“And if I should go there, indeed, and give another meaning to yesterday’s words,” said he. But directly he thought, “I will not be a deceiver, at least, with reference to myself.”
He was certain, however, that she would not be astonished at his coming. After what he had told her yesterday, she might suppose that he would find some excuse for visiting her before the arrival of Marynia and the Bigiels, or for remaining behind them.
But should she see him driving past, she might think that he feared her, or consider him a boor, or jester.
“There is no doubt,” monologued he, further, “that a man who does not consider himself a fool, or a dolt, incapable of resisting any puppet, would go in and try to correct in some fashion yesterday’s stupidity.”
But at the same moment fear seized him. That same voice which yesterday evening shouted in his soul that he was a wretch, began to shout again with redoubled energy.
“I will not go in,” thought Pan Stanislav. “To understand and to be able to refrain are two different matters.”
Pani Kraslavski’s villa was visible now in the distance.
Suddenly it flew into his head that Pani Mashko, through vexation and the feeling of being contemned, through offended self-love, through revenge, might tell Marynia something that would open her eyes. Maybe she would do that with one word, with one smile, giving even, it might be, to understand further, that certain insolent hopes of his had been shattered by her womanly honesty, and in that way explain his absence. Women rarely refuse themselves such small revenges, and still more rarely are they merciful one toward another.
“If I had the courage to go in—”
At that moment the carriage was even with the gate of the villa.
“Stop!” said Pan Stanislav to the driver.
He saw on the balcony Pani Mashko, who, however, withdrew at once.
He walked through the yard; the servant received him at the door.
“The lady is upstairs,” said he.
Pan Stanislav felt that his legs were trembling under him, when he walked up the steps; meanwhile the following thoughts flew through his head,—
“He may permit himself everything who takes life lightly, but I do not take it lightly. If, after all that I have considered and thought over and said, I could not master myself, I should be the last among men.” Now, standing at the door of the room pointed out by the servant, he inquired,—
“Is it permitted?”
“I beg,” said the thin voice.
And after a while he found himself in Pani Mashko’s boudoir.
“I have come in,” said he, giving her his hand, “to explain that I cannot be at supper. I must go to the city.”
Pani Mashko stood before him with head a little inclined, with drooping eyes, confused, full of evident fear, having in her posture and expression of face something of the resigned victim, which sees that the decisive moment has come, and that the misfortune must happen.
That state of mind came on Pan Stanislav, too, in one flash; hence, approaching her suddenly, he asked with stifled voice,—
“Are you afraid? Of what are you afraid?”
Next morning Pani Polanyetski received a letter from her husband, stating that he would not return that day, for he was going to look at a place situated on the other side of the city. On the following day, however, he returned, and brought Svirski, who had promised Bigiel and Pan Stanislav before that he would visit them at their summer residence.
“Imagine to thyself,” said Pan Stanislav, after greeting his wife, “that that Buchynek, which I have been looking at, lies next to old Zavilovski’s Yasmen; when I learned that, I visited the old man, who is not feeling well, and in Yasmen I found Pan Svirski, unexpectedly. He helped me to look at Buchynek, and the house pleased him much. There is a nice garden, a large pond, and some forest. Once it was a considerable property; but the land has been sold away, so that little remains now with the residence.”
“A pretty, very pretty place,” said Svirski. “There is much shade, much air, and much quiet.”
“Wilt thou buy it?” inquired Marynia.
“Perhaps. Meanwhile I should like to rent it. We could live there the rest of the summer, and satisfy ourselves as to whether it would suit us. The owner is so certain that a stay there will be agreeable to us that he agrees to rent it. I should have given him earnest-money at once, but I wished to know what thy thought would be.”
Marynia was a little sorry to lose the society of the Bigiels; but, noticing that her husband was looking into her eyes earnestly, and that he had an evident wish that they should live the rest of the summer by themselves, she said that she would agree most willingly.
The Bigiels began to oppose, and offer a veto; but when Pan Stanislav represented to them that it was a question of trying a house in which he and Marynia would be likely to live every summer to the end of their lives, they had to confess that the reason was sufficient.
“To-morrow I will engage the place, and carry out all the furniture necessary from Warsaw, and we can move in the day after.”
“That is just as if you wished to flee from us as soon as possible,” said Pani Bigiel; “why such haste?”
“There is no trouble with packing,” answered he, hurriedly; “and you know that I do not like delay.”
Finally it was left in this way: that the Polanyetskis were to go to Buchynek in four days. Now dinner was served, during which Svirski told how Pan Stanislav had found him at Zavilovski’s in Yasmen.
“Panna Helena wished me to paint her father’s portrait,” said he, “and to paint it in Yasmen. I went because I was eager for work, and, besides, the old man has an interesting head. But nothing could come of that. They are in a residence with walls two yards thick; for that reason there is poor light in the rooms. I would not paint under such conditions; and then another hindrance appeared,—the model was attacked by the gout. The doctor, whom they took with them to the country, told me that the old man’s condition is not good, and may end badly.”
“I am sorry for Pan Zavilovski,” said Marynia, “for he seems a worthy man. And poor Panna Helena! In the event of his death she will be quite alone. And does he understand his own condition?”
“He does, and he does not; it is his way. He is always an original. Ask your husband how he received him.”
Pan Stanislav laughed, and said,—
“On the way to Buchynek I learned that Yasmen was near, and I resolved to go there. Panna Helena took me to her father; but he was just finishing his rosary, and did not greet me till he had said the last ‘Hail Mary.’ Then he begged my pardon, and said thus: ‘Those heavenly matadors in their own order; but with Her a man has more courage, and in old fashion, when She is merciful, all is well, for nothing is refused Her.’”
“What a type he is!” exclaimed Svirski.
The Bigiels laughed, but Marynia said that there was something affecting in such confidence. With this Svirski agreed, and Pan Stanislav continued,—
“Then he said that it was time for him to think of his will, and I did not oppose him, in usual fashion, for with me it is a question of our Pan Ignas. On the contrary, I told him that that was a purely legal matter, for which it was never too early, and that even young people ought to think of it.”
“That is my opinion, too,” put in Bigiel.
“We spoke also of Pan Ignas; the old man has come to love him heartily.”
“Yes!” exclaimed Svirski. “When he learned that I had been in Prytulov, he began at once to inquire about him.”
“Then have you been in Prytulov?” inquired Marynia.
“Four days. I like Osnovski immensely.”
“And Pani Osnovski?”
“I gave my opinion in Rome of her, and, as I remember, let my tongue out like a scourge.”
“I remember too. You were very wicked. How is it with the young couple?”
“Oh, nothing! They are happy. But Panna Ratkovski is there,—a very charming young lady. I lacked little of falling in love with her.”
“There it is for you! But Stas told me that you are in love with all ladies.”
“With all, and therefore always in love.”
Bigiel, hearing this, stopped and said earnestly,—
“That is a good way never to marry.”
“Unfortunately it is,” said Svirski. Then, turning to Marynia, he said, “Pan Stanislav must have told you of our agreement,—that when you say to me ‘marry,’ I shall marry. That was the agreement with your husband; therefore I should wish you to see Panna Ratkovski. Her name is Stefania, which means the crowned. A pretty name, is it not? She is a calm kind of person, not bold, fearing Pani Aneta and Panna Castelli, but clearly honest. I had a proof of this. Whenever a young lady is in question, I observe everything and note it down in my memory. Once a beggar came to me in Prytulov with a face like that of some Egyptian hermit from Thebes. Pani Aneta and Panna Castelli rushed out at him with their cameras and photographed him, profile and full face, as much as was possible. But the old man wanted food, I think. He had come hoping for alms, but evidently he hated to ask. Peasants have that kind of feeling. Well, none of those ladies observed this, or at least did not note it; they treated him as a thing, till Panna Ratkovski told them that they were humiliating and hurting the old man. That is a small incident, but it shows heart and delicate feelings. That handsome Kopovski dangles about her; but she is not charmed with the man, like those ladies, who are occupied with him, who paint him, invent new costumes forhim, hand him around, and almost carry him in their arms, like a doll. No; she told me herself that Kopovski annoys her; and that pleases me, too, for he has as much sense as the head of a walking-stick.”
“As far as I have heard,” said Bigiel, “Pan Kopovski needs money; and Panna Ratkovski is not rich. I know that her father, when dying, was in debt to a bank for a sum which, with interest, was due on the last day of last month.”
“What is that to us?” interrupted Pani Bigiel.
“Thou art right,—that is not our affair.”
“But how does Panna Ratkovski look?” inquired Marynia.
“Panna Ratkovski? She is not beautiful, but she has a sweet face, pale complexion, and dark eyes. You will see her, for those ladies expressed a wish to come here some day. And I persuaded them to it, for I want you to see her.”
“Well,” answered Marynia, laughing, “I shall see her, and declare my sentence. But if it be favorable?”
“I will propose; I give my word. In the worst case, I’ll get a refusal. If you say ‘no,’ I’ll go after ducks. At the end of July shooting is permitted.”
“Oh, those plans are important!” said Pani Bigiel,—”a wife or ducks! Pan Ignas would not have spoken that way.”
“Well, of what use is reason when one is in love?” said Marynia.
“You are right, and I envy him that very condition; not Panna Castelli, though I was in love with her once myself—oh, no! but just that condition in which one does not reason any longer.”
“But what have you against Panna Castelli?”
“Nothing. I owe her gratitude, for—thanks to her—I had my time of illusions; therefore I shall never say an evil word of her, though some one is pulling me by the tongue greatly. So, ladies, do not pull me.”
“On the contrary,” said Pani Bigiel, “you must tell us of both. I will ask you only on the veranda, for I have directed to bring coffee there.”
After a time they were on the veranda. The little Bigiels were running about in a many-colored crowd among the trees, circling about like bright butterflies. Bigiel placed cigars before Svirski. Marynia, taking advantageof the moment, went up to her husband, who was standing aside somewhat, and, raising her kindly eyes to him, asked:
“Why so silent, Stas?”
“I am tired. In the city there was heat, and in our house one might smother. I couldn’t sleep, for Buchynek got into my head.”
“I, too, am curious about that Buchynek, dost thou know? In truth, I am curious. Thou hast done well to see the place and hire it; very well.” And she looked at him with affection; but, seeing that he seemed really not himself, she said,—
“We will occupy Pan Svirski here, and do thou go and rest a while.”
“No; I cannot sleep.”
Meanwhile Svirski talked on. “There is no breeze,” said he; “not a twig in motion. A genuine summer day! Have you noticed that in the season of heat, and in time of such calm, the whole world seems as if sunk in meditation. I remember that Bukatski found always in this something mystical, and said that he would like to die on such a sunny day,—to sit thus in an armchair, then fall asleep, and dissipate into light.”
“Still, he did not die in summer,” remarked Bigiel.
“No, but in spring, and in good weather. Besides, taking things in general, he did not suffer, and that is beyond all.”
Here he was silent a while, and then added,—
“As to death, we may and should be reconciled to it, and death has never made me indignant; but why pain exists, that, as God lives, passes human understanding.”
No one took up the consideration, so Svirski, shaking the ashes from his cigar, said,—
“But never mind that. After dinner, and with black coffee, it is possible to find a more agreeable subject.”
“Tell us of Pan Ignas,” said Pani Bigiel.
“He pleases me. In all that he does and says the lion’s claw is evident, and, in general, his nature is uncommon, immensely vital. During those two days in Prytulov we became acquainted a little more nearly, and grew friendly. You have no idea how Osnovski has grown to like the man; and I told Osnovski openly that I feared that Pan Ignas might not be happy with those ladies.”
“But why?” asked Marynia.
“That is difficult to say, since one has no facts; but itis felt. Why? Because his nature is utterly different from theirs. You see, that all the loftier aspirations, which for Pan Ignas are the soul of his life, are for those ladies merely an ornament,—something like lace on a dress worn for guests, while on common days the person who owns it goes about in a dressing-gown; and that is a great difference. I fear lest they, instead of soaring with his flight, try to make him jog along by their side, at their own little goose-trot, and convert that which is in him into small change for their every-day social out-go. And there is something in him! I do not presuppose that catastrophes of any kind are to come, for I have not the right to refuse them ordinary petty honesty, but there may be non-happiness. I say only this much: you all know Pan Ignas, and you know that he is wonderfully simple; but still, according to me, his love for Castelka is too difficult and exclusive. He puts into it all his soul; and she is ready to give a little bit—so! The rest she would like to keep for social relations, for comforts, for toilets, for visits, for luxuries, for five o’clocks, for lawn-tennis with Kopovski,—in a word, for that mill in which life is ground into bran.”
“This may not fit Panna Castelli, and if it does not, so much the better for Pan Ignas,” said Bigiel; “but in general it is pointed.”
“No,” said Pani Bigiel, “that first of all is wicked; in truth, you hate women.”
“I hate women!” exclaimed Svirski, raising his hands toward heaven.
“Do you not see that you are making Panna Castelli a common little goose?”
“I gave her lessons in painting, but I have never been occupied in her education.”
Marynia, hearing all this, said, threatening Svirski,—
“It is wonderful that such a kind man should have such a wicked tongue.”
“There is a certain justice in that,” answered Svirski; “and more than once have I asked, am I really a kind man? But I think that I am. For there are people who calumniate their neighbors through a love for digging in the mud, and that is vile; there are others who do this through jealousy, and that is equally vile. Such a man as Bukatski talks even for a conceit; but I, first of all, am talkative; second, a human being, and especially a woman,interests me more than aught else in existence; and finally, the shabbiness and flatness and petty vanities of human nature pain me terribly. And, as God lives, it is because I could wish that all women had wings; but since I see that many of them have only tails, I begin, from amazement alone, to shout in a heaven-piercing voice—”
“But why do you not shout in the same way against men?” inquired Pani Bigiel.
“Oh, let the men go! What do I care for them? Though, to speak seriously, we deserve perhaps to be shouted at more than the ladies.”
Here Pani Bigiel and Marynia attacked the unfortunate artist; but he defended himself, and continued,—
“Well, ladies, take such a man as Pan Ignas, and such a woman as Panna Castelli: he has worked hard since his childhood; he has struggled with difficulties, thought hard, given something to the world already,—but what is she? A real canary in a cage. They give the bird water, sugar, and seed; it has only to clean its yellow plumage with its little bill, and twitter. Or is this not true? We work immensely, ladies. Civilization, science, art, bread, and all on which the world stands is absolutely our work. And that is a marvellous work. Oh, it is easy to talk of it, but difficult to do it. Is it right, or is it natural, that men push you aside from this work? I do not know, and at this moment it is not for me a question; but taking the world in general, only one thing has remained to you,—loving; therefore you should know, at least, how to love.”
Here his dark face took on an expression of great mildness, and also, as it were, melancholy.
“Take me, for example; I am working apparently for this art of ours. Twenty-five years have I been daubing and daubing with a brush on paper or on canvas; and God alone knows how I slaved, how I toiled before I worked anything out of myself. Now I feel as much alone in the world as a finger. But what do I want? This, that the Lord God, for all this toil, might vouchsafe me some honest little woman, who would love me a little and be grateful for my affection.”
“And why do you not marry?”
“Why?” answered Svirski, with a certain outburst. “Because I am afraid; because of you, one in ten knows how to love, though you have nothing else to do.”
Further discourse was interrupted by the coming of PanPlavitski and Pani Mashko; she, in a dark blue foulard dress with white spots, looked from afar like a butterfly. Pan Plavitski looked like a butterfly also; and, approaching the veranda, he began to cry out,—
“I seized Pani Mashko, and brought her. Good-evening to the company; good-evening, Marynia! I was coming here to you on a droshky till I saw this lady standing out on the balcony; then I seized her, and we came on foot. I dismissed the droshky, thinking that you would send me home.”
Those present began to greet Pani Mashko; and she, ruddy from the walk, fell to explaining joyously, while removing her hat from her ash-colored hair, that really Pan Plavitski had brought her away almost by force; for, awaiting the return of her husband, she did not like to leave home. Pan Plavitski pacified her by saying that her husband, not finding her at home, would guess where she was, and for the flight and the lonely walk he would not be angry, for that was not the city, where people raise scandal for any cause (here he smoothed his white shirt-front with the mien of a man who would not be at all astonished if scandal were roused touching him); “but the country has its own rights, and permits us to disregard etiquette.”
When he had said this, he looked slyly at Pani Mashko, rubbed his hands, and added,—
“Ha, ha! the country has its rights; I said well, has its rights, and so there is no place for me like the country.”
Pani Mashko laughed, feeling that the laugh was becoming, and that some one might admire her. But Bigiel, who, being himself a strict reasoner, demanded logic from all, turned to Plavitski, and said,—
“If there is no place like the country, why do you not move out of the city in summer?”
“How do you say?” asked Plavitski. “Why do I not move out? Because in the city, on one side of the street there is sun, and on the other shade. If I wish to warm myself, I walk in the sun; if it is hot for me, I walk in the shade. There is no place in summer like the city. I wanted to go to Karlsbad, but—”
Here he was silent for a moment; and, remembering only then that what he was giving to understand might expose a young woman to the evil tongues of people, he looked with a gloomy resignation on those present, and added,—
“Is it worth while to think of that pair of years left of any life, that are of no value to me, or to any one?”
“Here it is!” cried Marynia. “If papa will not go to Karlsbad, he will drink Millbrun with us in Buchynek.”
“In what Buchynek?” asked Plavitski.
“True, we must announcela grande nouvelle.”
And she began to tell that Buchynek had been found and rented and probably would be bought; and that in three days she and her husband would move into that Buchynek for the whole summer.
Pani Mashko, hearing the narrative, raised her eyes to Pan Stanislav in wonder, and inquired,—
“Then are you really going to leave us?”
“Yes,” answered he, with a trace of snappishness.
“A-a!”
And for a while she looked at him with the glance of a person who understands nothing and asks, “What does all this mean?” but, receiving no answer, she turned to Marynia and began an indifferent conversation. She was so instructed in the forms of society that only Pan Stanislav himself could perceive that the news about Buchynek had dulled her. But she had divined that her person might come into question, and that those sudden movings might be in connection with her. With every moment that truth stood before her with increasing clearness, and her cold face took on a still colder expression. Gradually a feeling of humiliation possessed her. It seemed to her that Pan Stanislav had done something directly opposed to what she had a right to expect of him; that he had committed a grave offence not only against her, but against all those observances which a man of a certain sphere owes to a woman. And her whole soul was occupied in this because it pained her more than his removal to Buchynek. In certain cases women demand more regard the less it belongs to them, and the more respect the less they are worthy of it, because they need it for their own self-deception, and often too because the infatuation, or delicacy, or comedian character in men gives women all they demand, at least for a season. Still, in this intention of moving in a few days to the opposite side of the city, was involved, as it were, a confession of breaking off relations which was worthy of a boor. Faith-breaking has its own style ofa posteriorideclaration, and has it always, for there is not on earth an example of a permanent relation resting on faithlessness. But this time the rudeness surpassed every measure, and the sowing hadgiven an untimely, peculiar harvest. Pani Mashko’s mind, though not very keen by nature, needed no extra effort to conclude that what had met her was contempt simply.
And at this very moment Pan Stanislav thought, “She must have a fabulous contempt for me.”
It did not occur to them at the time that in the best event this contempt was a question of time merely. But Pani Mashko caught after one more hope, that this might be some misunderstanding, some momentary anger, some excitability of a fantastic man, some offence which she could not explain to herself,—in a word, something which might be less decisive than seemed apparent. One word thrown out in answer might explain everything yet. Judging that Pan Stanislav might feel the need of such a conversation, she determined to get it for him. Hence after tea she began to prepare for home, and, looking at Pan Stanislav, said,—
“Now I must request one of the gentlemen to conduct me.”
Pan Stanislav rose. His tired, and at the same time angry face, seemed to say to her, “If ’tis thy wish to have the pure truth, thou wilt have it;” but unexpectedly Bigiel changed the arrangement by saying,—
“The evening is so pleasant that we can all conduct you.”
And they did. Plavitski, considering himself the lady’s knight for that day, gave her his arm with great gallantry, and during the whole way entertained her with conversation; so that Pan Stanislav, who was conducting Pani Bigiel, had no chance to say one word except “good-night” at the gate.
That “good-night” was accompanied by a pressure of the hand which was a new inquiry—without an answer. Pan Stanislav, for that matter, was glad that he had not to give explanations. He could have given only unclear and disagreeable ones. Pani Mashko roused in him then as much mental distaste as physical attraction, and for both those reasons he considered that if he remained in Bigiel’s house, she would be too near him. Moreover, he had sought Buchynek and found it chiefly because active natures, if confined too much, are forced instinctively to undertake and act even when that which they do is not in immediate connection with that which gives them pain. He had not the least feeling, however, that flight fromdanger was equivalent to a return to the road of honesty, or even led to it; it seemed to him then that it was too late for that, that honesty was a thing lost once and forever. “To flee,” said he to himself; “there was a time to flee. At present flight is merely the egotism of a beast disturbed in one lair and seeking another.” Having betrayed Marynia to begin with, he will betray Pani Mashko now out of fear that the relation with her may become too painful; and he will betray her in a manner as wretched as it is rude, by trampling on her. That is only a new meanness, which he permits himself like a desperado, in the conviction that, no matter how he may struggle, he will sink into the gulf ever deeper.
At the bottom of these thoughts was hidden, moreover, an immense amazement. If this had happened to some other man, who took life lightly, such a man might wave his hand and consider that one more amusing adventure had met him. Pan Stanislav understood that many would look on the affair in that way precisely. But he had worked out in himself principles, he had had them, and he fell from the whole height of them; hence his fall was the greater, hence he thought to himself, “That which I won, that to which I attained, is no protection whatever from anything. Though a man have what I had, he may break his neck as quickly as if he had nothing.” And the position seemed to him simply beyond understanding. Why is this? What is the reason of it? To this question he had no answer; and, having doubted his own honesty and honor, he began now to doubt his own intellect, for he felt that he could grasp nothing, give no answer.
In general, he felt like a man lost in some mental wilderness; he could recover nothing, not even attachment to his wife. It seemed to him that, having lost in himself all human sides, he had lost at the same time the power and right to love her. With no less astonishment did he see that in the bottom of his heart he cherished a feeling of offence against her for his own fall. Up to that time he had not injured any one; hence he could not have known that usually a man has a feeling of offence and even hatred against a person whom he has wronged.
Meanwhile the society, after taking farewell of Pani Mashko, returned home. Marynia walked at her husband’s side; but, supposing that he was occupied in calculations touching the purchase of the place, and remembering thathe did not like to be interrupted in such cases, she did not break the silence. The evening was so warm that after returning they remained some time on the veranda. Bigiel tried to detain Svirski for the night, saying in jest that such a Hercules could not find room in his little brichka with Plavitski. Pan Stanislav, to whom the presence of any guest was convenient, supported Bigiel.
“Remain,” said he. “I am going to the city to-morrow morning; we can go then together.”
“But I am in a hurry to paint. To-morrow I wish to begin work early, and if I stay here there will be delay.”
“Have you any work to be finished on time?” asked Marynia.
“No; but one’s hand goes out of practice. Painting is a kind of work in which one is never permitted to rest. I have loitered much already, at one time in Prytulov, at another here; meanwhile my colors are drying.”
Both ladies began to laugh; for that was said by a famous master, who ought to be free from fear that he would forget how to paint.
“It seems to people that when a man has reached a certain skill, he owns it,” answered Svirski. “It is a wonderful thing, this human organism, which must either advance or fall back. I know not if this is so in everything, but in art it is not permitted to say to one’s self, ‘This is enough;’ there is no leave to stop. If I cease to paint for a week, not only do I lose adroitness of hand, but I do not feel in power. The hand dulls,—that I can understand,—but the artistic sense dulls also; talent simply dulls. I used to think that this was the case only in my career, for in it technique has enormous significance; but, will you believe me, Snyatinski, who writes for the theatre, told me the same. And in literature like his, in what does technique consist, if not in this? Not to have any technique, or at least, to seem not to have it. Still, even Snyatinski says that he may not stop, and that he falls back or advances in proportion to his efforts. The services of art,—that sounds beautifully. Ah, what a dog service, in which there is never rest, never peace!—nothing but toil and terror. Is that the predestination of the whole race, or are we alone those tortured figures?”
Svirski, it is true, did not look like a tortured figure in any sense; he did not fall into a pathetic tone either, complaining of his occupation. But in his sweeping words therewas a sincerity which gave them power. After a while he raised his fist; and, shaking it at the moon, which was showing itself just then above the forest, he cried out, half in joy, half in anger,—
“See that chubby face there! Once it learned to go around the earth, it was sure of its art. Oh, to have one moment like that in one’s life!”
Marynia began to laugh, and, raising her eyes unwittingly in the direction of Svirski’s hand, said,—
“Do not complain. It is not merely artists who are not free to stop; whether we work on a picture, or on ourselves, it is all one, we must work every hour, otherwise life is injured.”
“There is immense need of work,” interrupted Plavitski, with a sigh.
But Marynia continued, seeking a comparison with some effort, and raising her brows at the same time,—
“And you see, if any man were to say to himself, even for a moment, ‘I am wise enough, and good enough,’ that very saying would be neither good nor wise. Now it seems to me that we are all swimming across some deep place to a better shore; but whoso just wishes to rest and stops moving his hands, is drawn to the bottom by his own weight.”
“Phrases!” exclaimed Pan Stanislav, on a sudden.
But she, pleased with the aptness of her comparison, answered,—
“No, Stas, as I love thee, they are not phrases.”
“If God would grant me to hear such things always,” said Svirski, with animation. “The lady is perfectly right.”
Pan Stanislav, in reality, was also convinced that she was right; and, what was more, in that darkness, which surrounded him, something began to gleam like a lamp. He was just the man who had said to himself, “I am wise enough, I am good enough,—and I can rest;” he was just the man who had forgotten that there was need of continual effort; he had ceased to move his hands over the depth, and therefore his own weight took him down to the bottom. Such was the case! All these lofty religious and moral principles, which he had gained, he had enclosed in his soul, as a man encloses money in a chest,—and he made dead capital of them. He had them, but, as it were, hidden away. He fell into the blindness of the miser, who cheershimself with hoarded gold, but lives like a mendicant. He had them, but he did not live on them; and, trusting in his wealth, he imagined that his life accounts were closed, and that he might rest. But now a gray dawn, as it were, began in that night which surrounded his thoughts; and out of the darkness began to rise toward him a truth hazy, and as yet undefined, declaring that accounts of that sort could never be closed, and that life is an immense daily, ceaseless labor, which, as Marynia had said, ends only there, somewhere on the other and better shore.
“My dear Pan Ignas, why do you not dress like Pan Kopovski?” asked Pani Bronich. “Naturally, Nitechka values your poetry more than all costumes on earth; but you will not believe how æsthetic that child is, and what perfect knowledge she has in such matters. Yesterday, the poor dear came to me with such a pretty face that if you had seen her you would have melted. ‘Aunt,’ said she, ‘why does Pan Ignas not have white flannel costumes in the morning? It is so elegant for all gentlemen to be in such costumes.’ Have something like that made; she will be so glad. You see that Yozio Osnovski too has a flannel suit; he has even a number of them, through attention to Aneta. These are little things, I know; but they affect a woman greatly when she considers what they mean. You have no idea how she sees everything. In Scheveningen all wear such costumes till midday; and it would be disagreeable to her if any one should think that you did not belong to society which knows how to dress. You are so kind, you will buy such a costume; will you not? You will do that for her; and you will not take it ill of me that I speak of what Nitechka likes?”
“Oh,” said Pan Ignas, “I’ll do so, most willingly.”
“How good you are! But, what else did I wish to say? Oh, yes!—and a nice yellow-leather travelling-case. My dear Pan Ignas, Nitechka loves immensely nice travelling-cases; and abroad, as a man looks, so is he valued. Yesterday—I will tell you this as a secret—we looked at Pan Kopovski’s travelling-case. It is very nice, and in perfect taste, bought in Dresden. It pleased Nitechka much. Look at it, and buy one something in that style. I beg pardon of you for entering into this matter, but this is a trifle. You see, I know women in general, and I know Nitechka. There is no better way with her than to yield in little things. When it comes to great ones, she will give up everything. Besides, you have heard what chances of marriage she had, and still she chose you. Show her, then, gratitude even in small things. Have you not, as a student of character, noticed that natures capable of great sacrifice reserve themselves for exceptional occasions; but in every-day life they like to be gratified.”
“Perhaps I have not thought of this so far.”
“Oh, it is true beyond doubt, and that is just Nitechka’s nature. But you are not in a position to know what kind of a nature she has, though you should know, for the reason that she chose you. But you men are not able to perceive so many shades of feeling. If it should come to some crisis, you would see that in her there is not one trace of selfishness. May the Lord God preserve her from every trial! but should it come to anything, you would see.”
“I know that you esteem Panna Nitechka,” said Pan Ignas, with certain animation; “but still you do not think so much good of her as I do.”
“Ah, how I love you when you say things like that!” cried Pani Bronich, with delight. “My dear! But, if it is thus, then I will whisper still more in your ear: she loves passionately that gentlemen should wear black silk stockings; but remember that one look is enough for her to see what is silk and what is Scotch thread. My God! do not suppose that I wish to mix in everything. No one is able to keep away so well as I; but it is only a question of this,—that Nitechka should never think that you are not equal to others in any regard whatever. What’s to be done? You are marrying a real artist, who loves that everything around her should be beautiful. And, in truth, she will not be so poor as not to have a right to this. Will she?”
Pan Ignas took out his notebook, and said,—
“I will write down your orders, so as not to forget them.”
There was a shade of irony in what he said. Pani Bronich, with her excess of words, her manner of talking, and especially her evident infatuation for things of exceptional superfluity, had made him impatient very often. Pan Ignas was offended by a certain parvenu element in her nature. Since he did not see what palaces she was building with the property of old Zavilovski, he was unable to understand that a sensitive woman could be so unceremonious with him in demands for “Nitechka” when it was a question of the style of their future life. He had supposed previously that it would be just the opposite, and that those ladies would be even over-scrupulous and delicate; this was his first disillusion. On the otherhand, he was pained by the bad taste with which Pani Bronich mentioned almost daily the great matches which “Nitechka” might have made, and also her self-denials for his sake; theseself-denialshad not taken place yet. Pan Ignas did not over-estimate himself, but also he did not carry his head lower than was needful; and with that which was in him he considered himself not a worse, but a better match than such men as Kopovski, and the various Colimaçaos, Kanafaropuloses, and similar operatic lay figures. He was indignant at the very thought that they dared to compare these men with him, especially to his disadvantage. Having poetry and love in his soul, he judged that he had that which even princes of this world cannot command always. What his every-day life with Lineta would be, of that he had not thought much hitherto, or had thought in a general way only; but feeling strong, and being ready to seize every fate by the forelock, he trusted that it would be agreeable. To chaffer with this future he had no intention; and when Pani Bronich expressed wishes like these, he had to restrain himself from telling her that they seemed to him vulgar.
Svirski, when stopping at Prytulov, gave out once the striking opinion that love was not blind altogether, but only suffering from daltonism. Pan Ignas thought that the painter had Osnovski in mind, and did not suspect that he himself was a perfect example of a man subject to the infirmity mentioned. He was blind, however, only in reference to Lineta; except her he saw and observed everything with greater readiness than others. And certain observations filled him with astonishment. Omitting his observations on Pani Aneta, her Yozio, and Kopovski, he noticed, for example, that his own relations with Pani Bronich began to change; and from the time that he had become near to her, and she had grown accustomed to him, and confidential, as with a future relative, and the future husband of “Nitechka,” she began to have less esteem for his person, his work, and his talent. To an ordinary eye this was invisible, perhaps, but to Pan Ignas it was clear, though he could not explain its origin. The future alone was to teach him that common natures, by contact with persons or things which are higher, lose esteem for them through this familiarity, as if showing involuntarily that whatever becomes near to them must thereby be infected with vulgarity and meanness, and cannot, for that very reason,continue lofty. Meanwhile Pani Bronich disenchanted him more and more. He was impatient at that convenient “Teodor,” whose rôle it was to shield with his dignity from beyond the tomb every act of hers; he was amazed at that bird-like mobility of her mind which seized on the wing everything from the region of the good and the beautiful, and turned it at once into empty and meaningless phrases.
Besides, her enormous ill-will for people astonished him. Pani Bronich, almost servile in presence of old Zavilovski, spoke of him with animosity in private; Panna Helena she simply disliked; of Pani Kraslavski and Pani Mashko she spoke with endless irony; of the Bigiels, with contempt; more specially salt in her eye was Marynia. She listened to the praises rendered Marynia by Svirski, Pan Ignas, and Osnovski with the same impatience as if they had been detractions from Lineta. Pan Ignas convinced himself that, in truth, Pani Bronich cared for no one on earth except “Nitechka.” But just this love made up in his mind for all her disagreeable peculiarities; he did not understand yet that such a feeling, when associated with hate and exclusiveness, instead of widening the heart, makes it narrow and dry, and is merely a two-headed selfishness, and that such selfishness may be as rude and harsh as if one-headed. Loving Lineta himself with his whole soul, and feeling better and kinder from the time that he had begun thus to love her, he considered that a person who loved really could not be evil at heart; and in the name of their common love, “Nitechka,” he forgave Pani Bronich all her shortcomings.
But with reference to Lineta, that quick observer could not see anything. The strongest men make in love so many unhappy mistakes for one reason,—that they array the beloved in all their own sunbeams, not accounting to themselves afterward that this glory with which they are blinded has been put by themselves there. So it was with, Pan Ignas. Lineta became accustomed more and more every day to him, and to her own rôle of betrothed. The thought that he had distinguished her, raised her above others, chosen her, loved her, from having been, as once, a continual living source of satisfaction to her vanity and pride, was beginning to lose the charm of novelty, and grow common. Everything which it was possible to win from it for her own personal glory had been won bythe aid of Aunt Bronich. The admiration of people had been also “juggled out” of it, as Svirski said; and the statue was so near her eyes now that instead of taking in the whole, she began to discover defects in the marble. At moments yet, under the influence of the opinion or admiration of others, she regained the recollection and knowledge of its proportions; but she was seized by a kind of astonishment that that man in love with her, looking into her eyes, and obedient to every beck of hers, was that Zavilovski over whom even Svirski loses his head, and whom such a man as Osnovski esteems as some precious public treasure. She could send him at any moment for fresh strawberries, if she wished, or for yarn; the knowledge of this caused her a certain pleasure, hence he was needed. She admired her own power in him, and sometimes she detailed to him impressions of this kind quite sincerely.
Once, when they went out to damp fields, Pan Ignas returned for her overshoes. Kneeling by an alder-tree, he put them on her feet, which he kissed. Then she, looking at that head bent to her feet, said,—
“People think you a great man, but you put on my overshoes.”
Pan Ignas raised his eyes to her and, amused by the comparison, answered joyously, without rising from his knees,—
“Because I love immensely.”
“That is all right; but I am curious to know what people would say of it?”
And the last question seemed to occupy her most of all; but Pan Ignas quarrelled that moment with her because she said “you” to him, but he did not notice, however, that, in her “that is all right,” there was that peculiar indifference with which things too familiar or less important are slipped over. With a similar half-attention she heard what he said then,—that not being vain, he considers himself a man like his fellows, but that he respects his career, and counts a life the greatest happiness in which it is possible to serve loftily, and love simply. In the feeling of this happiness he embraced her with his arm, so as to have his simple love as near his breast as possible. But when his prominent chin pushed forward still more, as happened whenever he spoke with enthusiasm, Lineta begged him to leave off the habit, as it made himlook stern, and she liked joyous faces around her. While her hand was in now, she reminded him also that yesterday, when they were sailing over the pond, and he was tired after rowing, he breathed very loudly. She did not like to tell him then how that “acted on her nerves.” Any little thing “acts on her nerves;” but nothing acts like some one who is tired, and breathes loudly near her.
Saying this, she took off her hat and began to fan her face. The breeze raised her bright hair; and in the green shade of the alder-trees, quivering in the sun, which shone in through the leaves, she looked like a vision. Pan Ignas delighted his eyes with her, and in her words admired, above all, the charm of a spoiled child. There was perhaps something more in them; but he neither sought nor found it, just because his love, with all its force, was simple.
Simplicity, however, does not exclude loftiness. Lineta had, in fact, clung like a spider-web to the wings of the bird, which, in spite of her, bore her to heights where one had to feel every movement with the heart, to divine all, to understand all, and where even the mind must exert itself to give expression to feeling. But Lineta was “so lazy,”—she had said so on a time to her soarer, who at present did not even suspect that those heights merely made her tired and dizzy, nothing more.
It happened to her now oftener and oftener to wake in the morning, and remember that she must meet her betrothed, that she must tune herself up to his high note; and this gave her the feeling that a child has, for whom a hard lesson is waiting. She had recited that lesson already; she had answered more or less everything which had been taught her; and she judged that her betrothed ought to give a vacation now. Finally, she had enough of all those uncommonnesses, both of herself and of others, those original sayings, those apt answers, with which she had campaigned in society so far. She felt, moreover, that the supply was exhausted, that the bottom of the well could be seen. There remained to her yet only certain artistic feelings, and that unendurable “Pan Ignas” might be satisfied, if from time to time she showed him now a broad field, now a bit of forest, now a strip of land with yellow grain, as if scattered in the light, and said, “Beautiful! beautiful!” That was easier. He, it is true, could notfind words to express admiration of the artistic depth of soul hidden in such a single word as “beautiful;” but if that were true, what more did he want? and why, in conversation, in feelings, in method of loving, did he force her to those useless efforts? If he did not force her, if that came without his knowledge, so much the worse for him, that, being by nature so abrupt, he did not even know it. In such a case let him talk with Steftsia Ratkovski.
With “Koposio,” on the other hand, there was no need of effort; his society was real rest for Lineta. The mere sight of him made her gladsome, called out a smile on her face, inclined her to jesting. It is true that Pan Stanislav had once in his life been jealous of Kopovski; but to Pan Ignas, a man who lived a mental life far more exclusively, and therefore measured everything with a measure purely mental, it did not even occur that a maiden so spiritualized and so “wise” as “Nitechka,” could for a moment consider Kopovski as other than a subject for witticisms, which she permitted herself continually. Had not Pani Bronich, in spite of all her mental shallowness, grown indignant at the mere hint of giving Lineta to Kopovski? What Pan Ignas had seen between Kopovski and Pani Aneta was no lesson, for he considered his “Nitechka” as the opposite pole of Aneta. “Nitechka,” besides, had chosen him, and he was the antithesis of Kopovski; that alone set aside every doubt. “Nitechka” amused herself with “Koposio,” painted him, conversed with him, though Pan Ignas could not exhaust his astonishment at this,—how she could avoid falling asleep while he talked; she joked with him, she followed him with a look of amusement, but only because she was a child yet, needing moments of amusement, and even of vanity. But no one saw better than she his whole measureless stupidity, and no one spoke of it more frequently. How often had she ridiculed it to Pan Ignas!
Not all eyes, however, looked at this amusement of hers in that way, and, above all, Pani Aneta looked at it differently; from time to time she told her husband directly that Castelli was coquetting with Kopovski; to “Yozio” himself this seemed at times to be true, and he had the wish to send Kopovski away from Prytulov politely. This Pani Aneta would not permit: “Since he is paying attention to Steftsia, we have no right to hinder that poor girl’s fortune.” Osnovski was sorry to lose that dear Steftsia onKopovski; but since, in fact, she had no property, and since Aneta wished the match, he would not oppose it.
But he was not able to control himself from astonishment and indignation at Castelka: “To have such a man as Ignas, and coquet with such a fool; to act so, a woman must be a soulless puppet surely.” At first he could not understand it. On the hypothesis, however, that Aneta must have been mistaken, he began to observe the young lady diligently; and since, aside from his personal relation to his wife, he was not by any means dull-witted, he saw a number of things which, in view of his friendship for Pan Ignas, disquieted him greatly. He did not admit, it is true, that anything might take place to change the position; but he asked himself what Ignas’s future would be with a woman who knew so little how to value him, and who was so slightly developed morally that she not only found pleasure in the society of such a brainless fop, but allowed herself to turn his head, and allure him.
“Anetka judges others by herself,” thought Osnovski, “and has really deceived herself, ascribing certain deep feelings to Castelka. Castelka is a puppet; and, if spirits like Anetka and Ignas do not come, nothing rouses her.” In this way that unfortunate man, affected with the daltonism of love, while discovering truth on one side, fell into greater and greater error on the other. On “Castelka,” therefore, he looked more justly every day, and needed no excessive effort to convince himself that in the relations of that “ideal” “Nitechka” with Kopovski there were jests, it is true, there was much contradiction, teasing, even ridicule; but there was also such an irresistible weakness, and such an attraction, as women with the souls of milliners have for nice and nicely dressed young men. The phenomenal stupidity of Kopovski seemed to increase in country air; but as a recompense the sun gilded his delicate complexion, through which his eyes became more expressive, his teeth whiter, while the beard on his face was lighter, and gleamed like silk. Indeed, brightness shone not only from his youth and beauty, but also from his linen, from his neckties, from his exquisite and simple costumes. In the morning, dressed for lawn-tennis, in English flannel, he had in him the freshness of morning and the dreaminess of sleep. His slender, finished form appeared as if fondlingly through the soft cloth; and how could that bony Pan Ignas, with his insolent Wagner jawand his long legs, be compared, in the eyes of those ladies, with that “mignon” who called to mind at once the gods of Greece and the fashion sheets, the glyptotheks of Italy and thetable d’hôtesof Biarritz or Ostend. One should be such an original as that still-water Steftsia to insist, unless from malice, that he was an insufferable puppet. Castelka, it is true, laughed when Svirski said that Kopovski, especially when some question was put to him on a sudden, had an expression in which were evident the sixteen “quarterings” of stupidity in his escutcheon, both on the male and female side. In truth, he had a somewhat absent look, and, in general, could not understand at first what people said to him. But he was so joyous, he seemed so good-natured, and, in spite of a way of thinking which was not over elevated, he was so well-bred, beautiful, and fresh that everything might be forgiven him.
Pan Ignas deceived himself in thinking that only Pani Bronich was pining for things of external richness, and that his betrothed did not even know of those requests with which her aunt comes. Castelka did know of them. Having lost hope that “Pan Ignas” could ever be equal to Kopovski, she wanted at least that he should approach him. For things of external richness she had an inborn leaning, and “aunt,” when begging Pan Ignas to buy this or that for himself, merely carried out Lineta’s wishes. For her, really, one glance was enough to distinguish silk from Scotch thread, and all her soul was rushing instinctively to silk; for her Kopovski was among men what silk is among textures. Had it not been for Pani Aneta, who restrained the young man, and for the various lofty feelings which she had talked into Lineta, Lineta, without fail, would have married Kopovski. Osnovski, knowing nothing of all this, was even astonished that that had not taken place; for he, in the end of his observations, had come to the conclusion that both for Lineta and Pan Ignas this would have been perhaps better.
One day he confided these thoughts to his wife, but she grew angry, and said, with great animation,—
“That did not happen, because it could not. No one is obliged to accommodate himself to Yozio’s plans. I, first of all, saw that Castelka was coquetting with Kopovski. Who could know that she was such a nature? To be betrothed and to coquet with other men,—that passeshuman understanding. But she does it through vanity, and through spite against Steftsia Ratkovski, and maybe to rouse jealousy in Pan Ignas. Who knows why? It is easy for Yozio to talk now, and to throw all the blame on me for having made this marriage; let Yozio remember better how many times he was enchanted with Castelka, how many times he said that hers was an uncommon nature, and that just such a one would make Pan Ignas happy. A pretty uncommon nature! Now she is coquetting with Kopovski, and if she were his betrothed she would coquet with Pan Ignas. Whoever is vain, will remain so forever. Yozio says that she was fitted for Kopovski; it was necessary to have that way of thinking at first, not at present, when she is the betrothed of Pan Ignas. But Yozio says this purposely to show me what a folly I committed in helping Pan Ignas.”
And the whole affair was so turned by Pani Aneta that Pan Ignas and Castelka descended to the second place, but in the first appeared the cruelty and malice of Yozio. Osnovski, however, began to justify himself, and, opening his arms, said,—
“Anetka! How canst thou even suppose that I wanted to do anything disagreeable to thee? I know, besides, how honest and cordial thy wishes were; but terror takes hold of me when I think of the future of Ignas, for I love him. I should wish from the soul of my heart that God had given him such a person as thou art. My dearest little bird, thou knowest that I would rather lose my tongue than say one bitter thing to thee. I came to thee so just to talk and take counsel, for I know that in that dear head of thine there is always some cure for everything.”
When he had said this, he began to kiss her hands and then her arms and face with great affection, and with increasing enthusiasm; but she turned her head aside, twisting away from his kisses, and saying,—
“Ah, how Yozio is sweating!”
He was, in fact, almost always in perspiration, for he played whole days at tennis, raced on horseback, rowed, wandered through fields and forests, to grow thin as far as was possible.
“Only tell me that thou art not angry,” said he, dropping her hand, and looking into her eyes tenderly.
“Well, I am not; but what help can I give? Let themgo as quickly as possible to Scheveningen, and let Kopovski stay here with Steftsia.”
“See, thou hast found a plan. Let them go at the beginning of August. But hast thou noticed that somehow Steftsia is not very—somehow Kopovski has not pleased her heart so far?”
“Steftsia is secretive as few are. Yozio doesn’t know women.”
“Thou art right surely in that. But I even see that she doesn’t like Castelka. Maybe, also, she is angry in her heart with Kopovski, too.”
“What!” inquired Aneta, with animation, “has Yozio seen anything with reference to Castelka?
“Koposio laughs at her, for he has good teeth; but if I should see anything, he wouldn’t be in Prytulov. Maybe, too, Castelka is coquetting with him, because such is her nature—without knowing it. That itself is bad, but that it should go as far as looking at each other seriously, I don’t believe.
“But it is necessary to examine Koposio as to Steftsia. Knowest what, Yozio? I will go this very day with him on horseback to Lesnichovka, and I will talk with him rather seriously. Go thou in another direction!”
“Good, my child. But see, thy head is finding measures already!”
Going out, he stopped on the threshold, thought a while, and said,—
“But how wonderful all this is! and how it passes understanding! This Ignas catches everything on the wing; and at the same time he worships Castelka as if she were some divinity, and sees nothing and nothing.”
In the afternoon, when Kopovski and Pani Aneta were riding along the shady road to the forest cottage, Pan Ignas followed them with his eyes, and looked at her figure on horseback, outlined in the well-fitting riding-dress. “She is shaped like a slender pitcher,” thought he. “But how elegant and enticing she is! There is in this some irony of life, that that honest and kindly Osnovski divines nothing.”
And truly there was irony of life in that, but not in that only.
Since the day when Pani Aneta and Kopovski made the trip to Lesnichovka, something had changed in the social relations of the dwellers in Prytulov. Pan Ignas looked, it is true, as formerly, into the eyes of his affianced, and was enchanted with her beyond measure; but in her intercourse with him and with others there was a certain light shade of ill-humor. Kopovski felt as if bound; he looked at Lineta by stealth only. He approached her hurriedly, and only in the absence of Pani Aneta; but he sat oftener near Panna Ratkovski, to whom he spoke, as it were, with his mind in another place. Pani Aneta was, moreover, more determined than usual; and, to the great satisfaction of “Yozio,” she extended now such watchful care over every affair in Prytulov, that she took Kopovski aside twice for personal explanations. Lineta’s glance did not follow Kopovski with that former half-gladsome, half-ironical freedom; but the cloudy eyes of Panna Ratkovski turned to Pan Ignas with a certain sympathy,—in one, word, something had changed both in looks and relations.
But those were changes observable only to a very quick eye, and one accustomed to look at life of that kind, in which, for lack of greater objects and severe daily labor, the least shade of feelings and the most subtle movement of thoughts, and even dispositions, take on not only the form, of far-reaching events, but frequently conceal the actual germs of such events in themselves. Externally life remained just the same it had been; that is, a kind of daily festival, a May day, country idleness, interwoven with love, æsthetic impressions, more or less witty conversations, and, finally, amusements. The arrangement of a whole series of these amusements, to fill out the day, was the sole occupation which weighed on their thoughts; and even this, for the greater part, Pan Osnovski took on himself as master of the house.
But on a certain day the uniform calm of that life was broken by a thunderbolt, under the form of two black-bordered envelopes addressed to Osnovski and Pan Ignas.When they were brought in, the whole society was at after-dinner coffee; and the eyes of the ladies were turned with curiosity and alarm at the readers, who, taking cards from the unsealed envelopes, cried almost simultaneously,—
“Pan Zavilovski is dead!”
The news made a deep impression. Pani Bronich, as a person of the old school, and remembering those days when the coming of a courier in the country obliged the most sensitive ladies to faint, even before it was known what the courier had brought, fell into a kind of numbness, joined to loss of speech; Panna Ratkovski, who had spent some time at Pan Zavilovski’s, and cherished great friendship for him and his daughter, grew pale in real earnest; Panna Lineta, seizing Pani Bronich’s hand, tried to restore her to consciousness, whispering, “Voyons, chère, tu n’es pas raisonnable!” Pani Aneta, as if wishing to verify with her own eyes the substance of the announcement, took the card from her husband’s hands, and read,—