantovski, taking advantage of his privilege of
guest, moved about under the table, and sometimes got on the knees of
those present with great confidence and with delight, expressed by
wagging his tail.
"That is a Gordon setter," said Gantovski. "He is simple yet; but those
dogs are clever, and become wonderfully attached."
"He is beautiful, and I am very grateful to you," answered Marynia,
looking at the shining black hair and the yellow spots over the eyes of
the dog.
"Too friendly," added Plavitski, covering his knees with a napkin.
"In the field, too, they are better than common setters."
"Do you hunt?" asked Pan Stanislav of the young lady.
"No; I have never had any desire to do so. And you?"
"Sometimes. But I live in the city."
"Art thou much in society?" inquired Plavitski.
"Almost never. My visits are to Pani Emilia, my partner Bigiel, and
Vaskovski, my former professor, an oddity now,--those are all. Of
course I go sometimes to people with whom I have business."
"That is not well, my boy. A young man should have and preserve good
social relations, especially when he has a right to them. If a man
has to force his way, the question is different; but as Polanyetski,
thou hast the right to go anywhere. I have the same story, too, with
Marynia. The winter before last, when she had finished her eighteenth
year, I took her to Warsaw. Thou'lt understand that the trip was not
without cost, and that for me it required certain sacrifices. Well, and
what came of it? She sat for whole days with Pani Emilia, and they read
books. She is born a recluse, and will remain one. Thou and she might
join hands."
"Let us join hands!" cried Pan Stanislav, joyously.
"I cannot, with a clear conscience," answered Marynia; "for it was not
altogether as papa describes. I read books with Emilia, it is true; but
I was much in society with papa, and I danced enough for a lifetime."
"You have no fault to find?"
"No; but I am not yearning."
"Then you did not bring away memories, it seems?"
"Evidently there remained with me only recollections, which are
something different."
"I do not understand the difference."
"Memory is a magazine, in which the past lies stored away, and
recollection appears when we go to the magazine to take something."
Here Panna Marynia was alarmed somewhat at that special daring with
which she had allowed herself this philosophical deduction as to the
difference between memory and recollection; therefore she blushed
rather deeply.
"Not stupid, and pretty," thought Pan Stanislav; aloud he said, "That
would not have come to my head, and it is so appropriate."
He surveyed her with eyes full of sympathy. She was in fact very
pretty; for she was laughing, somewhat confused by the praise, and also
delighted sincerely with it. She blushed still more when the daring
young man said,--
"To-morrow, before parting, I shall beg for a place,--even in the
magazine."
But he said this with such joyousness that it was impossible to be
angry with him; and Marynia answered, not without a certain coquetry,--
"Very well; and I ask reciprocity."
"In such case, I should have to go so often to the magazine that I
might prefer straightway to live in it."
This seemed to Marynia somewhat too bold on such short acquaintance;
but Plavitski broke in now and said,--
"This Stanislav pleases me. I prefer him to Gantos, who sits like a
misanthrope."
"Because I can talk only of what may be taken in hand," answered the
young man, with a certain sadness.
"Then take your fork, and eat."
Pan Stanislav laughed. Marynia did not laugh: she was sorry for
Gantovski; therefore she turned the conversation to things which were
tangible.
"She is either a coquette, or has a good heart," thought Pan Stanislav
again.
But Pan Plavitski, who recalled evidently his last winter visit in
Warsaw, continued, "Tell me, Stas, dost thou know Bukatski?"
"Of course. By the way, he is a nearer relative to me than to uncle."
"We are related to the whole world,--to the whole world literally.
Bukatski was Marynia's most devoted dancer. He danced with her at all
the parties."
Pan Stanislav began to laugh again; "And for all his reward he went
to the magazine, to the dust-bin. But at least it is not necessary to
dust him, for he is as careful of his person as uncle, for instance.
He is the greatest dandy in Warsaw. What does he do? He is manager of
fresh air, which means that when there is fair weather he walks out or
rides. Besides, he is an original, who has peculiar little closets in
his brain. He observes various things of such kind as no other would
notice. Once, after his return from Venice, I met him and asked what
he had seen there. 'I saw,' said he, 'while on the Riva dei Schiavoni,
half an egg-shell and half a lemon-rind floating: they met, they
struck, they were driven apart, they came together; at last, paf! the
half lemon fell into the half egg-shell, and away they went sailing
together. In this see the meaning of harmony.' Such is Bukatski's
occupation, though he knows much, and in art, for instance, he is an
authority."
"But they say that he is very capable."
"Perhaps he is, but capable of nothing. He eats bread, and that is
the end of his service. If at least he were joyous, but at bottom he
is melancholy. I forgot to say that besides he is in love with Pani
Emilia."
"Does Emilia receive many people?" inquired Marynia.
"No. Vaskovski, Bukatski, and Mashko, an advocate, the man who buys and
sells estates, are her only visitors.
"Of course she cannot receive many people; she has to give much time to
Litka."
"Dear little girl," said Pan Stanislav, "may God grant at least that
Reichenhall may help her."
And his joyous countenance was covered in one moment with genuine
sadness. Marynia looked at him with eyes full of sympathy, and in her
turn thought a second time, "Still he must be kind really."
But Plavitski began to talk as if to himself. "Mashko, Mashko--he too
was circling about Marynia. But she did not like him. As to estates,
the price now is such that God pity us."
"Mashko is the man who declares that under such conditions it is well
to buy them."
Dinner came to an end, and they passed into the drawing-room for
coffee; while at coffee Pan Plavitski, as his wont was in moments of
good-humor, began to make a butt of Gantovski. The young man endured
patiently, out of regard for Marynia, but with a mien that seemed to
say, "Ei! but for her, I would shake all the bones out of thee." After
coffee Marynia sat down at the piano, while her father was occupied
with patience. She played not particularly well, but her clear and
calm face was outlined pleasantly over the music-board. About five Pan
Plavitski looked at the clock and said,--
"The Yamishes are not coming."
"They will come yet," answered Marynia.
But from that moment on he looked continually at the clock, and
announced every moment that the Yamishes would not come. At last, about
six, he said with a sepulchral voice,--
"Some misfortune must have happened."
Pan Stanislav at that moment was near Marynia, who in an undertone
said,--
"Here is a trouble! Nothing has happened, of course; but papa will be
in bad humor till supper."
At first Pan Stanislav wished to answer that to make up he would be in
good-humor to-morrow after sleeping; but, seeing genuine anxiety on the
young lady's face, he answered,--
"As I remember, it is not very far; send some one to inquire what has
happened."
"Why not send some one over there, papa?"
But he answered with vexation, "Too much kindness; I will go myself;"
and ringing for a servant, he ordered the horses, then stopping for a
moment he said,--
"_Enfin_, anything may happen in the country; some person might come
and find my daughter alone. This is not a city. Besides, you are
relatives. Thou, Gantovski, may be necessary for me, so have the
kindness to come with me."
An expression of the greatest unwillingness and dissatisfaction was
evident on the young man's face. He stretched his hand to his yellow
hair and said,--
"Drawn up at the pond is a boat, which the gardener could not launch. I
promised Panna Marynia to launch it; but last Sunday she would not let
me, for rain was pouring, as if from a bucket."
"Then run and try. It is thirty yards to the pond; thou wilt be back in
two minutes."
Gantovski went to the garden in spite of himself. Plavitski, without
noticing his daughter or Pan Stanislav, repeated as he walked through
the room,--
"Neuralgia in the head; I would bet that it is neuralgia in the head;
Gantovski in case of need could gallop for the doctor. That old mope,
that councillor without a council, would not send for him surely." And
needing evidently to pour out his ill humor on some one, he added,
turning to Pan Stanislav, "Thou'lt not believe what a booby that man
is."
"Who?"
"Yamish."
"But, papa!" interrupted Marynia.
Plavitski did not let her finish, however, and said with increasing ill
humor, "It does not please thee, I know, that she shows me a little
friendship and attention. Read Pan Yamish's articles on agriculture, do
him homage, raise statues to him; but let me have my sympathies."
Here Pan Stanislav might admire the real sweetness of Marynia, who,
instead of being impatient, ran to her father, and putting her forehead
under his blackened mustaches, said,--
"They will bring the horses right away, right away, right away! Maybe
I ought to go; but let ugly father not be angry, for he will hurt
himself."
Plavitski, who was really much attached to his daughter, kissed her
on the forehead and said, "I know thou hast a good heart. But what is
Gantovski doing?"
And he called through the open gate of the garden to the young man, who
returned soon, wearied out, and said,--
"There is water in the boat, and it is drawn up too far; I have tried,
and I cannot--"
"Then take thy cap and let's be off, for I hear the horses have come."
A moment later the young people were alone.
"Papa is accustomed to society a little more elegant than that in the
country," said Marynia; "therefore he likes Pani Yamish, but Pan
Yamish is a very honorable and sensible man."
"I saw him in the church; to me he seemed as if crushed."
"Yes; for he is sickly, and besides has much care."
"Like you."
"No, Pan Yamish manages his work perfectly; besides, he writes much on
agriculture. He is really the light of these parts. Such a worthy man!
She too is a good woman, only to me she seems rather pretentious."
"An ex-beauty."
"Yes. And this unbroken country life, through which she has become
rather rusty, increases her oddness. I think that in cities oddities
of character and their ridiculous sides efface one another; but in the
country, people turn into originals more easily, they grow disused
to society gradually, a certain old-fashioned way is preserved in
intercourse, and it goes to excess. We must all seem rusty to people
from great cities, and somewhat ridiculous."
"Not all," answered Pan Stanislav; "you, for example."
"It will come to me in time," answered Marynia, with a smile.
"Time may bring changes too."
"With us there is so little change, and that most frequently for the
worse."
"But in the lives of young ladies in general changes are expected."
"I should wish first that papa and I might come to an agreement about
Kremen."
"Then your father and Kremen are the main, the only objects in life for
you?"
"True. But I can help little, since I know little of anything."
"Your father, Kremen, and nothing more," repeated Pan Stanislav.
A moment of silence came, after which Marynia asked Pan Stanislav if
he would go to the garden. They went, and soon found themselves at the
edge of the pond. Pan Stanislav, who, while abroad, had been a member
of various sporting clubs, pushed to the water's edge the boat, which
Gantovski could not manage; but it turned out that the boat was leaky,
and that they could not row in it.
"This is a case of my management," said Marynia, laughing; "there is a
leak everywhere. And I know not how to find an excuse, since the pond
and the garden belong to me only. But before it is launched I will have
the boat mended."
"As I live, it is the same boat in which I was forbidden to sail when a
boy."
"Quite possibly. Have you not noticed that things change less by far,
and last longer than people? At times it is sad to think of this."
"Let us hope to last longer than this moss-covered boat, which is as
water-soaked as a sponge. If this is the boat of my childhood, I have
no luck with it. In old times I was not permitted to sail in it, and
now I have hurt my hand with some rusty nail."
Saying this, he drew out his handkerchief and began to wind it around
a finger of his right hand, with his left hand, but so awkwardly that
Marynia said,--
"You cannot manage it; you need help;" and she began to bind up his
hand, which he twisted a little so as to increase the difficulty of
her task, since it was pleasant for him to feel her delicate fingers
touching his. She saw that he was hindering her, and glanced at
him; but the moment their eyes met, she understood the reason, and,
blushing, bent down as if tying more carefully. Pan Stanislav felt her
near him, he felt the warmth coming from her, and his heart beat more
quickly.
"I have wonderfully pleasant memories," said he, "of my former
vacations here; but this time I shall take away still pleasanter ones.
You are very kind, and besides exactly like some flower in this Kremen.
On my word, I do not exaggerate."
Marynia understood that the young man said that sincerely, a little
too daringly perhaps, but more through innate vivacity than because
they were alone; she was not offended, therefore, but she began to make
playful threats with her pleasant low voice,--
"I beg you not to say pretty things to me; if you do, I shall bind your
hand badly, and then run away."
"You may bind the hand badly, but stay. The evening is so beautiful."
Marynia finished her work with the handkerchief, and they walked
farther. The evening was really beautiful. The sun was setting; the
pond, not wrinkled with a breath of wind, shone like fire and gold. In
the distance, beyond the water, the alders were dozing quietly; the
nearer trees were outlined with wonderful distinctness in the ruddy
air. In the yard beyond the house, storks were chattering.
"Kremen is charming, very charming!" said Pan Stanislav.
"Very," answered Marynia.
"I understand your attachment to this place. Besides, when one puts
labor into anything, one is attached to it still more. I understand too
that in the country it is possible to have pleasant moments like this;
but, besides, it is agreeable here. In the city weariness seizes men
sometimes, especially those who, like me, are plunged to their ears in
accounts, and who, besides, are alone. Pan Bigiel, my partner, has a
wife, he has children,--that is pleasant. But how is it with me? I say
to myself often: I am at work, but what do I get for it? Grant that
I shall have a little money, but what then?--nothing. To-morrow ever
the same as to-day: Work and work. You know, Panna Plavitski, when a
man devotes himself to something, when he moves with the impetus of
making money, for example, money seems to him an object. But moments
come in which I think that Vaskovski, my original, is right, and that
no one whose name ends in _ski_ or _vich_ can ever put his whole soul
into such an object and rest in it exclusively. He declares that there
is in us yet the fresh memory of a previous existence, and that in
general the Slavs have a separate mission. He is a great original, a
philosopher, and a mystic. I argue with him, and make money as I can;
but now, for example, when I am walking with you in this garden, it
seems to me in truth that he is right."
For a time they walked on without speaking. The light became ruddier
every instant, and their faces were sunk, as it were, in that gleam.
Friendly, reciprocal feelings rose in them each moment. They felt
pleasant and calm in each other's society. Of this Pan Stanislav was
sensible seemingly, for, after a while, he remarked,--
"That is true, too, which Pani Emilia told me. She said that one has
more confidence, and feels nearer to you in an hour than to another in
a month. I have verified this. It seems to me that I have known you for
a long time. I think that only persons unusually kind can produce this
impression."
"Emilia loves me much," answered Marynia, with simplicity; "that is why
she praises me. Even if what she says were true, I will add that I
have not the power to be such with all persons."
"You made on me, yesterday, another impression, indeed; but you were
tired then and drowsy."
"I was, in some degree."
"And why did you not go to bed? The servants might have made tea for
me, or I might have done without it."
"No; we are not so inhospitable as that. Papa said that one of us
should receive you. I was afraid that he would wait himself for you,
and that would have injured him; so I preferred to take his place."
"In that regard thou mightst have been at ease," thought Pan Stanislav;
"but thou art an honest maiden to defend the old egotist." Then he
said, "I beg your pardon for having begun to speak of business at once.
That is a mercantile habit. But I reproached myself afterward. 'Thou
art this and that kind of man,' thought I; and with shame do I beg your
pardon."
"There is no cause for pardon, since there is no fault. They told you
that I occupy myself with everything; hence you turned to me."
Twilight spread more deeply by degrees. After a certain time they
returned to the house, and, as the evening was beautiful, they sat down
on the garden veranda. Pan Stanislav entered the drawing-room for a
moment, returned with a footstool, and, bending down, pushed it under
Marynia's feet.
"I thank you, I thank you much," said she, inclining, and taking her
skirt with her hand; "how kind of you! I thank you much."
"I am inattentive by nature," said he; "but do you know who taught me
a little carefulness? Litka. There is need of care with her; and Pani
Emilia has to remember this."
"She remembers it," answered Marynia, "and we will all help her. If she
had not gone to Reichenhall, I should have invited her here."
"And I should have followed Litka without invitation."
"Then I beg you in papa's name, once and for all."
"Do not say that lightly, for I am ready to abuse your kindness. For
me it is very pleasant here; and as often as I feel out of sorts in
Warsaw, I'll take refuge in Kremen."
Pan Stanislav knew this time that his words were intended to bring
them nearer, to establish sympathy between them; and he spoke with
design, and sincerely. While speaking, he looked on that mild young
face, which, in the light of the setting sun, seemed calmer than usual.
Marynia raised to him her blue eyes, in which was the question, "Art
speaking by chance, or of purpose?" and she answered in a somewhat
lower voice,--
"Do so."
And both were silent, feeling that really a connection between them was
beginning.
"I am astonished that papa is not returning," said she, at last.
The sun had gone down; in the ruddy gloaming, an owl had begun to
circle about in slow flight, and frogs were croaking in the pond.
Pan Stanislav made no answer to the young lady's remark, but said, as
if sunk in his own thoughts: "I do not analyze life; I have no time.
When I enjoy myself,--as at this moment, for instance,--I feel that
I enjoy myself; when I suffer, I suffer,--that is all. But five or
six years ago it was different. A whole party of us used to meet for
discussions on the meaning of life,--a number of scholars, and one
writer, rather well known in Belgium at present. We put to ourselves
these questions: Whither are we going? What sense has everything,
what value, what end? We read the pessimists, and lost ourselves in
various baseless inquiries, like one of my acquaintances, an assistant
in the chair of astronomy, who, when he began to lose himself in
interplanetary spaces, lost his reason; and, after that, it seemed to
him that his head was moving in a parabola through infinity. Afterward
he recovered, and became a priest. We, in like manner, could come to
nothing, rest on nothing,--just like birds flying over the sea without
a place to light on. But at last I saw two things: first, that my
Belgians were taking all this to heart less than I,--we are more naïve;
second, that my desire for labor would be injured, and that I should
become an incompetent. I seized myself, then, by the ears, and began to
color cottons with all my might. After that, I said in my mind: Life
is among the rights of nature; whether wise or foolish, never mind, it
is a right. We must live, then; hence it is necessary to get from life
what is possible. And I wish to get something. Vaskovski says, it is
true, that we Slavs are not able to stop there; but that is mere talk.
That we cannot be satisfied with money alone, we will admit. But I
said to myself, besides money there are two things: peace and--do you
know what, Panna Plavitski?--woman. For a man should have some one with
whom to share what he has. Later, there must be death. Granted. But
where death begins, man's wit ends. 'That is not my business,' as the
English say. Meanwhile, it is needful to have some one to whom a man
can give that which he has or acquires, whether money or service or
fame. If they are diamonds on the moon, it is all the same, for there
is no one to learn what their value is. So a man must have some one to
know him. And I think to myself, who will know me, if not a woman, if
she is only wonderfully good and wonderfully reliable, greatly mine and
greatly beloved? This is all that it is possible to desire; for from
this comes repose, and repose is the one thing that has sense. I say
this, not as a poet, but as a practical man and a merchant. To have
near me a dear one, that is an object. And let come then what may. Here
you have my philosophy."
Pan Stanislav insisted that he was speaking like a merchant; but he
spoke like a dreamer, for that summer evening had acted on him, as
had also the presence of that youthful woman, who in so many regards
answered to the views announced a moment earlier. This must have come
to Pan Stanislav's head, for, turning directly to her, he said,--
"This is my thought, but I do not talk of it before people usually.
I was brought to this somehow to-day; for I repeat that Pani Emilia
is right. She says that one becomes more intimate with you in a day
than with others in a year. You must be fabulously kind. I should have
committed a folly if I had not come to Kremen; and I shall come as
often as you permit me."
"Come,--often."
"I thank you." He extended his hand, and Marynia gave him hers, as if
in sign of agreement.
Oh, how he pleased her with his sincere, manly face, with his dark
hair, and a certain vigor in his whole bearing and in his animated
eyes! He brought, besides, so many of those inspirations which were
lacking in Kremen,--certain new horizons, running out far beyond the
pond and the alders which hemmed in the horizon at Kremen. They had
opened in one day as many roads as it was possible to open. They sat
again a certain time in silence, and their minds wandered on farther in
silence as hastily as they had during speech. Marynia pointed at last
to the light, which was increasing behind the alders, and said, "The
moon."
"Aha! the moon," repeated Pan Stanislav.
The moon was, in fact, rising slowly from behind the alders, ruddy, and
as large as a wheel. Now the dogs began to bark; a carriage rattled on
the other side of the house; and, after a while, Plavitski appeared in
the drawing-room, into which lamps had been brought. Marynia went in,
Pan Stanislav following.
"Nothing was the matter," said Plavitski. "Pani Hrometski called.
Thinking that she would go soon, they did not let us know. Yamish is a
trifle ill, but is going to Warsaw in the morning. She promised to come
to-morrow."
"Then is all well?" asked Marynia.
"Well; but what have you been doing here?"
"Listening to the frogs," answered Pan Stanislav; "and it was pleasant."
"The Lord God knows why He made frogs. Though they don't let me sleep
at night, I make no complaint. But, Marynia, let the tea be brought."
Tea was waiting already in another room. While they were drinking it,
Plavitski described his visit at the Yamishes. The young people were
silent; but from time to time they looked at each other with eyes full
of light, and at parting they pressed each other's hands very warmly.
Marynia felt a certain heaviness seizing her, as if that day had
wearied her; but it was a wonderful and pleasant kind of weariness.
Afterward, when her head was resting on the pillow, she did not think
that the day following would be Monday, that a new week of common toil
would begin; she thought only of Pan Stanislav, and his words were
sounding in her ears: "Who will know me, if not a woman, if she is only
wonderfully good and wonderfully reliable, greatly mine and greatly
beloved?"
Pan Stanislav, on his part, was saying to himself, while lighting a
cigarette in bed, "She is kind and shapely, charming; where is there
such another?"
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Third, or ring finger.
[2] Kremen means flint in Polish.
CHAPTER III.
But the following day was a gray one, and Panna Plavitski woke with
reproaches. It seemed to her that, the day before, she had let herself
be borne away on some current farther than was proper, and that she
had been simply coquetting with Pan Stanislav. She was penetrated
with special dissatisfaction, for this reason principally: that
Pan Stanislav had only come as a creditor. She had forgotten that
yesterday; but to-day she said to herself, "Undoubtedly it will come
to his head that I wanted to win him, or to soften him;" and at this
thought the blood flowed to her cheeks and her forehead. She had an
honest nature and much ambition, which revolted at every idea that she
might be suspected of calculation. Believing now in the possibility of
such a suspicion, she felt in advance as if offended by Pan Stanislav.
Withal, there was one thought which was bitter beyond every expression:
she knew that, as a rule, a copper could not overtake a copper in the
treasury of Kremen; that there was no money; and that if, in view of
the proposed parcelling of Magyerovka, there were hopes of having
some in future, her father would make evasions, for he considered
other debts more urgent than Pan Stanislav's. She promised herself,
it is true, to do all in her power to see him paid absolutely, and
before others; but she knew that she was not able to effect much. Her
father assisted her willingly in management; but in money matters
he had his own way; and it was rarely that he regarded her opinion.
His rôle consisted really in evading everything by all means,--by
promises never kept, by delays, by presenting imaginary calculations
and hopes, instead of reality. As the collection of debts secured by
mortgage on land is difficult and tedious, and defence may be kept up
almost as long as one wishes, Plavitski held on to Kremen, thanks to
his system. In the end, all this threatened ruin inexorable, as well
as complete; but, meanwhile, the old man considered himself "the head
of affairs," and listened the more unwillingly to the opinions and
counsels of his daughter, since he suspected at once that she doubted
his "head." This offended his self-esteem to the utmost. Marynia had
passed, because of this "head" and its methods, through more than one
humiliation. Her country life was only an apparent ideal of work and
household occupations. There was wanting to it neither bitterness nor
pain; and her calm countenance indicated, not only the sweetness of
her character, but its strength, and a great education of spirit. The
humiliation which threatened her this time, however, seemed harder to
bear than the others.
"At least, let him not suspect me," said she to herself. But how could
she prevent his suspicion? Her first thought was to see Pan Stanislav
before he met her father, and describe the whole state of affairs to
him; treat him as a man in whom she had confidence. It occurred to her
then that such a description would be merely a prayer for forbearance,
for compassion; and hence a humiliation. Were it not for this thought,
Marynia would have sent for him. She, as a woman noting keenly
every quiver of her own heart and the hearts of others, felt half
consciously, half instinctively, that between her and that young man
something was foreshadowed; that something had begun, as it were; and,
above all, that something might and must be inevitable in the future,
if she chose that it should be; but, as affairs stood, it did not seem
to her that she could choose. Only one thing remained,--to see Pan
Stanislav, and efface by her demeanor yesterday's impressions; to break
the threads which had been fastened between them, and to give him full
freedom of action. Such a method seemed best to her.
Learning from the servants that Pan Stanislav not only had risen, but
had drunk tea and gone out to the road, she decided to find him. This
was not difficult, since he had returned from his morning walk, and,
standing at the side wall of the entrance, which was grown over with
wild grape-vines, was talking with those two dogs which had fawned
on him so effusively at his arrival. He did not see her at once; and
Marynia, standing on the steps, heard him saying to the dogs,--
"These big dogs take pay for watching the house? They eat? They don't
bark at strangers, but fawn on them. Ei! stupid dogs, lazy fellows!"
And he patted their white heads. Then, seeing her through the openings
of the grape-vines, he sprang up as quickly as if thrown from a sling,
and stood before her, glad and bright-faced.
"Good-morning. I have been talking with the dogs. How did you rest?"
"Thank you." And she extended her hand to him coldly; but he was
looking at her with eyes in which was to be seen most clearly how
great and deep a pleasure the sight of her caused him. And he pleased
poor Marynia not less; he simply pleased her whole soul. Her heart was
oppressed with regret that she had to answer his cordial good-morning
so ceremoniously and coldly.
"Perhaps you were going out to look after affairs? In that case, if you
permit, I will go with you. I must return to the city to-day; hence one
moment more in your company will be agreeable. God knows if I could I
would remain longer. But now I know the road to Kremen."
"We beg you to come, whenever time may permit."
Pan Stanislav noticed now the coolness of her words, of her face; and
began to look at her with astonishment. But if Marynia thought that he
would do as people do usually,--accommodate himself to her tone readily
and in silence,--she was mistaken. Pan Stanislav was too vivacious and
daring not to seek at once for the cause; so, looking her steadfastly
in the eye, he said,--
"Something is troubling you."
Marynia was confused.
"You are mistaken," replied she.
"I see well; and you know that I am not mistaken. You act toward me as
you did the first evening. But then I made a blunder: I began to speak
of money at a wrong time. Yesterday I begged your pardon, and it was
pleasant,--how pleasant! To-day, again, it is different. Tell me why!"
Not the most adroit diplomacy could have beaten Marynia from her path.
It seemed to her that she could chill him and keep him at a distance
by this demeanor; but he, by inquiring so directly, rather brought
himself nearer, and he continued to speak in the tone of a man on whom
an injustice had been wrought:--
"Tell me what is the matter; tell me! Your father said I was to be
a guest yesterday, and a creditor to-day. But that is fol--that is
nothing! I do not understand such distinctions; and I shall never be
your creditor, rather your debtor. For I am already indebted to you,
and grateful for yesterday's kindness; and God knows how much I wish
to be indebted to you always."
He looked into her eyes again, observing carefully whether there would
not appear in them yesterday's smile; but Marynia, whose heart was
oppressed more and more, went on by the way which she had chosen:
first, because she had chosen it; and second, lest by acknowledging
that to-day she was different, she might be forced to explain why she
was so.
"I assure you," said she, at last, with a certain effort, "that either
you were mistaken yesterday, or you are mistaken to-day. I am always
the same, and it will always be agreeable to me if you bear away
pleasant memories."
The words were polite, but uttered by a young woman so unlike her of
yesterday that on Pan Stanislav's face impatience and anger began to
appear.
"If it is important for you that I should feign to believe this, let it
be as you wish. I shall go away, however, with the conviction that in
the country Monday is very different from Sunday."
These words touched Marynia; for from them it seemed as if Pan
Stanislav had assumed certain rights by reason of her conduct with him
yesterday. But she answered rather with sadness than with anger,--
"How can I help that?"
And after a while she went away, saying that she had to go and wish
good-day to her father. Pan Stanislav remained alone. He drove away the
dogs, which had tried to fawn on him anew, and began to be angry.
"What does this mean?" asked he in his mind. "Yesterday, kind; to-day,
surly,--altogether a different woman. How stupid all this is, and
useless! Yesterday, a relative; to-day, a creditor! What is that to
her? Why does she treat me like a dog? Have I robbed any one? She knew
yesterday, too, why I came. Very well! If you want to have me as a
creditor--not Polanyetski--all right. May thunderbolts crush the whole
business!"
Meanwhile Marynia ran into her father's chamber. Plavitski had risen,
and was sitting, attired in his dressing-gown, before a desk covered
with papers. For a while he turned to answer the good-day of his
daughter, then occupied himself again with reading the papers.
"Papa," said Marynia, "I have come to speak of Pan Stanislav. Does
papa--"
But he interrupted her without ceasing to look at the papers,--
"I will bend thy Pan Stanislav in my hand like wax."
"I doubt if that will be easy. Finally, I should wish that he were paid
before others, even with the greatest loss to us."
Plavitski, turning from the desk, gazed at her, and asked coolly,--
"Is this, I pray, a guardianship over him, or over me?"
"It is a question of our honor."
"In which, as thou thinkest, I need thy assistance?"
"No, papa; but--"
"What pathetic day has come on us? What is the matter with thee?"
"I merely beg, papa, by all--"
"And I beg thee also to leave me. Thou hast set me aside from the land
management. I yielded; for, during the couple of years that remain
to me in life, I have no wish to be quarrelling with my own child.
But leave me even this corner in the house,--even this one room,--and
permit me to transact such affairs as it is possible to transact here."
"Dear papa, I only beg--"
"That I should move out into a cottage, which, for the fourth time,
thou art choosing for me?"
Evidently the old man, in speaking of the "pathetic day," wished merely
that no one should divide this monopoly with him. He rose now, in his
Persian dressing-gown, like King Lear, and grasped at the arm of his
chair; thus giving his heartless daughter to understand that, if he had
not done this, he should have fallen his whole length on the floor,
stricken down by her cruelty. But tears came to her eyes, and a bitter
feeling of her own helplessness flowed to her heart. For a while she
stood in silence, struggling with sorrow and a wish to cry; then she
said quietly, "I beg pardon of papa," and went out of the room.
A quarter of an hour later, Pan Stanislav entered, at the request
of Plavitski, but ill-humored, irritated through striving to master
himself.
Plavitski, after he had greeted his visitor, seated him at his side in
an armchair prepared previously, and, putting his palm on the young
man's knee, said,--
"Stas, but thou wilt not burn this house? Thou wilt not kill me, who
opened my arms to thee as a relative; thou wilt not make my child an
orphan?"
"No," answered Pan Stanislav; "I will not burn the house, I will not
cut uncle's throat, and I will not make any child an orphan. I beg
uncle not to talk in this manner, for it leads to nothing, and to me it
is unendurable."
"Very well," said Plavitski, somewhat offended, however, that his
style and manner of expression had found such slight recognition; "but
remember that thou didst come to me and to this house when thou wert
still a child."
"I came because my mother came; and my mother, after the death of Aunt
Helen, came because uncle did not pay interest. All this is neither
here nor there. The money rests on a mortgage of twenty-one years. With
the unpaid interest, it amounts to about twenty-four thousand rubles.
For the sake of round numbers, let it be twenty thousand; but I must
have those twenty, since I came for them."
Plavitski inclined his head with resignation. "Thou didst come for
that. True. But why wert thou so different yesterday, Stas?"
Pan Stanislav, who half an hour earlier had put that same question to
Marynia, just sprang up in his chair, but restrained himself and said,--
"I beg you to come to business."
"I do not draw back before business; only permit me to say a couple
of words first, and do not interrupt me. Thou hast said that I have
not paid the interest. True. But knowest thou why? Thy mother did not
give me all her property, and could not without permission of a family
council. Perhaps it was worse for you that the permission was not
given, but never mind. When I took those few thousand rubles, I said to
myself: The woman is alone in the world with one child; it is unknown
how she will manage, unknown what may happen. Let the money which she
has with me be her iron foundation; let it increase, so that at a given
moment she may have something for her hands to seize hold on. And
since then I have been in some fashion thy savings bank. Thy mother
gave me twelve thousand rubles; to-day thou hast in my hands almost
twenty-four thousand. That is the result. And wilt thou repay me now
with ingratitude?"
"Beloved uncle," answered Pan Stanislav, "do not take me, I pray, for
a greater dunce than I am, nor for a madman. I say simply that I am
not caught with such chaff; it is too coarse. Uncle says that I have
twenty-four thousand rubles; where are they? I am asking for them,
without talk, and moreover such talk."
"But be patient, I pray thee, and restrain thyself, even for this
reason, that I am older," answered Plavitski, offended and with dignity.
"I have a partner, who in a month will contribute twelve thousand
rubles to a certain business. I must pay the same amount. I say clearly
and declare that, after two years of annoyance with letters, I cannot
and will not endure any longer."
Plavitski rested his arm on the desk, his forehead on his palm, and
was silent. Pan Stanislav looked at him, waiting for an answer; he
gazed with increasing displeasure, and in his mind gave himself this
question: "Is he a trickster or a lunatic; is he an egotist, so blinded
to himself that he measures good and evil by his own comfort merely; or
is he all these together?"
Meanwhile Plavitski held his face hidden on his palm, and was silent.
"I should like to say something," began Pan Stanislav, at last.
But the old man waved his hand, indicating that he wished to be alone
with his thoughts for a time yet. On a sudden he raised his face, which
had grown radiant,--
"Stas," said he, "why are we disputing, when there is such a simple way
out of it?"
"How?"
"Take the marl."
"What?"
"Bring thy partner, bring some specialist; we will set a price on my
marl, and form a company of three. Thy--what's his name? Bigiel, isn't
it? will pay me so much, whatever falls to him; thou wilt either add
something or not; and we'll all go on together. The profits may be
colossal."
Pan Stanislav rose. "I assure you," said he, "that there is one thing
to which I am not accustomed, that is to be made sport of. I do not
want your marl; I want only my money; and what you tell me I regard
simply as an unworthy or stupid evasion."
A moment of oppressive silence followed. Jove's anger began to gather
on the brows and forehead of Plavitski. For a while he threatened
boldly with his eyes, then, moving quickly to the hooks on which his
weapons were hanging, he took down a hunter's knife, and, offering it
to Pan Stanislav, said,--
"But there is another way, strike!" and he opened his dressing-gown
widely; but Pan Stanislav, mastering himself no longer, pushed away the
hand with the knife, and began to speak in a loud voice,--
"This is a paltry comedy, nothing more! It is a pity to lose words and
time with you. I am going away, for I have had enough of you and your
Kremen; but I say that I will sell my debt, even for half its value, to
the first Jew I meet. He will be able to settle with you."
Then the right hand of Plavitski was stretched forth in solemnity.
"Go," said he, "sell. Let the Jew into the family nest; but know this,
that the curse, both of me and of those who have lived here, will find
thee wherever thou art."
Pan Stanislav rushed out of the room, white with rage. In the
drawing-room he cursed as much as he could, looking for his hat;
finding it at last, he was going out to see if the brichka had come,
when Marynia appeared. At sight of her he restrained himself somewhat;
but, remembering that she it was, precisely, who was occupied with
everything in Kremen, he said,--
"I bid farewell to you. I have finished with your father. I came for
what belonged to me; but he gave me first a blessing, then marl, and
finally a curse. A nice way to pay debts!"
There was a moment in which Marynia wished to extend her hand to him
and say,--
"I understand your anger. A while ago I was with father also, and
begged him to pay you before all others. Deal with us and with Kremen
as may please you; but do not accuse me, do not think that I belong to
a conspiracy against you, and retain even a little esteem for me."
Her hand was already extending, the words were on her lips, when Pan
Stanislav, rousing himself internally, and losing his balance still
more, added,--
"I say this because, when I spoke to you the first evening, you were
offended, and sent me to your father. I give thanks for the effective
advice; but, as it was better for you than for me, I will follow my own
judgment hereafter."
Marynia's lips grew pale; in her eyes were tears of indignation, and,
at the same time, of deep offence. She raised her head, and said,--
"You may utter what injuries you like, since there is no one to take my
part;" then she turned to the door, with her soul full of humiliation
and almost despair, because those were the only returns she had
received for that labor in which she had put her whole strength and all
the zeal of her honest young soul. Pan Stanislav saw, too, that he had
exceeded the measure. Having very lively feelings, he passed in one
instant to compassion, and wished to hurry after her to beg her pardon;
but it was late: she had vanished.
This roused a new attack of rage. This time, however, the rage included
himself. Without taking farewell of any one, he sat in the brichka,
which came up just then, and drove out of Kremen. In his soul such
anger was seething that for a time he could think of nothing but
vengeance. "I will sell it, even for a third of the value," said he to
himself, "and let others distrain you. I give my word of an honest man
that I will sell. Even without need, I will sell out of spite!"
In this way his intention was changed into a stubborn and sworn
resolve. Pan Stanislav was not of those who break promises given to
others or themselves. It was now a mere question of finding a man to
buy a claim so difficult of collection; for to receive the amount of it
was, without exaggeration, to crack a flint with one's teeth.
Meanwhile the brichka rolled out of the alley to the road in the open
field. Pan Stanislav, recovering somewhat, began to think of Marynia
in a form of mind which was a mosaic composed of the impressions which
her face and form had made on him,--of recollections of the Sunday
conversation; of repulsion, of pity, of offence, animosity; and,
finally, dissatisfaction with himself, which strengthened his animosity
against her. Each of these feelings in turn conquered the others,
and cast on them its color. At times he recalled the stately figure
of Marynia, her eyes, her dark hair, her mouth, pleasing, though too
large, perhaps; finally, her expression; and an outburst of sympathy
for her mastered him. He thought that she was very girlish; but in
her mouth, in her arms, in the lines of her whole figure, there was
something womanly, something that attracted with irresistible force.
He recalled her mild voice, her calm expression, and her very evident
goodness. Then, at thought of how harsh he had been to her before
going,--at thought of the tone with which he had spoken to her,--he
began to curse himself. "If the father is an old comedian, a trickster,
and a fool," said he to himself; "and if she feels all this, she is
the unhappier. But what then? Every man with a bit of heart would have
understood the position, taken compassion on her, instead of attacking
the poor overworked child. I attacked her. I!" Then he wanted to slap
his own face; for at once he imagined what might have been, what an
immeasurable approach, what an exceptional tenderness would have
arisen, if, after all the quarrels with her father, he had treated her
as was proper,--that is, with the utmost delicacy. She would have given
him both hands when he was leaving; he would have kissed them; and he
and she would have parted like two persons near to each other. "May
the devils take the money!" repeated he to himself; "and may they take
me!" And he felt that he had done things which could not be corrected.
This feeling took away the remnant of his equilibrium, and pushed him
all the more along that road, the error of which he recognized. And he
began a monologue again, more or less like the following,--
"Since all is lost, let all burn. I will sell the claim to any Jew;
let him collect. Let them fly out on to the pavement; let the old man
find some office; let her go as a governess, or marry Gantovski." Then
he felt that he would agree to anything rather than the last thought.
He would twist Gantovski's neck. Let any one take her, only not such a
wooden head, such a bear, such a dolt. Beautiful epithets began to fall
on the hapless Gantovski; and all the venom passed over on to him, as
if he had been really the cause of whatever had happened.
Arriving in such a man-eating temper at Chernyov, Pan Stanislav might,
perhaps, like another Ugolino, have gnawed at once into Gantovski
with his teeth, "where the skull meets the neck," if he had seen him
at the station. Fortunately, instead of Gantovski's "skull," he saw
only some officials, some peasants, a number of Jews, and the sad, but
intelligent face of Councillor Yamish, who recognized him, and who,
when the train arrived soon, invited him--thanks to good relations with
the station-master--to a separate compartment.
"I knew your father," said he; "and I knew him in his brilliant days.
I found a wife in that neighborhood. I remember he had then Zvihov,
Brenchantsa, Motsare, Rozvady in Lubelsk,--a fine fortune. Your
grandfather was one of the largest landowners in that region; but now
the estate must have passed into other hands."
"Not now, but long since. My father lost all his property during his
life. He was sickly; he lived at Nice, did not take care of what he
had, and it went. Had it not been for the inheritance which, after his
death, fell to my mother, it would have been difficult."
"But you are well able to help yourself. I know your house; I have had
business in hops with you through Abdulski."
"Then Abdulski did business with you?"
"Yes; and I must confess that I was perfectly satisfied with our
relations. You have treated me well, and I see that you manage affairs
properly."
"No man can succeed otherwise. My partner, Bigiel, is an honest man,
and I am not Plavitski."
"How is that?" asked Yamish, with roused curiosity.
Pan Stanislav, with the remnant of his anger unquenched, told the whole
story.
"H'm!" said Yamish; "since you speak of him without circumlocution,
permit me to speak in like manner, though he is your relative."
"He is no relative of mine: his first wife was a relative and friend of
my mother,--that is all; he himself is no relative."
"I know him from childhood. He is rather a spoiled than a bad man. He
was an only son, hence, to begin with, his parents petted him; later on
his two wives did the same. Both were quiet, mild women; for both he
was an idol. During whole years matters so arranged themselves that he
was the sun around which other planets circled; and at last he came to
the conviction that everything from others was due to him, and nothing
to others from him. When conditions are such that evil and good are
measured by one's own comfort solely, nothing is easier than to lose
moral sense. Plavitski is a mixture of pompousness and indulgence: of
pompousness, for he himself is ever celebrating his own glory; and
indulgence, for he permits himself everything. This has become almost
his nature. Difficult circumstances came on him. These only a man of
character can meet; character he never had. He began to evade, and
in the end grew accustomed to evasion. Land ennobles, but land also
spoils us. An acquaintance of mine, a bankrupt, said once to me, 'It is
not I who evade, but my property, and I am only talking for it.' And
this is somewhat true,--truer in our position than in any other."
"Imagine to yourself," answered Pan Stanislav, "that I, who am a
descendant of the country, have no inclination for agriculture. I know
that agriculture will exist always, for it must; but in the form in
which it exists to-day I see no future for it. You must perish, all of
you."
"I do not look at it in rose-colors either. I do not mention that the
general condition of agriculture throughout Europe is bad, for that is
known. Just consider. A noble has four sons; hence each of these will
inherit only one-fourth of his father's land. Meanwhile, what happens?
Each, accustomed to his father's mode of living, wishes to live like
the father; the end is foreseen easily. Another case: A noble has four
sons; the more capable choose various careers; you may wager that the
least capable remains on the land. A third case: what a whole series
of generations have acquired, have toiled for, one light head ruins.
Fourth, we are not bad agriculturists, but bad administrators. Good
administration means more than good cultivation of land; what is the
inference, then? The land will remain; but we, who represent it at
present under the form of large ownership, must leave it most likely.
Then, do you see, when we have gone, we may return in time."
"How is that?"
"To begin with, you say that nothing attracts you to land; that is a
deception. Land attracts, and attracts with such force that each man,
after he has come to certain years, to a certain well-being, is unable
to resist the desire of possessing even a small piece of land. That
will come to you too, and it is natural. Finally, every kind of wealth
may be considered as fictitious, except land. Everything comes out of
land; everything exists for it. As a banknote is a receipt for metallic
money in the State Bank, so industry and commerce and whatever else you
please is land turned into another form; and as to you personally, who
have come from it, you must return to it."
"I at least do not think so."
"How do you know? To-day you are making property; but how will you
succeed? And that, too, is a question of the future. The Polanyetskis
were agriculturists; now one of them has chosen another career. The
majority of sons of agriculturists must choose other careers also,
even because they cannot do otherwise. Some of them will fail; some
will succeed and return--but return, not only with capital, but with
new energy, and with that knowledge of exact administration which
is developed by special careers. They will return because of the
attraction which land exercises, and finally through a feeling of duty,
which I need not explain to you."
"What you say has this good side, that then my
such-an-uncle-not-an-uncle Plavitski will belong to a type that has
perished."
Pan Yamish thought a while and said,--
"A thread stretches and stretches till it breaks, but at last it must
break. To my thinking, they cannot hold out in Kremen, even though
they parcel Magyerovka. But do you see whom I pity?--Marynia. She is
an uncommonly honest girl. For you do not know that the old man wanted
to sell Kremen two years ago; and that that did not take place partly
through the prayers of Marynia. Whether this was done out of regard
to the memory of her mother, who lies buried there, or because so
much is said and written about the duty of holding to the soil, it is
sufficient that the girl did what she could to prevent the sale. She
imagined, poor thing, that if she would betake herself with all power
to work, she could do everything. She abandoned the whole world for
Kremen. For her it will be a blow when the thread breaks at last, and
break it must. A pity for the years of the girl!"
"You are a kind person, councillor!" cried Pan Stanislav, with his
accustomed vivacity.
The old man smiled. "I love that girl: besides, she is my pupil in
agriculture; of a truth it will be sad when she is gone from us."
Pan Stanislav fell to biting his mustaches, and said at last, "Let her
marry some man in the neighborhood, and remain."
"Marry, marry! As if that were easy for a girl without property. Who is
there among us? Gantovski. He would take her. He is a good man, and not
at all so limited as they say. But she has no feeling for him, and she
will not marry without feeling. Yalbrykov is a small estate. Besides,
it seems to the old man that the Gantovskis are something inferior to
the Plavitskis, and Gantovski too believes this. With us, as you know,
that man passes for a person of great family who is pleased to boast
himself such. Though people laugh at Plavitski, they have grown used
to his claim. Moreover, one man raises his nose because he is making
property, another because he is losing it, and nothing else remains to
him. But let that pass. I know one thing, whoever gets Marynia will get
a pearl."
Pan Stanislav had in his mind at that moment the same conviction and
feeling. Sinking, therefore, into meditation, he began again to muse
about Marynia, or, rather, to call her to mind and depict her to
himself. All at once it even seemed to him that he would be sad without
her; but he remembered that similar things had seemed so to him more
than once, and that time had swept away the illusion. Still he thought
of her, even when they were approaching the city; and when he got out
at Warsaw, he muttered through his teeth,--
"How stupidly it happened! how stupidly!"
CHAPTER IV.
On his return to Warsaw, Pan Stanislav passed the first evening at the
house of his partner, Bigiel, with whom, as a former schoolmate, he was
connected by personal intimacy.
Bigiel, a Cheh by descent, but of a family settled in the country for a
number of generations, had managed a small commercial bank before his
partnership with Pan Stanislav, and had won the reputation of a man not
over-enterprising, it is true, but honorable and uncommonly reliable
in business. When Pan Stanislav entered into company with him, the
house extended its activity, and became an important firm. The partners
complemented each other perfectly. Pan Stanislav was incomparably more
clever and enterprising; he had more ideas and took in a whole affair
with greater ease; but Bigiel watched its execution more carefully.
When there was need of energy, or of pushing any one to the wall, Pan
Stanislav was the man; but when it was a question of careful thought,
of examining interests from ten sides, and of patience, Bigiel's rôle
began. Their temperaments were directly opposite; and for that reason,
perhaps, they had sincere friendship for each other. Preponderance
was relatively on the side of Pan Stanislav. Bigiel believed in his
partner's uncommon capacity; and a number of ideas really happy for
the house, which Pan Stanislav had given, confirmed this belief. The
dream of both was to acquire in time capital sufficient to build
cotton-mills, which Bigiel would manage, and Pan Stanislav direct.
But, though both might count themselves among men almost wealthy, the
mills were in a remote future. Less patient, and having many relatives,
Pan Stanislav tried, it is true, immediately after his return from
abroad, to direct to this object local, so-called "our own," capital;
he was met, however, with a general want of confidence. He noticed at
the same time a wonderful thing: his name opened all doors to him, but
rather injured than helped him in business. It might be that those
people who invited him to their houses could not get it into their
heads that one of themselves, hence a man of good family and with a
name ending in _ski_, could conduct any business successfully. This
angered Polanyetski to such a degree that the clever Bigiel had to
quench his outburst by stating that such want of confidence was in fact
caused by years of experience. Knowing well the history of different
industrial undertakings, he cited to Pan Stanislav a whole series of
cases, beginning with Tyzenhaus, the treasurer, and ending with various
provincial and land banks, which had nothing of the country about them
except their names,--in other words, they were devoid of every home
basis.
"The time has not come yet," said Bigiel; "but it will come, or,
rather, it is in sight. Hitherto there have been only amateurs and
dilettanti; now for the first time are appearing here and there trained
specialists."
Pan Stanislav who, in spite of his temperament, had powers of
observation rather well developed, began to make strange discoveries
in those spheres to which his relatives gave him access. He was met
by a general recognition for having done something. This recognition
was offered with emphasis even; but in it there was something like
condescension. Each man let it be known too readily that he approved
Polanyetski's activity, that he considered it necessary; but no one
bore himself as if he considered the fact that Polanyetski was working
at some occupation as a thing perfectly common and natural. "They
all _protect_ me," said he; and that was true. He came also to the
conclusion that if, for example, he aspired to the hand of any of the
young ladies of so-called "society," his commercial house and his title
of "affairist" would, notwithstanding the above recognition, have
injured more than helped him. They would rather give him any of those
maidens if, instead of a lucrative business, he had some encumbered
estate, or if, while living as a great lord, he was merely spending the
interest of his capital, or even the capital itself.
When he had made dozens of observations of this kind, Pan Stanislav
began to neglect his relatives, and at last abandoned them altogether.
He restricted himself to the houses of Bigiel and Pani Emilia
Hvastovski, and to those male acquaintances who were a necessity of
his single life. He took his meals at Francois's with Bukatski, old
Vaskovski, and the advocate Mashko, with whom he discussed and argued
various questions; he was often at the theatre and at public amusements
of all kinds. For the rest, he led rather a secluded life; hence he
was unmarried yet, though he had great and fixed willingness to marry,
and, besides, sufficient property.
Having gone after his return from Kremen almost directly to Bigiel's,
he poured out all his gall on "uncle" Plavitski, thinking that he would
find a ready and sympathetic listener; but Bigiel was moved little by
his narrative, and said,--
"I know such types. But, in truth, where is Plavitski to find money,
since he has none? If a man holds mortgages, he should have a saint's
patience. Landed property swallows money easily, but returns it with
the greatest difficulty."
"Listen, to me, Bigiel," said Pan Stanislav; "since thou hast begun to
grow fat and sleep after dinner, one must have a saint's patience with
thee."
"But is it true," asked the unmoved Bigiel, "that thou art in absolute
need of this money? Hast thou not at thy disposal the money that each
of us is bound to furnish?"
"I am curious to know what that is to thee, or Plavitski. I have money
with him; I must get it, and that is the end of the matter."
The entrance of Pani Bigiel, with a whole flock of children, put a
curb on the quarrel. She was young yet, dark-haired, blue-eyed, very
kind, and greatly taken up with her children, six in number,--children
liked by Pan Stanislav uncommonly; she was for this reason his
sincere friend, and also Pani Emilia's. Both these ladies, knowing
and loving Marynia Plavitski, had made up their minds to marry her to
Pan Stanislav; both had urged him very earnestly to go to Kremen for
the money. Hence Pani Bigiel was burning with curiosity to know what
impression the visit had made on him. But as the children were present,
it was impossible to speak. Yas, the youngest, who was walking on his
own feet already, embraced Pan Stanislav's leg and began to pull it,
calling "Pan, Pan!" which in his speech sounded, "Pam, Pam!" two little
girls, Evka and Yoasia, climbed up without ceremony on the knees of
the young man; but Edzio and Yozio explained to him their business.
They were reading the "Conquest of Mexico," and were playing at this
"Conquest." Edzio, raising his brows and stretching his hands upwards,
spoke excitedly,--
"I will be Cortez, and Yozio a knight on horseback; but as neither Evka
nor Yoasia wants to be Montezuma, what can we do? We can't play that
way, can we? Somebody must be Montezuma; if not, who will lead the
Mexicans?"
"But where are the Mexicans?" asked Pan Stanislav.
"Oh," said Yozio, "the chairs are the Mexicans, and the Spaniards too."
"Then wait, I'll be Montezuma; now take Mexico!"
An indescribable uproar began. Pan Stanislav's vivacity permitted him
to become a child sometimes. He offered such a stubborn resistance to
Cortez that Cortez fell to denying him the right to such resistance,
exclaiming, not without historic justice, that since Montezuma was
beaten, he must let himself be beaten. To which Montezuma answered that
he cared little for that; and he fought on. In this way the amusement
continued a good while. And Pani Bigiel, unable to wait for the end,
asked her husband at last,--
"How was the visit to Kremen?"
"He did what he is doing now," answered Bigiel, phlegmatically: "he
overturned all the chairs, and went away."
"Did he tell thee that?"
"I had no time to ask him about the young lady; but he parted with
Plavitski in a way that could not be worse. He wants to sell his claim;
this will cause evidently a complete severance of relations."
"That is a pity," answered Pani Bigiel.
At tea, when the children had gone to bed, she questioned Pan Stanislav
plainly concerning Marynia.
"I do not know," said he; "perhaps she is pretty, perhaps she is not. I
did not linger long over the question."
"That is not true," said Pani Bigiel.
"Then it is not true; and she is lovable and pretty, and whatever you
like. It is possible to fall in love with her, and to marry her; but a
foot of mine will never be in their house again. I know perfectly why
you sent me there; but it would have been better to tell me what sort
of a man her father is, for she must be like him in character, and if
that be true, then thanks for the humiliation."
"But think over what you say: 'She is pretty, she is lovable, it is
possible to marry her,' and then again: 'She must be like her father.'
These statements do not hold together."
"Maybe not; it is all one to me! I have no luck, and that is enough."
"But I will tell you two things: first, you have come back deeply
impressed by Marynia; second, that she is one of the best young ladies
whom I have seen in life, and he will be happy who gets her."
"Why has not some one taken her before now?"
"She is twenty-one years old, and entered society not long since.
Besides, don't think that she has no suitors."
"Let some other man take her."
But Pan Stanislav said this insincerely, for the thought that some
other man might take her was tremendously bitter for him. In his soul,
too, he felt grateful to Pani Bigiel for her praises of Marynia.
"Let that rest," said he; "but you are a good friend."
"Not only to Marynia, but to you. I only ask for a sincere, a really
sincere, answer. Are you impressed or not?"
"I impressed? to tell the truth,--immensely."
"Well, do you see?" said Pani Bigiel, whose face was radiant with
pleasure.
"See what? I see nothing. She pleased me immensely,--true! You have no
idea what a sympathetic and attractive person she is; and she must be
good. But what of that? I cannot go a second time to Kremen, I came
away in such anger. I said such bitter things, not only to Plavitski,
but to her, that it is impossible."
"Have you complicated matters much?"
"Rather too much than too little."
"Then a letter might soften them."
"I write a letter to Plavitski, and beg his pardon! For nothing on
earth! Moreover, he has cursed me."
"How, cursed?"
"As patriarch of the family; in his own name and the names of all
ancestors. I feel toward him such a repulsion that I could not write
down two words. He is an old pathetic comedian. I would sooner beg her
pardon; but what would that effect? She must take her father's part;
even I understand that. In the most favorable event, she would answer
that my letter is very agreeable to her; and with that relations would
cease."
"When Emilia returns from Reichenhall we will bring Marynia here under
the first plausible pretext, and then it will be your work to let
misunderstandings vanish."
"Too late, too late!" repeated Pan Stanislav; "I have promised myself
to sell the claim, and I will sell it."
"That is just what may be for the best."
"No, that would be for the worst," put in Bigiel; "but I will persuade
him not to sell. I hope, too, that a purchaser will not be found."
"Meanwhile Emilia will finish Litka's cure." Here Pani Bigiel turned to
Pan Stanislav: "You will learn now how other young ladies will seem to
you after Marynia. I am not so intimate with her as Emilia is, but I
will try to find the first convenient pretext to write to her and find
out what she thinks of you."
The conversation ended here. On the way home, Pan Stanislav saw that
Marynia had taken by no means the last place in his soul. To tell the
truth, he could hardly think of aught else. But he had at the same
time the feeling that this acquaintance had begun under unfavorable
conditions, and that it would be better to drive the maiden from
his mind while there was time yet. As a man rather strong than weak
mentally, and not accustomed to yield himself to dreams simply because
they were pleasant, he resolved to estimate the position soberly, and
weigh it on all sides. The young lady possessed, it is true, almost
every quality which he demanded in his future wife, and also she was
near his heart personally. But at the same time she had a father whom
he could not endure; and, besides the father, a real burden in the form
of Kremen and its connections.
"With that pompous old monkey I should never live in peace; I could
not," thought Pan Stanislav. "For relations with him are possible only
in two ways: it is necessary either to yield to him (to do this I am
absolutely unable), or to shake him up every day, as I did in Kremen.
In the first case, I, an independent man, would enter into unendurable
slavery to an old egotist; in the second, the position of my wife would
be difficult, and our peace might be ruined."
"I hope that this is sober, logical reasoning. It would be faulty only
if I were in love with the maiden already. But I judge that this is not
the case. I am occupied with her, not in love with her. These two are
different. _Ergo_, it is necessary to stop thinking of Marynia, and let
some other man take her."
At this last idea, a feeling of bitterness burned him vividly, but he
thought, "I am so occupied with her that this is natural. Finally, I
have chewed more than one bitter thing in life; I will chew this one as
well. I suppose also that it will be less bitter each day."
But soon he discovered that besides bitterness there remained in him
also a feeling of sorrow because the prospects had vanished which had
been opening before him. It seemed to him that a curtain of the future
had been raised, and something had shown him what might be; then the
curtain had fallen on a sudden, and his life had returned to its former
career, which led finally to nothing, or rather led to a desert. Pan
Stanislav felt in every ease that the old philosopher Vaskovski was
right, and that the making of money is only a means. Beyond that, we
must solve life's riddle in some fashion. There must be an object,
an important task, which, accomplished in a manner straightforward
and honorable, leads to mental peace. That peace is the soul of life;
without it life has, speaking briefly, no meaning.
Pan Stanislav was in some sense a child of the age; that is, he bore in
himself a part of that immense unrest which in the present declining
epoch is the nightmare of mankind. In him, too, the bases on which life
had rested hitherto were crumbling. He too doubted whether rationalism,
stumbling against every stone at the wayside, could take the place
of faith; and faith he had not found yet. He differed, however, from
contemporary "decadents" in this,--that he had not become disenchanted
with himself, his nerves, his doubts, his mental drama, and had not
given himself a dispensation to be an imbecile and an idler. On the
contrary, he had the feeling, more or less conscious, that life as it
is, mysterious or not mysterious, must be accomplished through a series
of toils and exploits. He judged that if it is impossible to answer the
various "whys," still it behooves a man to do something because action
itself may, to a certain degree, be an answer. It may be inconclusive,
it is true; but the man who answers in that way casts from himself
at least responsibility. What remains then? The founding of a family
and social ties. These must, to a certain degree, be a right of human
nature and its predestination, for otherwise people would neither marry
nor associate in societies. A philosophy of this kind, resting on Pan
Stanislav's logical male instinct, indicated marriage to him as one
of the main objects of life. His will had for along time been turned
and directed to this object. A while before, Panna Marynia seemed to
him the pier "for which his ship was making in that gloomy night." But
when he understood that the lamp on that pier had not been lighted for
him, that he must sail farther, begin a new voyage over unknown seas,
a feeling of weariness and regret seized him. But his reasoning seemed
to him logical, and he went home with an almost settled conviction that
"it was not yet that one," and "not yet this time."
Next day, when he went to dine, he found Vaskovski and Bukatski at
the restaurant. After a while Mashko also came in, with his arrogant,
freckled face and long side whiskers, a monocle on his eye, and wearing
a white waistcoat. After the greeting, all began to inquire of Pan
Stanislav touching his journey, for they knew partly why the ladies had
insisted on his personal visit, and, besides, they knew Marynia through
Pani Emilia.
After they had heard the narrative, Bukatski, transparent as Sevres
porcelain, said with that phlegm special to him,--
"It is war, then? That is a young lady who acts on the nerves, and now
would be the time to strike for her. A woman will accept more readily
the arm offered on a stony path than on a smooth road."
"Then offer an arm to her," said Pan Stanislav, with a certain
impatience.
"See thou, my beloved, there are three hindrances. First, Pani Emilia
acts on my nerves still more; second, I have a pain in my neck every
morning, and in the back of my head, which indicates brain disease;
third, I am naked."
"Thou naked?"
"At least now. I have bought a number of Falks, all _avant la lettre_.
I have plucked myself for a month, and if I receive from Italy a
certain Massaccio, for which I have been bargaining, I shall ruin
myself for a year."
Vaskovski, who from his features, or rather from the freckles on his
face, was somewhat like Mashko, though much older, and with a face full
of sweetness, fixed his blue eyes on Bukatski, and said,--
"And that too is a disease of the age,--collecting and collecting on
all sides!"
"Oh, ho! there will be a dispute," remarked Mashko.
"We have nothing better to do," said Pan Stanislav.
And Bukatski took up the gauntlet.
"What have you against collecting?"
"Nothing," answered Vaskovski. "It is a kind of old-womanish method of
loving art, worthy of our age. Do you not think there is something
decrepit about it? To my thinking, it is very characteristic. Once
people bore within them enthusiasm for high art: they loved it where it
was, in museums, in churches; to-day they take it to their own private
cabinets. Long ago people ended with collecting; to-day they begin with
it, and begin at oddities: I am not talking at Bukatski; but to-day
the youngest boy, if he has a little money, will begin to collect--and
what? Not objects of art, but its oddities, or in every case its
trifles. You see, my dear friend, it has seemed to me always that love
and amateurism are two different things; and I insist that a great
amateur of women, for example, is not a man capable of lofty feeling."
"Perhaps so. There is something in that," said Pan Stanislav.
"How can this concern me?" inquired Mashko, passing his fingers through
his English side whiskers. "It contains, to begin with, the decree of
an ancient pedagogue about modern times."
"Of a pedagogue?" repeated Vaskovski. "Why, since a morsel of bread
fell to me, as from heaven,[3] I renounced the slaughter of innocents
and the rôle of Herod; secondly, you are mistaken in saying that I
utter a decree. Almost with joy I see and note new proofs every hour
that we are at the end of an epoch, and that a new one will begin
shortly."
"We are in the open sea, and will not turn to shore soon," muttered
Mashko.
"Give us peace," said Pan Stanislav.
But the unconquered Vaskovski continued,--
"Amateurism leads to refinement; in refinement great ideals perish, and
yield to desire for enjoyment. All this is nothing but paganism. No one
can realize to what a degree we are paganized. But is there something?
There is the Aryan spirit, which does not ossify, which never grows
cold,--a spirit which has within it the divine afflatus, hence creative
power; and this spirit feels hampered in pagan fetters. The reaction
has set in already, and a rebirth in Christ will begin in this field,
as in others. That is undoubted."
Vaskovski, who had eyes like a child,--that is, reflecting only
external objects and ever fixed, as it were, on infinity,--fixed them
on the window, through which were visible gray clouds pierced here and
there by sun-rays.
"It is a pity that my head aches, for that will be a curious epoch,"
said Bukatski.
But Mashko, who called Vaskovski "a saw," and was annoyed by his
discussions, begun from any cause or without cause, took from the
side-pocket of his coat a cigar, bit off the end, and, turning to Pan
Stanislav, said,--
"Here, Stas, wouldst thou really sell that claim on Kremen?"
"Decidedly. Why dost thou ask?"
"Because I might consider it."
"Thou?"
"Yes. Thou knowest that I consider this kind of business frequently. We
can talk about it. I cannot say anything certain to-day; but to-morrow
I will ask thee to send me the mortgage on Kremen, and I will tell thee
whether the thing is possible. Perhaps after dinner to-morrow thou wilt
come to me to drink coffee; we may settle something then."
"Well. If anything is to be done, I should prefer it done quickly; for
the moment I finish with Bigiel, I wish to go abroad."
"Whither art thou going?" asked Bukatski.
"I do not know. It is too hot in the city. Somewhere to trees and
water."
"Another old prejudice," said Bukatski. "In the city there is always
shade on one side of the street, which there is not in the country. I
walk on the shady side quietly and feel well; therefore I never go out
of the city in summer."
"But Professor, art thou not going somewhere?" asked Pan Stanislav.
"Of course. Pani Emilia has been urging me to go to Reichenhall.
Perhaps I shall go."
"Then let us go together. It is all one to me where I go. I like
Salzburg, and, besides, it will be pleasant to see Pani Emilia and
Litka."
Bukatski stretched forth his transparent hand, took a tooth-pick from a
glass, and, picking his teeth, began to speak in his cool and careless
voice,--
"There is such a mad storm of jealousy raging within me that I am
ready to go with you. Have a care, Polanyetski, lest I explode, like
dynamite."
There was something so amusingly contradictory between the words and
the tone of Bukatski that Pan Stanislav laughed, but after a while he
answered,--
"It had not occurred to me that it is possible to fall in love with
Pani Emilia. Thank thee for the idea."
"Woe to you both!" said Bukatski.
FOOTNOTES:
[3] He had received an inheritance some time before.
CHAPTER V.
Next day, after an early dinner at Bigiel's, Pan Stanislav betook
himself to Mashko's at the appointed hour. The host was waiting for
him evidently; for in the study he found an exquisite coffee service
ready, and glasses for liqueurs. Mashko himself did not appear at once,
however; for, as the servant said, he was receiving some lady. In fact,
his voice and the words of a woman came through the door from the
drawing-room.
Meanwhile, Pan Stanislav fell to examining Mashko's ancestors, a number
of whose portraits were hanging on the walls. The authenticity of these
the friends of the young advocate doubted. A certain cross-eyed prelate
afforded Bukatski a special subject for witticisms; but Mashko was not
offended. He had determined, cost what it might, to force on the world
himself, his ancestors, his genius for business, knowing that, in the
society in which he moved, people would ridicule him, but no one would
have energy to attack his pretensions. Possessing energy, limitless
insolence, and a real turn for business besides, he determined to
force himself upward by those qualities. People who did not like him
called him shameless; and he was, but with calculation. Coming from
a family uncertain even as to its nobility, he treated people of
undoubted ancient families as if he were of incomparably better birth
than they, people who were of undoubted wealth, as if he were wealthier
than they. And this succeeded: those tactics of his were effective.
He was careful not to fall into complete ridicule; but he had marked
out for himself in this procedure uncommonly wide margins. At last he
reached the point which he sought: he was received everywhere, and had
established his credit firmly. Certain transactions brought him really
generous profits; but he did not hoard money. He judged that the time
for that had not come yet, and that he must invest more in the future,
with the intent that it would repay him in the way which he wanted.
He did not squander money, and was not over liberal, for he looked
on those as marks of a parvenu; but, when the need came, he showed
himself, to use his own phrase, "solidly munificent." He passed for
a very smooth man in business, and, above all, a man of his word. His
word rested on credit, it is true; but it kept him in a high position,
which in turn permitted him to make really important transactions. He
did not draw back before trifles. He possessed daring, and a certain
energy which excluded long hesitation; he had faith, too, in his own
fortune. Success strengthened that faith. He did not know, in fact, how
much property he had; but he handled large sums of money, and people
considered him wealthy.
Finally, Mashko's life motive was vanity, rather than greed. He wanted
to be rich, it is true; but, beyond all, he wanted to pass for a great
lord in English fashion. He went so far as to adapt his exterior
thereto, and was almost proud of his personal ugliness: it seemed to
him even aristocratic. There was, indeed, a certain something, which,
if not uncommon, was at least peculiar, in his pouting mouth, in his
broad nostrils, and the red freckles on his face. There was a certain
power and brutality, such as the English have sometimes, and that
expression was increased by his monocle. To wear this, he had to rear
his head somewhat; and when he passed his fingers through his light
side whiskers, he reared it still more.
Pan Stanislav could not endure the man at first, and concealed his
dislike even too slightly. Later on he became accustomed to him,
especially since Mashko treated him differently from others,--perhaps
through secret regard; perhaps because, wishing to gain in advance
a man so demanding, to act otherwise would be to expose himself to
an immediate account, disagreeable in the best case. At last, the
young men, by meeting often, grew used to each other's weaknesses,
and endured each other perfectly. On this occasion, for example,
when Mashko had conducted the lady to the door, he showed himself in
the study, set aside for the moment his greatness, and, greeting Pan
Stanislav, began to speak like an ordinary mortal, not like a great
lord or an Englishman.
"With women! with women! _c'est toujours une mer à boire_ (there is
always a sea to drink). I have invested their little capital, and I pay
them the interest most regularly. Not enough! They come at least once a
week to inquire if there has not been some earthquake."
"What wilt thou say to me?" asked Pan Stanislav.
"First of all, drink some coffee."
And, igniting the alcohol under the lamp, he added,--
"With thee there will be no delay. I have seen the mortgage. The money
is not easy of recovery; but we need not look on it as lost. Evidently
the collection will involve costs, journeys, etc. Hence I cannot
give thee what the face of the mortgage indicates; but I will give
two-thirds, and pay in three instalments in the course of a year."
"Since I have said to myself that I would sell the claim, even for less
than the face of it, I agree. When will the first instalment be paid?"
"In three months."
"Then I will leave my power of attorney with Bigiel in case I must go
on a journey."
"But art thou going to Reichenhall?"
"Possibly."
"Ai! Who knows but Bukatski has given thee an idea?"
"Every one has his own thoughts. Thou, for example. Why art thou buying
this claim on Kremen? The business is too small for thee, is it not?"
"Among great affairs small ones too are transacted. But I will be
outspoken. Thou knowest that neither my position nor my credit belongs
to the lowest; both one and the other will increase when I have behind
me a piece of land, and that such a large one. I have heard myself
from Plavitski that he would sell Kremen. I will suppose that he is
still more inclined now, and that it will be possible to acquire all
that property cheaply, even very cheaply, for some payments, for some
unimportant ready money, with a life annuity in addition; I shall
see! Afterward, when it is put in order a little, like a horse for
the market, it may be sold; meanwhile I shall have the position of a
landholder, which, _entre nous_, concerns me very greatly."
Pan Stanislav listened to Mashko's words with a certain constraint, and
said,--
"I must tell thee plainly that the purchase will not be easy. Panna
Plavitski is very much opposed to selling. She, in woman fashion, is in
love with her Kremen, and will do all she can to retain it in the hands
of herself and her father."
"Then in the worst case I shall be Plavitski's creditor, and I do
not think that the money will be lost to me. First, I may sell it,
as thou hast; second, as an advocate, I can dispose of it with far
greater ease. I may myself find means of paying, and indicate them to
Plavitski."
"Thou canst foreclose too, and buy it at auction."
"I might if I were some one else, but to foreclose would be devilishly
unbecoming in Mashko. No; other means will be found, to which ready
consent may be given by Panna Plavitski herself, for whom, by the way,
I have great esteem and regard."
Pan Stanislav, who at that moment was finishing his coffee, put his cup
suddenly on the table. "Ah," said he, "and it is possible in that way
to get at the property." Again a feeling of great anger and bitterness
seized him. At the first moment he wished to rise, say to Mashko, "I
will not sell the claim!" and go out. He restrained himself, however,
and Mashko, passing his fingers through his side whiskers, answered,--
"But if?--I can assure thee, on my word, that at this moment I have
no such plan; at least I have not placed it before myself definitely.
But if?--I made the acquaintance of Panna Plavitski once in Warsaw, in
the winter, and she pleased me much. The family is good, the property
ruined, but large, and can be saved. Who knows? Well, that is an idea
like any other. I am perfectly loyal with thee, as, for that matter, I
have been always. Thou didst go there as if for money, but I knew why
those ladies sent thee. Thou hast returned, however, as angry as the
devil; therefore I take it that thou hast no intentions. Say that I
am mistaken, and I will withdraw at once, not from the plan, for, as
I have assured thee, I have no plan yet, but even from thinking over
it as something possible. I give thee my word on that. In the opposite
case, however, do not hold to the position, 'Not for me, not for any
one,' and do not bar the lady's way. But now I listen to thee."
Pan Stanislav, recalling his reasonings of yesterday, thought also that
Mashko was right when he said that in such a case he ought not to bar
any one's road to the lady, and after a certain time he said,--
"No, Mashko, I have no intentions touching Panna Plavitski. Thou art
free to marry her or not. I will say, nevertheless, openly, there is
one thing which does not please me, though for me it is profitable;
namely that thou art buying this claim. I believe that thou hast no
plan yet; but in case thou shouldst have one, it will seem somewhat
strange--But any pressure, any trap--this, however, is thy affair."
"It is so much my affair that if some one else, and not thou, had said
this, I should have been quick to remind him. I may tell thee, however,
that should I form such a plan, which I doubt, I shall not ask the hand
of Panna Plavitski as interest for my money. Since I can say to myself
conscientiously that I would buy the debt in any case, I have the right
to buy it. Above all, as matters stand to-day, I wish to buy Kremen,
for I need it; hence I am free to use all honorable means which may
lead to that end."
"Very well; I will sell. Give directions to write the contract, and
send it, or bring it thyself to me."
"I have directed my assistant. It is ready, and needs only the
signatures."
In fact, the contract was signed a quarter of an hour later. Pan
Stanislav, who spent the evening of that day at Bigiel's, was in such
anger as he had never been before; Pani Bigiel could not hide her
vexation; and Bigiel, thinking the whole over carefully said, toward
the end of the evening, with his usual balance and deliberation,--
"That Mashko has a plan is beyond doubt. The question is merely whether
he is deceiving thee by saying that he has no plan, or is deceiving
himself!"
"God preserve her from Mashko!" answered Pani Bigiel. "We all saw that
she pleased him greatly."
"I supposed," said Bigiel, "that a man like Mashko would look for
property, but I may be mistaken. It may be also that he wants to find
a wife of good stock, strengthen thereby his social position, become
related to numerous families, and at last take into his hands the
business of a certain whole sphere of society. That also is not badly
calculated, especially since, if he uses his credit, which will be
increased by Kremen, it may with his cleverness clear him in time."
"And as you say," remarked Pan Stanislav, "Panna Plavitski pleases
him really. I remember now that Plavitski said something too on this
subject."
"What then?" asked Pani Bigiel; "what will happen then?"
"Panna Plavitski will marry Pan Mashko if she wishes," said Pan
Stanislav.
"But you?"
"Oh I am going to Reichenhall straightway."
CHAPTER VI.
In fact, Pan Stanislav went a week later to Reichenhall; but before
that he received a letter from Pani Emilia inquiring about his journey
to Kremen. He did not write in return, for he intended to answer the
letter orally. He heard too, but only on the eve of his departure,
that Mashko had gone to Kremen the day before; and that news touched
him more than he thought it would. He said to himself, it is true,
that he would forget the affair when no farther away than Vienna; but
he could not forget it, and he had his head so occupied with thinking
whether Panna Plavitski would marry Mashko or not, that he wrote to
Bigiel from Salzburg, as it were on business, but really asking him to
send news of Mashko. He listened without attention to the discussions
of his travelling companion, Vaskovski, about the mutual relations of
nationalities in Austria, and the mission of modern nations in general.
More than once he was so occupied with thinking about Marynia that he
simply did not answer questions. It astonished him, too, that at times
he saw her as clearly as if she had been standing before him, not
only as an exact image, but as a living person. He saw her pleasant,
mild face, with shapely mouth, and the little ensign on the upper
lip; the calm gaze of her eyes, in which were visible the attention
and concentration with which she listened to his words; he saw her
whole posture, lithe, supple, from which came the warmth of great and
genuine maiden youthfulness. He remembered her bright robe, the tips of
her feet, peeping from under it, her hands, delicate, though slightly
sunburnt, and her dark hair, moved by the breeze in the garden. He
had never thought that there could be a memory almost palpable, and
that the memory of a person seen during such a brief time. But he
understood this to be a proof of how deep an impression she had, in
truth, made on him; and when at moments it passed through his head
that all this, which had fixed itself thus in his memory, might be
possessed by Mashko, he could hardly believe it. In those moments his
first feeling, which was, moreover, in accord with his active nature,
was an irresistible impulse to hinder it. He had to remember then that
the affair was decided already, and that he had resolved to drop Panna
Plavitski.
He and Vaskovski reached Reichenhall early in the morning; and that
very day, before they had learned the address of Pani Emilia, they
met her and Litka in the park. She had not expected to see either,
especially Pan Stanislav, and was sincerely delighted when she met
them; her delight was darkened only by this, that Litka, a child
exceptionally sensitive, and ailing with asthma and heart-disease, was
still more delighted, so much delighted, indeed, that she had a violent
palpitation of the heart, with stifling and almost a swoon.
Such attacks were frequent with her; and, when this one passed,
calmness came back to all faces. On the way to the house, the child
held "Pan Stas" by the hand, and in her eyes, usually pensive, there
shone deep delight. From time to time she pressed his hand, as if to
convince herself that he had come really to Reichenhall and was near
her. Pan Stanislav had simply no time to speak to Pani Emilia, or to
make an inquiry, for Litka was showing him Reichenhall, and chattering
unceasingly; she wanted to show him all the nice places at once. Every
moment she said,--
"This is nothing yet. Thumsee is prettier; but we will go there
to-morrow."
Then turning to her mother, "Mamma will let me go, isn't it true? I can
walk much now. It is not far. Mamma will let me go, will she not?"
At moments again she pushed away from Pan Stanislav, and, without
dropping his hand, looked at him with her great eyes, repeating,--
"Pan Stas, Pan Stas!"
Pan Stanislav showed her the greatest tenderness, or tenderness as
great as an elder brother might show; time after time he chided her
good-naturedly,--
"Let the kitten not run so; she will choke."
And she nestled up to him, pouted, and answered, as if in anger,--
"Hush, Pan Stas!"
Pan Stanislav glanced, however, frequently at the serene face of Pani
Emilia, as if desiring to let her know that he wished to converse with
her. But there was no opportunity, since she did not like to destroy
Litka's joyousness, and preferred to leave their mutual friend in her
possession exclusively. Only after dinner, which they ate in the garden
together, amid foliage and the twittering of sparrows, when Vaskovski
had begun to tell Litka about birds, and the love which Saint Francis
Assisi had felt for them, and the child, with her head on her hand, was
lost completely in listening, did Pan Stanislav turn to Pani Emilia and
ask,--
"Do you not wish to walk to the end of the garden?"
"I do," answered she. "Litka, stay here a minute with Pan Vaskovski; we
will come back in that time."
They walked along, and Pani Emilia asked immediately,--
"Well, what?"
Pan Stanislav began to tell; but whether it was that he wished to
appear better before Pani Emilia, or that he determined to reckon with
that delicate nature, or, finally, that the last thoughts concerning
Marynia had attuned him to a note more sensitive than usual, it is
sufficient that he changed the affair altogether. He confessed, it is
true, to a quarrel with Plavitski, but he was silent touching this,
that before his departure from Kremen he had answered Marynia almost
with harshness; besides, he did not spare praises on her in his story,
and finally he finished,--
"Since that debt became a cause of misunderstanding at once between me
and Plavitski,--a thing which must be reflected on Panna Marynia,--I
chose to sell it; and just before I left Warsaw, I sold it to Mashko."
Pani Emilia, who had not the slightest conception of business, and,
besides, was of a simplicity truly angelic, remarked,--
"You did well. There should be no such thing as money between you."
Ashamed to deceive such a simple soul, he answered,--
"True! Or rather the contrary, I think I did badly. Bigiel, too, is of
the opinion that it was not well. Mashko may press them; he may put
various demands before them; he may offer Kremen for sale. No, that was
not a delicate act, nor one to bring us nearer; and I should not have
committed it, were it not that I came to the conviction that it was
necessary to drive all that out of my head."
"But no; do not say so. I believe that there is predestination in
everything; and I believe, too, that Providence designed you for each
other."
"I do not understand that. If that be true, then I need not do
anything, for in every case I must marry Panna Plavitski."
"I have a woman's head, and say stupid things, perhaps; but it seems
to me that Providence wills and arranges everything for the best, but
leaves people freedom. Frequently they do not wish to follow that which
is predestined, and this is why so many are unhappy."
"Maybe. It is difficult, however, to follow anything but one's own
convictions. Reason is like a lantern, which God puts in our hands. Who
will assure me meanwhile that Panna Marynia will marry me?"
"I ought to have news from her of your visit to Kremen, and I wonder
that so far I have none. I think that a letter will come to-morrow at
latest, for we write every week to each other. Does she know of your
departure for Reichenhall?"
"She does not. I did not know myself when in Kremen where I should go."
"That is well; for she will be outspoken, though she would be so in any
case."
The first day's conversation ended here. In the evening it was decided
at Litka's request to walk to Thumsee, and go in the morning so as
to dine at the lake, return in a carriage, or on foot, if Litka was
not tired and they could return before sunset. The two men presented
themselves at the lady's villa before nine in the morning. Pani Emilia
and Litka were dressed and waiting on the veranda; both were so like
visions that Vaskovski, the old pedagogue, was astonished at sight of
them.
"The Lord God makes perfect flowers of people sometimes," said he,
pointing at mother and daughter from a distance.
Indeed, Pani Emilia and Litka were admired by all Reichenhall. The
first, with her spiritualized, angelic face, appeared the incarnation
of love, motherly tenderness, and exaltation; the other, with her
great pensive eyes, yellow hair, and features that were almost too
delicate, seemed rather the idea of an artist than a living little
girl. Bukatski, the decadent, said that she was formed of mist made
just a trifle rosy by light. Indeed, there was something in the little
maiden, as it were, not of earth, which impression was heightened by
her illness and exceeding sensitiveness. Her mother loved her blindly;
those who surrounded her loved her also; but attention did not spoil
this child, exceptionally sweet by nature.
Pan Stanislav, who visited Pani Emilia in Warsaw a number of times
every week, was sincerely attached to both mother and daughter. In a
city where woman's reputation is less respected than anywhere else in
the world, scandal was created by this, without the least cause, of
course; for Pani Emilia was as pure as an infant, and simply carried
her exalted head in the sky as if she knew not that evil existed. She
was even so pure that she did not understand the necessity of paying
attention to appearances. She received gladly those whom Litka loved;
but she refused a number of good offers of marriage, declaring that
she needed nothing on earth except Litka. Bukatski alone insisted that
Pani Emilia acted on his nerves. Pan Stanislav adapted himself to
those azure heights surrounding that crystal woman, so that he never
approached her with a thought dimmed by temptation.
Now he answered with simplicity Vaskovski's remark,--
"In truth, they both seem marvellous."
And, greeting them, he repeated more or less the same thing to
Pani Emilia, as something that in the given case had attracted his
attention. She smiled with pleasure,--likely because the praise
included Litka,--and, gathering up her skirt for the road, she said,--
"I received a letter to-day, and have brought it to you."
"May I read it right away?"
"You may; I beg you to do so."
They set out by the forest road for Thumsee--Pani Emilia, Vaskovski,
and Litka in advance, Pan Stanislav a little behind them, his head bent
over the letter, which was as follows:--
MY DEAR EMILKA,--To-day I have received thy litany of
questions, and will answer at once, for I am in haste to share my
thoughts with thee. Pan Stanislav Polanyetski went from here on
Monday; hence, two days ago. The first evening I received him as I
receive every one, and nothing whatever came to my head; but the
next day was Sunday. I had time to spare; and almost the entire
afternoon we were not only together, but alone, for papa went
to the Yamishes. What shall I say? Such a sympathetic, sincere,
and, at the same time, honest man! From what he said of Litka
and of thee, I saw at once that he has a good heart. We walked
a long time by the pond in the garden. I bound up his hand, for
he cut himself with the boat. He spoke so wisely that I forgot
myself in listening to his words. Ah, my Emilka, I am ashamed to
confess it, but my poor head was turned a little by that evening.
Thou knowest, moreover, how alone I am and overworked, and how
rarely I see men like him. It seemed to me that a guest had come
from another world, and a better one. He not only pleased, but
captivated me with his heartiness, so that I could not sleep, and
was thinking all the time of him. It is true that in the morning
he quarrelled with papa, and even I received a little; though God
sees how much I would give that there might be no question of
that kind between us. At the first moment it touched me greatly;
and if that ugly man had known how much I cried in my chamber, he
would have pitied me. But, afterward, I thought that he must be
very sensitive; that papa was not right; and I am not angry now.
I will say, also, in thy ear, that a certain voice whispers to
me continually that he will not sell to any one the claim which
he has on Kremen, if only to be able to come here again. That he
parted in such anger with papa is nothing. Papa himself does not
take it to heart; for those are his ways, not his convictions
or feelings. Pan Stanislav has in me a true friend, who, after
the sale of Magyerovka, will do everything to end all causes of
misunderstanding, and in general all those nasty money questions.
He will have to come then, even to take what belongs to him,--is
it not true? It may be also that I please him a little. That a man
as quick as he is should say something bitter gives no cause for
wonder. Speak not of this when thou seest him, and do not scold
him; God keep thee from that. I know not why I feel a certain
confidence that he will do no injustice to me, or papa, or my
beloved Kremen; and I think it would be well in the world if all
were like him.
My dear, I embrace thee and Litka most heartily. Write to me of
her health minutely, and love me as I do thee.
When he had finished reading, Pan Stanislav put the letter in the
side-pocket of his coat, which he buttoned. Then he pushed his hat down
to the back of his head, and felt a certain intense desire to break his
cane into small bits and throw them into the river: he did not do this,
however; he only began to mutter, while gritting his teeth,--
"Yes; very well. Thou knowest Polanyetski! Be confident that he will
not injure thee! Thou wilt come out in safety."
Then he addressed himself as follows,--
"Thou hast thy deserts; for she is an angel, and thou art not worthy of
her." And again a desire seized him to break his cane into bits. Now he
saw clearly that the soul of that maiden had been ready to give itself
with all faith and trust to him; and he prepared for her one of those
painful and wounding disillusions, the memory of which, fixed once and
forever, pains eternally. To sell the claim was nothing; but to sell
it to a man wishing to buy it with the intention which Mashko had,
was to say to the woman, "I do not want thee; marry him, if it please
thee." What a bitter disillusion for her, after all that he had said to
her on that Sunday,--after those words friendly, open, and at the same
time intended to enter her heart! They were chosen for that purpose,
and he felt that she had taken them in that sense. He might repeat as
often as he pleased that they bound him to nothing; that in the first
meeting and in the first conversation which a man has with a woman, he
merely pushes out horns, like a snail, and tries the ground to which he
has come. That would be no consolation to him now. Besides, he was not
merely not in humor for self-justification, but wished rather to give
himself a slap on the face. He saw for the first time so definitely
that he might have received Marynia's heart and hand; and the more real
that possibility was to him, the more the loss seemed irreparable.
Moreover, from the moment of reading that letter, a new change appeared
in him. His own reasoning that now he ought to let Marynia go, seemed
pitiful and paltry. With all his faults, Pan Stanislav had a grateful
heart; and that letter moved him to a high degree, by the kindness and
understanding, by the readiness to love, which were revealed in it.
Hence the remembrance of Marynia became rosy in his heart and mind all
at once,--became rosy even with such power that he thought,--
"As God is in heaven, I shall fall in love with her now!" And such a
tenderness seized him that in presence of it even anger at himself had
to yield. He joined the company after a while, and, pushing forward a
little with Pani Emilia, said,--
"Give me this letter."
"With the greatest pleasure. Such an honest letter, is it not? And you
did not confess to me that she suffered somewhat at parting; but I will
not reprove, since she herself takes you under her protection."
"If it would help, I would beg you to beat me; but there is nothing to
be said, for those are things incurable."
Pani Emilia did not share this opinion; on the contrary, seeing Pan
Stanislav's emotion, she felt sure that an affair in which both
sides had such vivid feelings was in the best state and must end
satisfactorily. At that very thought her sweet face became radiant.
"We shall see after some months," said she.
"You do not even divine what we may see," said Pan Stanislav, thinking
of Mashko.
"Remember," continued Pani Emilia, "that he who once wins Marynia's
heart will never be disappointed."
"I am certain of that," answered he, gloomily; "but also such hearts,
when once wounded, do not return again."
They could not speak further, for Litka and Pan Vaskovski caught up
with them. After a while the little girl took Pan Stanislav, as usual,
for her own exclusive property. The forest, sunk in the mild morning
light of a fair day, occupied her uncommonly; she began to inquire
about various trees; every little while she cried out with pleasure,--
"Mushrooms!"
But he answered mechanically, thinking of something else,--
"Mushrooms, kitten, mushrooms."
At last the road descended, and they beheld Thumsee under their
feet. In the course of half an hour they came down to a beaten path,
stretching along the shore, on which were visible here and there wooden
foot-piers, extending a few yards into the lake. Litka wished to look
from near by at big fish which were visible in the clear water. Pan
Stanislav, taking her by the hand, led her out on to one of the piers.
The fish, accustomed to crumbs thrown by visitors, instead of fleeing,
approached still nearer, and soon a whole circle surrounded Litka's
feet. In the blue water were visible the golden-brown backs of the
carp, and the gray spotted scales of the salmon trout, while the round
eyes of these creatures were fixed on the little girl as if with an
expression of entreaty.
"Coming back, we will bring lots of bread," said Litka. "How strangely
they look at us! What are they thinking of?"
"They are thinking very slowly," said Pan Stanislav; "and only after an
hour or two will they say: 'Ah! here is some little girl with yellow
hair and rosy dress and black stockings.'"
"And what will they think of Pan Stas?"
"They will think that I am some gypsy, for I have not yellow hair."
"No. Gypsies have no houses."
"And I have no house, Litka. I had the chance of one, but I sold it."
He uttered this last phrase in a certain unusual manner, and in
general there was sadness in his voice. The little girl looked at him
carefully; and all at once her sensitive face reflected his sadness,
just as that water reflected her form. When they joined the rest of the
company, from time to time she raised her sad eyes with an inquiring
and disturbed expression. At last, pressing more firmly his hand, which
she held, she asked,--
"What troubles Pan Stas?"
"Nothing, little child; I am looking around at the lake, and that is
why I do not talk."
"I was pleasing myself yesterday, thinking to show Pan Stas Thumsee."
"Though there are no rocks here, it is very beautiful But what house is
that on the other side?"
"We will take dinner there."
Pani Emilia was talking merrily with Vaskovski, who, carrying his hat
in his hand, and seeking in his pockets for a handkerchief to wipe his
bald head, gave his opinions about Bukatski,--
"He is an Aryan," concluded he; "and therefore in continual unrest,
he is seeking peace. He is buying pictures and engravings at present,
thinking that thus he will fill a void. But what do I see? This, those
children of the century bear in their souls an abyss like this lake,
for example; besides, the abyss in them is bottomless, and they think
to fill it with pictures, strong waters, amateurship, dilettantism,
Baudelaire, Ibsen, Maeterlinck, finally dilettante science. Poor birds,
they are beating their heads against the sides of their cages! It is
just I tried to fill this lake by throwing in a pebble."
"And what can fill life?"
"Every sincere idea, all great feelings, but only on condition that
they begin in Christ. Had Bukatski loved art in the Christian way, it
would have given him the peace which he is forced to seek."
"Have you told him that?"
"Yes, that and many other things. I urge him and Pan Stanislav always
to read the Life of Saint Francis of Assisi. They are not willing to do
so, and laugh at me. Yet he was the greatest man and the greatest saint
of the Middle Ages,--a saint who renewed the world. If such a man were
to come now, a renewal in Christ would follow, still more sincerely and
with greater completeness."
Midday approached, and with it heat. The forest began to have the odor
of resin; the lake became perfectly smooth in the calm air full of
glitter, and, while reflecting the spotless blue of the sky, seemed to
slumber.
At last they reached the house and the garden, in which them was a
restaurant, and sat under a beech-tree at a table already laid. Pan
Stanislav called a waiter in a soiled coat, ordered dinner, then
looked about silently at the lake and the mountains around it. A
couple of yards from the table grew a whole bunch of iris, moistened
by a fountain fixed among stones. Pani Emilia, looking at the flowers,
said,--
"When I am at a lake and see irises, I think that I am in Italy."
"For nowhere else are there so many lakes or so many irises," answered
Pan Stanislav.
"Or so much delight for every man," added Vaskovski. "For many years I
go there in the autumn to find a refuge for the last days. I hesitated
long between Perugia and Assisi, but last year Rome gained the day.
Rome seems the anteroom to another life, in which anteroom light from
the next world is visible already. I will go there in October."
"I envy you sincerely," said Pani Emilia.
"Litka is twelve years old," began Vaskovski.
"And three months," interrupted Litka.
"And three months: therefore for her age she is very small and a great
little giddy-head; it is time to show her various things in Rome,"
continued Vaskovski. "Nothing is so remembered as that which is seen in
childhood. And though childhood does not feel many things completely,
nor understand them, that comes later, and comes very agreeably, for it
is as if some one were to illuminate on a sudden impressions sunk in
shadow. Come with me to Italy in October."
"In October I cannot; I have my woman's reasons, which detain me in
Warsaw."
"What are they?"
Pani Emilia began to laugh.
"The first and most important, but purely womanly, reason, is to marry
that gentleman sitting there so gloomy," said she, pointing to Pan
Stanislav, "but really so much in love."
He woke from thoughtfulness, and waved his hand. But Vaskovski inquired
with his usual naïveté of a child,--
"Always with Marynia Plavitski?"
"Yes," replied Pani Emilia. "He has been in Kremen, and it would be
vain for him to deny that she took his heart greatly."
"I cannot deny," answered Pan Stanislav.
But further conversation was interrupted in an unpleasant manner, for
Litka grew weak on a sudden. In a moment she was choking, and had one
of her attacks of palpitation of the heart, which alarmed even doctors.
The mother seized her at once in her arms; Pan Stanislav ran to the
restaurant for ice; Vaskovski began to draw the garden bench with
effort toward the table, so that she might stretch on it and breathe
with more freedom.
"Thou art wearied, my child, art thou not?" asked Pani Emilia, with
pale lips. "See, my love, it was too far--Still the doctor permitted.
So anxious! But this is nothing; it will pass, it will pass! My
treasure, my love!" And she began to kiss the damp face of the little
girl.
Meanwhile Pan Stanislav came with ice, and after him the mistress of
the place hurried out with a pillow in her hand. They laid the little
girl on the bench, and while Pani Emilia was wrapping the ice in a
napkin, Pan Stanislav bent over the child and asked,--
"How art thou, kitten?"
"I was only choking a little; but I am better," answered she, opening
her mouth, like a fish to catch breath.
She was not much better, however, for even through her dress one could
see how violently the little sick heart was beating in her breast. But
under the influence of ice, the attack decreased gradually, and at last
ceased altogether, leaving behind only weariness. Litka began again
to smile at her mother, who also recovered from her alarm somewhat.
It was needful to strengthen the child before they returned home. Pan
Stanislav ordered dinner, which was scarcely touched by any one except
Litka, for all looked at her from moment to moment with secret fear
lest the choking might seize her a second time. An hour passed in this
way. Guests began now to enter the restaurant. Pani Emilia wished to
go home, but she had to wait for the carriage, which Pan Stanislav had
sent for to Reichenhall.
The carriage came at last, but new alarm was in wait for them. On
the road, though they moved at a walk and the road was very smooth,
even light jolting troubled Litka, so that when they were just near
Reichenhall, a choking attacked her again. She begged permission to
get out of the carriage; but it appeared that walking wearied her. Then
Pani Emilia decided to carry the child. But Pan Stanislav, anticipating
that motherly devotion, which moreover was not at all in proportion to
the woman's strength, said,--
"Come, Litus, I will carry thee. If not, mamma will weary herself and
be sick."
And without asking further, he lifted her lightly from the ground,
and carried her with perfect ease on one arm only; to assure both her
and Pani Emilia that it did not trouble him in the least, he said
playfully,--
"When such a kitten is walking on the ground, she seems not at all
heavy; but now, see where those great feet are hanging. Hold on by my
neck; thou wilt be steadier."
And he went on, as firmly as he could, and quickly, for he wished the
doctor to attend her as soon as possible; as he went, he felt her heart
beating against his shoulder, and she, while grasping him with her
thin, meagre arms, repeated,--
"Let me down; I cannot--Let me down!"
But he said,--
"I will not. Thou seest how bad it is to be tired out from walking. In
future we will take a big easy armchair on wheels; and when the child
is wearied, we will seat her in it, and I will push her."
"No, no!" said Litka, with tears in her voice.
He carried her with the tenderness of an elder brother or a father; and
his heart was overflowing: first, because really he loved that little
maid; and second, because this came to his head of which he had never
thought before,--or, at least, had never felt clearly,--that marriage
opens the way to fatherhood and to all its treasures of happiness.
While carrying that little girl, who was dear to him, though a
stranger, he understood that God had created him for a family; not only
to be a husband, but a father; also that the main object and meaning of
life were found specially in the family. And all his thoughts flew to
Marynia. He felt now with redoubled force that of women whom he had met
so far he would have chosen her for a wife before all, and would wish
her to be the mother of his children.
CHAPTER VII.
During some days that succeeded the choking, Litka was not ill, but
she felt weak; she went out, however, to walk, because the doctor not
only ordered her to go, but recommended very urgently moderate exercise
up hill. Vaskovski went to the doctor to learn the condition of her
health. Pan Stanislav awaited the old man's return in the reading-room,
and knew at once from his face that he was not a bearer of good tidings.
"The doctor sees no immediate danger," said Vaskovski; "but he condemns
the child to an early death, and in general gives directions to watch
over her, for it is impossible, he says, to foresee the day or the
hour."
"What a misfortune, what a blow!" said Pan Stanislav, covering his eyes
with his hand. "Her mother will not be able to survive her. One is
unwilling to believe in the death of such a child."
Vaskovski had tears in his eyes. "I asked whether she must suffer
greatly. 'Not necessarily,' said the doctor; 'she may die as easily as
if falling asleep.'"
"Did he tell the mother anything about her condition?"
"He did not. He said, it is true, that there was a defect of the heart;
but he added that with children such things often disappear without a
trace. He has no hope himself."
Pan Stanislav did not yield to misfortune easily.
"What is one doctor!" said he. "We must struggle to save the child
while there is a spark of hope. The doctor may be mistaken. We must
take her to a specialist at Monachium, or bring him here. That will
alarm Pani Emilia, but it is difficult to avoid it. Wait; we can avoid
it. I will bring him, and that immediately. We will tell Pani Emilia
that such and such a celebrated doctor has come here to see some one,
and that there is a chance of taking counsel concerning Litka. We must
not leave the child without aid. We need merely to write to him, so
that he may know how to talk to the mother."
"But to whom will you write?"
"To whom? Do I know? The local doctor here will indicate a specialist.
Let us go to him at once, and lose no time."
The matter was arranged that very day. In the evening the two men went
to Pani Emilia. Litka was well, but silent and gloomy. She smiled,
it is true, at her mother and her friend; she showed gratitude for
the tenderness with which they surrounded her; but Pan Stanislav had
not power to amuse her. Having his head filled with thoughts of the
danger which threatened the child, he considered her gloom a sign of
increasing sickness and an early premonition of near death, and with
terror he said in his soul that she was not such as she had been; it
seemed as if certain threads binding her to life had been broken. His
fear increased still more when Pani Emilia said,--
"Litka feels well, but do you know what she begged of me to-day? To go
back to Warsaw."
Pan Stanislav with an effort of will put down his alarm, and, turning
to the little one, said while feigning joyfulness,--
"Ah, thou good-for-nothing! Art thou not sorry for Thumsee?"
The little maid shook her yellow hair.
"No!" answered she, after a time, and in her eyes tears appeared; but
she covered these quickly with her lids, lest some one might see them.
"What is the matter with her?" thought Pan Stanislav.
A very simple thing was the matter. In Thumsee she had learned that her
friend, her "Pan Stas," her dearest comrade, was to be taken from her.
She had heard that he loved Marynia Plavitski; until then she had felt
sure that he loved only her and mamma. She had heard that mamma wanted
him to marry Marynia; but up to that time she, Litka, had looked on him
as her own exclusive property. Without knowing clearly what threatened
her, she felt that this "Pan Stas" would go, and that a wrong would
be done her, the first which she had experienced in life. She would
have suffered less if some one else had inflicted the wrong; but,
just think, her mamma and "Pan Stas" were wronging her! That seemed a
vicious circle out of which the child knew not how to escape and could
not. How could she complain to them of what they were doing! Evidently
they wanted this, wished it; it was necessary for them, and they
would be happy if it happened. Mamma said that "Pan Stas" loved Panna
Marynia, and he did not deny; therefore Litka must yield, must swallow
her tears, and be silent in presence of her mamma even.
And she hid in herself her first disappointment in life. Yes, she had
to yield; but because grief is a bad medicine for a heart sick already,
this yielding might be more thoroughly and terribly tragic than any one
around her could imagine.
The specialist came two days later from Monachium, and remaining two
days, confirmed fully the opinion of the doctor in Thumsee. He set Pani
Emilia at rest, though he told Pan Stanislav that the life of the child
might continue months and years, but would be always as if hanging on
a thread which might break from any cause. He gave directions to spare
the little girl every emotion, as well joyous as sad, and to watch over
her with the greatest alertness.
They surrounded her therefore with care and attention. They spared her
even the slightest emotion, but they did not spare her the greatest,
which was caused by Marynia's letters. The echo of the one which came a
week later struck her ears, which were listening then diligently. True,
it might dispel her fears touching "Pan Stas," but it was a great shock
to her. Pani Emilia had hesitated all day about showing Pan Stanislav
that letter. He had been asking daily for news from Kremen; she had
to lie simply to conceal the arrival of the letter. Finally, she felt
bound to tell the truth, so that he might know the difficulties which
he had to encounter.
The next evening after receiving the letter, when she had put Litka to
sleep, she began conversation herself on this subject.
"Marynia has taken it greatly to heart that you sold the claim on
Kremen."
"Then you have received a letter?"
"I have."
"Can you show it to me?"
"No; I can only read you extracts from it. Marynia is crushed."
"Does she know that I am here?"
"It must be that she has not received my letter yet; but it astonishes
me that Pan Mashko, who is in Kremen, has not mentioned it to her."
"Mashko went to Kremen before I left Warsaw; and he was not sure that
I would come here, especially as I told him that doubtless I should
change my plan."
Pani Emilia went to her bureau for the package of letters. Returning to
the table, she trimmed the lamp, and, sitting opposite Pan Stanislav,
took the letter from the envelope.
"You see," said she, "that for Marynia it is not a question of the sale
alone. You know that her head was a little imaginative, therefore this
sale had for her another meaning. A great disenchantment has met her
indeed!"
"I should not confess to any other person," said Pan Stanislav, "but I
will to you. I have committed one of the greatest follies of my life,
but I have never been so punished."
Pani Emilia raised her pale blue eyes to him with sympathy.
"Poor man, are you so captivated, then, by Marynia? I do not ask
through curiosity, but friendship, for I should like to mend
everything, but wish to be certain."
"Do you know what conquered me?" broke in Pan Stanislav,
excitedly,--"that first letter. In Kremen she pleased me; I began to
think about her. I said to myself that she would be more agreeable and
better than others. She is such precisely as I have been seeking. But
what next? Long before, I had said to myself that I would not be a
soft man, and yield what belongs to me. You understand that when a man
makes a principle of anything, he holds to it even for pride's sake.
Besides, in each one of us there are, as it were, two distinct persons;
the second of these criticises whatever is done by the first one. This
second man began to say to me: 'Drop this affair; you cannot live
with the father.' In truth, he is unendurable. I resolved to drop the
affair. I got rid of the claim. That is how it happened. Only later did
I find that I could not dismiss the thought of Panna Plavitski; I had
always this same impression: 'She is such as thou art seeking.' I saw
that I had committed a folly, and was sorry. When that letter came, and
I convinced myself that on her side there was a feeling that she could
love me and be mine, I loved her. And I give you my word that either
I am losing my head, or this is true. It is nothing while a man is
fancying something; but when he sees that there were open arms before
him, what a difference! That letter conquered me; I cannot help myself."
"I prefer not to read you all this letter," said Pani Emilia, after a
while. "Naturally she writes that the brief dream ended by an awakening
more sudden than she had looked for. She writes that Pan Mashko is very
considerate in money questions, though he wishes them to turn to his
profit."
"She will marry him, as God is in heaven!"
"You do not know her. But of Kremen she writes: 'Papa has a wish to
dispose of his property, and settle in Warsaw. Thou knowest how I love
Kremen, how I grew up with it; but in view of what has happened, I
doubt whether my work can be of service. I shall make one more struggle
to defend the dear bit of land. Still papa says that his conscience
will not let him imprison me in the country, and this is all the more
bitter, since it is as if I were the question. Indeed, life seems at
times to be touching on irony. Pan Mashko offers papa three thousand
life annuity, and the whole amount for the parcelling of Magyerovka. I
do not wonder that he seeks his own profit, but through such a bargain
he would get the property for almost nothing. Papa himself said to
him, "In this way, if I live one year I shall get from Kremen three
thousand, for Magyerovka is mine anyhow." Pan Mashko answered that
in the present state of affairs the creditors would take the money
for Magyerovka; but if papa agrees to the conditions proposed he will
receive ready money and may live thirty years, perhaps longer. Which is
true also. I know that this project pleases papa in principle; the only
question with him is to get as much as he can. In all this there is one
consolation,--that if we live in Warsaw, I shall see thee, dear Emilia,
and Litka oftener. Sincerely and from my whole soul do I love you both,
and know that on your hearts at least I can count always.'"
"So then I deprived her of Kremen, but sent her a suitor," said Pan
Stanislav, after a moment of silence.
While saying this, he did not know that Marynia had put almost the same
words into the letter. Pani Emilia had omitted them purposely, not
wishing to wound him.
During the last visit of the Plavitskis in Warsaw, Mashko had made
some advances for the hand of Marynia; she had no need, therefore, of
great keenness to divine his reason for buying the claim and coming to
Kremen. Just in this was the bitterness that filled her heart, and the
deep offence which she felt that Polanyetski had inflicted on her.
"It is absolutely needful to explain all this," said Pani Emilia.
"I have sent her a suitor!" repeated Pan Stanislav. "I cannot even make
the excuse that I did not know of Mashko's designs."
Pani Emilia turned Marynia's letter in her delicate fingers some time,
and then said suddenly,--
"It cannot rest this way. I wanted to unite you with her because of my
friendship for both of you, but now there is a motive the more; to wit,
your suffering. It would be a reproach for me to leave you as you are,
and I cannot. Do not lose hope. There is a pretty French proverb, and a
very ugly Polish one, about woman's strength and will. In truth, I wish
greatly to help you."
Pan Stanislav seized her hand and raised it to his lips.
"You are the best and most honorable person that I have met in the
world."
"I have been very happy," answered Pani Emilia; "and since I think that
there is only one road to happiness, I wish those who are near me to go
by it."
"You are right. That road, or none! Since I have life, I wish that life
to be of use to some one else and to me."
"As to me," said Pani Emilia, laughing, "since I have undertaken the
rôle of matchmaker for the first time in life, I wish to be of service.
But it is necessary to think what must be done now."
Saying this, she raised her eyes. The light of the lamp fell directly
on her delicate face, which was still very youthful; on her light hair,
which was somewhat disarranged above her forehead. There was something
in her so bewitching and at the same time so virginal that Pan
Stanislav, though he had a head occupied with other things, recalled
the name, "maiden widow," which Bukatski had given her.
"Marynia is very candid," said she, after a moment's thought, "and will
understand better if I write the pure truth to her. I will tell her
what you told me: that you went away much pleased with her; that what
you have done was done without reckoning with yourself, purely under
the influence of the thought that you could not come to an agreement
with her father; but at present you regret this most sincerely, you beg
her not to take it ill, and not to take away the hope that she will
yield to entreaty."
"And I will write to Mashko that I will purchase the debt of him at
whatever profit he likes."
"See," said Pani Emilia, smiling, "that sober, calculating Pan
Stanislav, who boasts that he has freed himself from the Polish
character and from Polish fickleness."
"Yes, yes!" cried Pan Stanislav, with a more joyous tone. "Calculation
consists in this, to spare nothing on an object that is worth it." At
that moment, however, he grew gloomy and said, "But if she answers that
she is Mashko's betrothed?"
"I will not admit that. Pan Mashko may be the most honorable of men,
but he is not for her. She will not marry without affection. I know
that Mashko did not please her at all. That will never take place; you
do not know Marynia. Only do, on your part, what you can, and be at
rest as to Mashko."
"Then, instead of writing, I will telegraph to him to-day. He cannot
stop in Kremen long at one time, and must receive my despatch in
Warsaw."
CHAPTER VIII.
Mashko's answer, which Pan Stanislav received two days later, was, "I
bought Kremen yesterday."
Though it might have been foreseen from Marynia's letter that affairs
would take this and no other turn, and the young man was bound to be
prepared for it, the news produced the impression of a thunder-clap.
It seemed to him that a misfortune had happened, as sudden as it was
incurable,--a misfortune for which the whole responsibility fell on
him. Pani Emilia, knowing better than any one else Marynia's attachment
to Kremen, had also a presentiment which she could not conceal, that by
this sale the difficulty of bringing these two young people nearer each
other would be increased greatly.
"If Mashko does not marry Marynia," said Pan Stanislav, "he will strip
old Plavitski in such fashion as to save himself and leave the old man
without a copper. If I had sold my claim to the first usurer I met,
Plavitski would have wriggled out, paid something, promised more; and
the ruin of Kremen would have been deferred for whole years, in the
course of which something favorable might have happened; in every case
there would have been time to sell Kremen on satisfactory conditions.
Now, if they are left without a copper, the fault will be mine."
But Pani Emilia looked on the affair from another side: "The evil is
not in this alone," said she, "that Kremen is sold. You have caused
this sale, and that immediately after seeing Marynia. If some one else
had done so, the affair would not have such a significance; but the
worst is just this, that Marynia was greatly confident that you would
not act thus."
Pan Stanislav felt this as vividly as she; and since he was accustomed
to give himself a clear account of every position, he understood
also that Marynia was the same as lost to him. In view of this, one
thing remained,--to acknowledge the fact and seek another wife. But
Pan Stanislav's whole soul revolted against this. First, his feeling
for Marynia, though sudden, strengthened neither by time nor nearer
acquaintance, though resting mainly on the charm, almost exclusively
physical, which her form had wrought on him, had grown considerably
in recent days. Her letter effected this, and the conviction that
he had inflicted a wrong on her. Compassion for her seized him now,
and he could not think of her without emotion; in consequence of
this, the feeling itself increased through two causes, which play a
very important rôle in each masculine heart. First, that energetic,
muscular man could never yield passively to the course of events. His
nature simply could not endure this. The sight of difficulty roused
him to action particularly. Finally, his self-love also was opposed to
letting Marynia go. The thought which he must acknowledge to himself
sometimes,--that he was only a springe in the hand of that Mashko and
one of the means to his objects; that he had let himself be abused, or
at least used by the advocate,--filled him with rage. Though Mashko
should not receive Marynia's hand, though the affair should end with
Kremen, even that was more than Pan Stanislav could suffer. Now an
irrestrainable desire seized him to go and take the field against
Mashko, to throw a stone under his feet, to cross his further plans,
at least, and show him that his keenness of an advocate was not enough
in a meeting with real manly energy. All these, as well as the more
noble motives, urged Pan Stanislav with irresistible force to undertake
something, to do something. Meanwhile the position was such that there
remained well-nigh nothing to do. Precisely in this contradiction was
hidden the tragedy. To remain in Reichenhall, let Mashko carry out his
plans, extend his nets, work for the hand of Panna Plavitski--no! not
for anything! But what was he to do? To this last question there was
no answer. For the first time in life Pan Stanislav felt as if he were
chained; and the less he was accustomed to such a position, the more
did he bear it with difficulty. He learned too, for the first time,
what sleeplessness means, what excited nerves are. Since Litka, during
the days just preceding, felt worse again, there hung over the whole
society a leaden atmosphere in which life was becoming unendurable.
After a week another letter came from Marynia. This time there was no
mention either of Pan Stanislav or Mashko. Marynia wrote only about the
sale of Kremen, without complaint, and without explanation of how the
affair had taken place. But from this alone he might infer how deeply
the sale had wounded her.
It would have pleased Pan Stanislav more had she complained. He
understood clearly, too, that silence in the letter touching him
showed how far he had been excluded from the heart of that lady, while
silence touching Mashko might show directly the opposite. Finally, if
she valued that Kremen so much, she might return to it by giving her
hand to its present owner; perhaps she had become reconciled by that
thought. Old Plavitski had his prejudices of a noble, it is true, and
Pan Stanislav counted on them; but, considering the man as an egotist
above all, he admitted that in the present case he would sacrifice his
daughter and his prejudices.
In the end of ends, to remain with folded arms at Reichenhall, and wait
for news as to whether Pan Mashko would be pleased to offer his hand
to Panna Plavitski, became for Pan Stanislav simply impossible. Litka,
too, from time to time begged her mother to return to Warsaw. Pan
Stanislav determined, therefore, to return, all the more as the time
was approaching when he and Bigiel had to begin a new affair.
This decision brought him great solace at once. He would return;
he would examine the position with his own eyes, and perhaps
undertake something. In every case it would be better than sitting at
Reichenhall. Both Pani Emilia and Litka heard the news of his departure
without surprise. They knew that he had come only for a few weeks,
and they hoped to see him soon in Warsaw. Pani Emilia was to go in
the middle of August. For the rest of the month she decided to remain
with Vaskovski in Salzburg, and return then to Warsaw. Meanwhile she
promised to inform Pan Stanislav of Litka's health frequently, and
besides correspond with Marynia and learn what her thoughts really were
touching Mashko.
On the day of his departure, Pani Emilia and Litka, with Vaskovski,
took farewell of him at the station. When in the compartment, he was
rather sorry to go. Happen what might, he knew not how things would
turn out at Warsaw; here he was surrounded by persons who were the
sincerest well-wishers that he had in the world. Looking out through
the window, he beheld the sad eyes of Litka raised toward him, and the
friendly face of Pani Emilia, with the same feeling as if they had
been his own family. And again that uncommon beauty of the young widow
struck him,--her features, delicate to the verge of excess, her angelic
expression of face, and her form perfectly maidenlike, dressed in
black.
"Farewell," said Pani Emilia, "and write to us from Warsaw; we shall
see each other in three weeks or sooner."
"In three weeks," repeated Pan Stanislav. "I will write certainly. Till
we meet again, Litus!"
"Till we meet again! Bow from me to Evka and Yoasia."
"I will do so."
And he stretched out his hand through the window again:
"Till our next meeting! Remember your friend."
"We will not forget; we will not forget. Do you wish me to repeat a
novena for your intention?" asked Pani Emilia, smiling.
"Thank you for that too. Do so. Till we meet again, Professor."
The train moved that moment. Pani Emilia and Litka waved their parasols
till the more frequent puffing of the engine hid, with rolls of steam
and smoke, the window through which Pan Stanislav was looking.
"Mamma," asked Litka, "is it really necessary to say a novena for Pan
Stas?"
"Yes, Litus. He is so kind to us, we must pray to God to make him
happy."
"But is he unhappy?"
"No--that is--seest thou, every one has trouble, and he has his."
"I know; I heard in Thumsee," said the little girl. And after a while
she added in a low voice,--
"I will say a novena."
But Professor Vaskovski, who was so honest that he could not hold his
tongue, said after a time to Pani Emilia, when Litka had gone forward,--
"That is a golden heart, and he loves you both as a brother. Now that
the specialist has assured us that there is not the least fear, I can
tell everything. Pan Stanislav brought him here purposely, for he was
alarmed about the little girl in Thumsee."
"Did he bring him?" asked Pani Emilia. "What a man!" And tears of
gratitude came to her eyes. After a while she said, "But I will reward
him, for I will give him Marynia."
Pan Stanislav went away with a heart full of good wishes and gratitude
to Pani Emilia, for the man who has failed and for that reason falls
into trouble, feels the friendship of people more keenly than others.
Sitting in the corner of the compartment, with the image of Pani Emilia
fresh in his mind, he said to himself,--
"If I had fallen in love with her! What rest, what certainty of
happiness! An object in life would have been found; I should know
for whom I am working, I should know whose I am, I should know that
my existence has some meaning. She says, it is true, that she will
not marry, but me!--she might, who knows? That other is perfection,
perhaps, but she may have a very dry heart."
Here he feels suddenly: "Still I can think calmly about Pani Emilia;
while at every recollection of that other a certain unquiet seizes me,
which is at once both bitter and agreeable. I am drawn by something
toward that other. I have just pressed Pani Emilia's hand, and that
pressure has left no sensation; while even now I remember the warm palm
of Marynia, and feel a certain species of quiver at the very thought of
it."
As far as Salzburg, Pan Stanislav thought only of "that other." This
time his thoughts began to take the form, if not of resolves, at least
of questions,--how is he to act toward her, and what in this state of
affairs is his duty?
"It is not to be denied that I caused the sale of Kremen," said he to
himself. "Kremen had for her not only the money value, which might
perhaps have been drawn from it had the sale not been hastened, but
also the value with which her heart was bound to the place. I have
deprived her of both. Briefly speaking, I have wronged her. I have
acted legally; but for a conscience made up of something more than
paragraphs, that is not sufficient. I have offended her, I confess, and
I must correct my fault in some way. But how? Buy Kremen from Mashko?
I am not rich enough. I might perhaps do so by dissolving partnership
with Bigiel and withdrawing all my capital; but that is materially
impossible. Bigiel might fail, should I do that; hence I will not
do it. There is one other way,--to keep up relations as best I can
with Plavitski, and propose later on for the hand of his daughter. If
rejected, I shall have done at least what behooves me."
But here that second internal man, of whom Pan Stanislav made mention,
raised his voice and began,--
"Do not shield thyself with a question of conscience. If Panna
Plavitski were ten years older and ugly, thou mightst have caused in
the same way the sale of Kremen, and taken from her everything which
thou hast taken, and still it would not have come to thy head to ask
for her hand. Tell thyself straightway that Panna Plavitski draws thee,
as with nippers, by her face, her eyes, her lips, her arms, her whole
person, and do not tempt thyself."
But, in general, Pan Stanislav held that second internal man firmly,
and treated him sometimes with very slight ceremony. Following this
method, he said to him,--
"First, thou knowest not, fool, that even in that case I should not
try to make good the injury. That at present I wish to make it good
by proposing for the lady is natural. Men always ask to marry women
who please them, not those for whom they feel repulsion. If thou hast
nothing better to say, then be silent."
The internal man ventured a few more timid remarks, as, for instance,
that Plavitski might give command to throw Pan Stanislav downstairs;
that in the best case he might not permit him to cross the threshold.
But somehow Pan Stanislav was not afraid of this. "People," thought he,
"do not use such means now; and if the Plavitskis do not receive me, so
much the worse for them."
He admitted, however, that if they had even a little tact they would
receive him. He knew that he would see Marynia at Pani Emilia's.
Meditating in this way, he arrived at Salzburg. There was one hour
till the arrival of the train from Monachium, by which he was to go to
Vienna; hence he decided to walk about the town. That moment he saw in
the restaurant the bright-colored pea-jacket of Bukatski, his monocle,
and his small head, covered with a still smaller soft cap.
"Bukatski or his spirit!" cried he.
"Calm thyself, Pan Stanislav," answered Bukatski, phlegmatically,
greeting him as if they had parted an hour before. "How art thou?"
"What art thou doing here?"
"Eating a cutlet."
"To Reichenhall?"
"Yes. But thou art homeward?"
"Yes."
"Thou hast proposed to Pani Emilia?"
"No."
"Then I forgive thee. Thou mayst go."
"Keep thy conceits for a fitter season. Litka is in very great danger."
Bukatski grew serious, and said, raising his brows,--"Ai, ai! Is that
perfectly certain?"
Pan Stanislav told briefly the opinion of the doctor. Bukatski listened
for a while; then he said,--
"And is a man not to be a pessimist in this case? Poor child and poor
mother! In the event of misfortune, I cannot imagine in any way how she
will endure it."
"She is very religious; but it is terrible to think of this."
"Let us walk through the town a little," said Bukatski; "one might
stifle here."
They went out.
"And a man in such straits is not to be a pessimist!" exclaimed
Bukatski. "What is Litka? Simply a dove! Every one would spare her; but
death will not spare her."
Pan Stanislav was silent.
"I know not myself now," continued Bukatski, "whether to go to
Reichenhall or not. In Warsaw, when Pani Emilia is there, even I can
hold out. Once a month I propose to her, once a month I receive a
refusal; and thus I live from the first of one month to the first of
the next. The first of the month has just passed, and I am anxious for
my pension. Is the mother aware of the little girl's condition?"
"No. The child is in danger; but perhaps a couple of years remain yet
to her."
"Ah! perhaps no more remain to any of us. Tell me, dost thou think of
death often?"
"No. How would that help me? I know that I must lose the case;
therefore I do not break my head over it, especially before the time."
"In this is the point,--we must lose, but still we keep up the trial
to the end. This is the whole sense of life, which otherwise would be
simply a dreary farce, but now it is a dull tragedy as well. As to me,
I have three things at present to choose from: to hang myself, go to
Reichenhall, or go to Monachium to see Boecklin's pictures once more.
If I were logical, I should choose the first; since I am not, I'll
choose Reichenhall. Pani Emilia is worth the Boecklins, both as to
outline and color."
"What is to be heard in Warsaw?" asked on a sudden Pan Stanislav, who
had had that question on his lips from the first of the conversation.
"Hast thou seen Mashko?"
"I have. He has bought Kremen, he is a great landholder, and, since
he has wit, he is using all his power not to seem too great. He is
polite, sensible, flattering, accessible; he is changed, not to my
advantage, it is true, for what do I care? but surely to his own."
"Isn't he going to marry Panna Plavitski?"
"I hear that he wants to. Thy partner, Bigiel, said something of this,
also that Mashko bought Kremen on conditions more than favorable. Thou
wilt find clearer news in the city."
"Where are the Plavitskis at present?"
"In Warsaw. They are living in the Hotel Rome. The young woman is not
at all ugly. I called on them as a cousin, and talked about thee."
"Thou mightst have chosen a more agreeable subject for them."
"Plavitski, who is glad of what has happened, told me that thou hadst
done them a service, without wishing it certainly, but thou hadst done
it. I asked the young lady how it was that she saw thee in Kremen for
the first time. She answered that during her visit in Warsaw thou must
have been in foreign countries."
"In fact, I was gone then on business of the firm to Berlin, and I
remained there some time."
"Indeed, I did not observe that they were offended at thee. I heard so
much, however, of the young lady's love of country life, that she must,
I admit, be a little angry at thee for having taken Kremen from her. In
every case, she does not show any anger."
"Perhaps she will show it only to me; and the opportunity will not be
lacking, for I shall visit them immediately after my return."
"In that case do me one little service: marry the lady, for of two
evils I prefer to be thy cousin rather than Mashko's."
"Very well," replied Pan Stanislav, curtly.
CHAPTER IX.
After his return to Warsaw, Pan Stanislav went first of all to Bigiel,
who told him minutely the conditions on which Kremen was sold. Those
conditions were very profitable for Mashko. He bound himself to pay at
the end of a year thirty-five thousand rubles, which were to come from
the parcelling of Magyerovka, and besides to pay three thousand yearly
till the death of Pan Plavitski. To Pan Stanislav the bargain did not
seem at first too unfavorable for Plavitski; but Bigiel was of another
opinion.
"I do not judge people too hastily," said he; "but Plavitski is an
incurable old egotist who has sacrificed the future of his child to his
own comfort, and, besides, he is frivolous. In this case the annuity is
placed as it were on Kremen; but Kremen, as a ruined estate, on which
there is need to spend money, has a fictitious value. If Mashko puts it
in order, very well; if not, in the most favorable event he will fall
behind in payment, and Plavitski may not see a copper for years. What
will he do then? He will take Kremen back. But before that time Mashko
will contract new debts, even to pay the old ones; and, in case of his
bankruptcy, God knows how many creditors will stretch their hands after
Kremen. Finally, all depends on the honesty of Mashko, who may be a
correct man, but he is carrying on business riskily; if he takes one
false step, it may ruin him. Who knows if this very purchase of Kremen
be not such a step?--for, wishing to bring the estate into order, he
must draw on his credit to the utmost. I have seen men who succeeded a
long time until they turned to buying great estates."
"The ready money for Magyerovka will remain with the Plavitskis
always," said Pan Stanislav, as if wishing to quiet his own fears for
their future.
"If old Plavitski does not eat it up, or play it away, or waste it."
"I must think of something. I caused the sale; I must help."
"Thou?" asked Bigiel, with astonishment. "I thought that thy relations
were broken forever."
"I shall try to renew them. I will visit the Plavitskis to-morrow."
"I do not know that they will be glad to see thee."
"And I
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