“I know that you believed really in your feeling for Nitechka, and that at the first moment what has happened will seem to you a misfortune; believe me, too, that to me and to her it was not easy to resolve on the decisive step. Perhaps you will not be able to estimate Nitechka well,—there are so many things which men cannot estimate; but you ought to know her at least enough to know how much it costs her when she is forced to cause the slightest pain, even to a stranger. But what can we do! such is the will of God, which it would be a sin not to obey. We both act as our consciences dictate; and Nitechka is too just to give her hand to you without a real attachment. What has taken place, has taken place not only in conformity with the will of God, but in conformity with your good and hers; for if, without loving you sufficiently, she had become your wife, how would she be able to resist the temptations to which such a being would with certainty be exposed in view of the corruption of society? Besides, you have your talent; therefore you have something. Nitechka has only her heart, which violence would break in one moment; and if it seems to you that she has disappointed you, think conscientiously whose fault is the greater? You have done much harm to Nitechka, for you fettered her will, and you did not let her follow the natural impulse of her heart; and by thus doing you sacrificed, or were ready to sacrifice, through your selfishness, her happiness, and even her life, for I am convinced that under such conditions she would not have survived a single year. Nevertheless may God forgive you as we forgive; and be it known to you that this very day we prayed for you at a Mass ordered purposely for your intention, in the church of Saint Yadviga.“You will be pleased to send the ring to Pan Osnovski’s villa; your ring, since the Osnovskis had to go abroad too, will reach you through the hands of Panna Ratkovski. Once more, may God forgive you everything, and keep you in His protection!”
“I know that you believed really in your feeling for Nitechka, and that at the first moment what has happened will seem to you a misfortune; believe me, too, that to me and to her it was not easy to resolve on the decisive step. Perhaps you will not be able to estimate Nitechka well,—there are so many things which men cannot estimate; but you ought to know her at least enough to know how much it costs her when she is forced to cause the slightest pain, even to a stranger. But what can we do! such is the will of God, which it would be a sin not to obey. We both act as our consciences dictate; and Nitechka is too just to give her hand to you without a real attachment. What has taken place, has taken place not only in conformity with the will of God, but in conformity with your good and hers; for if, without loving you sufficiently, she had become your wife, how would she be able to resist the temptations to which such a being would with certainty be exposed in view of the corruption of society? Besides, you have your talent; therefore you have something. Nitechka has only her heart, which violence would break in one moment; and if it seems to you that she has disappointed you, think conscientiously whose fault is the greater? You have done much harm to Nitechka, for you fettered her will, and you did not let her follow the natural impulse of her heart; and by thus doing you sacrificed, or were ready to sacrifice, through your selfishness, her happiness, and even her life, for I am convinced that under such conditions she would not have survived a single year. Nevertheless may God forgive you as we forgive; and be it known to you that this very day we prayed for you at a Mass ordered purposely for your intention, in the church of Saint Yadviga.
“You will be pleased to send the ring to Pan Osnovski’s villa; your ring, since the Osnovskis had to go abroad too, will reach you through the hands of Panna Ratkovski. Once more, may God forgive you everything, and keep you in His protection!”
“This is something unparalleled!” said Pan Stanislav.
“It is evident that truth may be treated as love is,” said Pan Ignas, with a heart-rending sorrow; “but I had not supposed that.”
“Listen to me, Ignas,” said Pan Stanislav, who under the impulse of sympathy had begun to saythouto Zavilovski; “this is not merely a question of thy happiness, but of thy dignity. Suffer as much as may please thee; but it is thy duty to find strength to show that thou art indifferent to all this.”
A long silence followed. But Pan Stanislav, remembering the letter, repeated from time to time,—
“This passes human understanding.” Finally he turned to Pan Ignas,—
“Svirski is returning to-day from Buchynek, and late in the evening he will come to my house. Come thou too. We will pass the evening together, and he and thou will talk of the journey.”
“No,” said Pan Ignas; “on my return from Prytulov, I was to spend the night with my father, so I must go to him. To-morrow morning I will be with you and see Svirski.”
But he merely said that, for he wanted to be alone. Pan Stanislav did not oppose his intention of spending thenight at the institution, for he judged that occupation near the sick man, and care for him, would occupy his mind, then weariness and need of sleep would come. He determined, however, to drive with him to the institution.
In fact, they took farewell only at the gate. Pan Ignas, however, after he had remained a few minutes in the institution and inquired of the overseer touching his father, went out and returned home by stealth.
He lighted a candle, read Pani Bronich’s letter once more, and, covering his face with his hands, began to meditate. In spite of Osnovski’s letter and in spite of everything which Pan Stanislav had told him, a certain doubt and a certain hope had lingered in his soul, yet he knew thatall was over; but at moments he had the feeling that that was not reality, but an evil dream. It was only Pani Bronich’s letter that had penetrated to that little corner of his soul which was unwilling to believe, and burned out in it the remnant of illusion. So there was no Lineta any longer; there was no future, no happiness. Kopovski had all that; for him were left only loneliness, humiliation, and a ghastly vacuum. There was left to him also the impression that if “Nitechka” could have snatched from him that talent too, of which Pani Bronich made mention, she would have snatched it and given it to Kopovski. What was he for her in comparison with Kopovski? “I shall never really understand this,” thought he; “but it is so.” And he began to meditate over this, what was there in him so abject that she should sacrifice him thus without mercy, without the least consideration, to take less note of him than the meanest worm. “Why does she love Kopovski and not me, the man to whom she confessed love?” And he recalled how once she had quivered in his arms, when after the betrothal he gave her good-night. But now she is quivering in Kopovski’s arms in precisely the same way. And at this thought he seized his handkerchief and squeezed it between his teeth, so as not to scream from pain and madness. “What is this? Why has it happened?” But there was a time when he, Ignas, did not love her; why did she not marry Kopovski at that time? What motive could she have to trample him without need?
And again he caught after the letter of Pani Bronich, as if hoping to find in it an answer to these terrible questions. He read once more the passage about the will of God, andabout this,—that he was guilty, that he had done much harm to “Nitechka,” and that she forgave him, and about the Mass, which was celebrated for his intention in Saint Yadviga’s; and when he had ended he began to gaze at the light, blinking and saying,—
“How is that possible? How have I offended?” And suddenly he felt that the understanding of what truth is and what falsehood, of what evil is, and what good, and what is proper and improper, began to desert him. Lineta had gone from him, taken herself from him, taken his future, and now one after another all the bases of life were gliding away—and reason and thought and life itself. He saw yet that he had always loved this “Nitechka” of his beyond life, and in no way was he able to wish any harm to her; but besides that impression, everything which composes a thinking being was crushed into dust in him, and flew apart like dust in that mighty wind of misfortune.
Still he loved. Lineta became divided for him now into the Lineta of to-day and the Lineta of the past. He began to call to mind her voice, her face, her bright golden hair, her eyes and mouth, her tall form, her hands, and that warmth which so many times he had felt from her lips. His powerful imagination recreated her almost tangibly; and he saw that not only had he loved his own distant one, but he loved her yet,—that is, he yearned for her beyond measure, and was suffering beyond measure for the loss of her.
And, recognizing this, he began again to speak to her:
“How couldst thou think me able to bear this?”
At that moment he had not the least doubt of this either, that God knew the position very well. He sat a long time more in silence, and the light had burned out half its length almost when he came to himself.
But something uncommon took place in him then. He had an impression as if he were going from land in a ship, and that seemed to him which seems always on such an occasion, that it was not he who was moving away, but the shore on which he had dwelt hitherto. Everything—that was he, and in general his life; all thoughts, hopes, ambitions, objects, plans, even love, even Lineta, even his loss; and those vicious circles, and those tortures through which he had passed—seemed not merely removed from him, but foreign, and belonging exclusively to that land off there. And gradually they sank, gradually they melted, becomingever smaller, ever more visionary, ever more dreamlike; and he went on, he became more distant, feeling that to that foreignness he does not wish to return, that he cannot return, and that all which is left of him belongs to the space which has taken him to itself, and opened its bosom before him, immense and mysterious.
Four days later, on the Assumption of the Most Blessed Lady, which was also Marynia’s name’s[13]day, the Bigiels and Svirski went to Buchynek. They did not find Marynia at home, for she was at vespers in the church of Yasmen with Pani Emilia. When Pani Bigiel learned this, she followed them with the whole crowd of little Bigiels. The men, left alone, began to talk of the event of which for a number of days the whole city had been talking,—that was of the attempted suicide of the poet Zavilovski.
“I went to see him to-day three times,” said Bigiel; “but Panna Helena’s servants have the order to admit no one except the doctors.”
“As for me,” said Pan Stanislav, “this is the first day on which I have not been able to visit him; but during the previous days I spent a number of hours with him regularly. I tell my wife that I am at the counting-house on business.”
“Tell me how it happened,” said Bigiel, who wanted to know all the details, so as to consider them exactly afterward in his fashion.
“It happened this way,” said Pan Stanislav. “Ignas told me that he was going to the institution, to his father. I was glad, for I judged that that would keep him away from his thoughts. I took him, however, to the gate, and he promised to visit me next day. Meanwhile it turned out that he wanted to be rid of me, so as to shoot himself undisturbed.”
“Then you were not the first to find him?”
“No; I suspected nothing of that kind, and I should have looked for him next day. Luckily Panna Helena came at the mere news that the marriage was broken.”
“I informed her,” said Svirski, “and she took the matter to heart so much that I was astonished. She had a forewarning, as it were, of what would follow.”
“She is a wonderful person,” said Pan Stanislav. “I have not been able to learn how it happened; but she found him; she saved him; she called in a whole circle of doctors, and finally gave command to take him to her house.”
“But the doctors insist that he will live?”
“They know nothing yet definitely. In shooting, he must have turned the pistol so that the ball, after passing through his forehead, went up and lodged under the skull. They found the ball, and extracted it easily enough; but whether he will live—and if he lives, whether his mind will survive—is unknown. One doctor fears a disturbance in his speech; but his life is in question yet.”
The event, though known generally, and described every day in the papers, had made so great an impression that silence continued awhile. Svirski, who, with his muscles of an athlete, had the sensitiveness of a woman, burst forth,—
“Through such women!”
But Vaskovski, sitting near, said in a low voice,—
“Leave them to the mercy of God.”
“Is it possible?” said Bigiel, turning to Pan Stanislav; “and thou hadst no suspicion?”
“It did not come to my head even that he would shoot himself. I saw clearly that he was struggling with his feelings. For a while, when we were riding, his chin trembled, as if he wished to burst into weeping; but he is a brave soul. He restrained himself at once, and to appearance was calm. He deceived me mainly by his promise to come next day.”
“Do you know what seems to me?” continued he, after a while; “the last drop which overflowed the cup was Pani Bronich’s letter. Ignas gave it to me to read. She wrote that what had happened was the will of God; that the fault was on his side; that he was an egotist; but that they were obeying the voice of conscience and justice; that they forgave him, and begged God to forgive him too,—in a word, unheard of things! I saw that that made a desperate impression on him, and I imagine what must have taken place in a man so injured and of such spirit, when he saw that in addition to everything else injustice was attributed to him; when he understood that it is possible for people to set everything at naught and distort it, to trample on reason, truth, and the simplest principles of justice, and then shield themselves behind the Lord God. For that matter I was not concerned; but when I saw the cynicism, the want of moral understanding, as God lives, I asked myself this question: Am I mad, and are truth and honesty mere illusions on earth?”
Here Pan Stanislav was so indignant at Pani Bronich’s letter that he tugged at his beard feverishly, and Svirski said,—
“I understand that even a believer may spit upon life in such moments.”
Here Vaskovski rubbed his forehead with his hand, and then said to himself,—
“Yes; I have seen that kind, too. For there are people who believe, not through love, but as it were because atheism is bankrupt, as it were from despair, who imagine to themselves that somewhere, off behind phenomena, there is not a merciful Father, who places his hand on every unfortunate head, but some kind of He, unapproachable, inscrutable, indifferent; it is all one, in such case, whether that He is called the Absolute, or Nirvana. He is only a concept, not love. It is impossible to love this He; and when misfortune comes, people spit on life.”
“That is well,” answered Svirski, testily; “but meanwhile Pan Ignas is lying with a broken skull, and they have gone to the seashore, and it is pleasant for them.”
“Whence do you know that it is pleasant for them?” answered Vaskovski.
“The deuce fire them!” said Svirski.
“But I say to you that they are unhappy. No one may trample on truth and go unpunished. They will talk various things into each other, but one thing they will not be able to talk into each other,—that is, self-respect; they will begin to despise themselves in secret, and at last even that attachment which they had for each other will be turned into secret dislike. That is inevitable.”
“The deuce fire them!” repeated Svirski.
“The mercy of God is for them, not for the good,” concluded Vaskovski.
Meanwhile Bigiel talked with Pan Stanislav, admiring the kindness and courage of Panna Helena.
“For there will be a fabulous amount of gossip from this,” said he.
“She does not care for that,” answered Pan Stanislav. “She does not count with society, for she wants nothing of it. She, too, is a resolute soul. She showed Pan Ignas always exceptional attachment, and his act must have shocked her tremendously. Do you know the history of Ploshovski?”
“I knew him personally,” said Svirski. “His fatherwas the first man in Rome to predict success to me. Of Panna Helena they say, I think, that she was betrothed to Ploshovski.”
“No, she was not; but in her secret heart perhaps she loved him greatly. Such was his fortune. It is certain that since his death she has become different altogether. For a woman so religious as she is, his suicide must in truth have been dreadful, for just think, not to be able even to pray for a man whom one has loved. And now again Pan Ignas! If any one, it is she who is doing everything to save him. Yesterday I was there; she came out to me barely alive, pale, weary, without having slept. And there is some one else to watch with her. Panna Ratkovski told me of her, that for four days she hadn’t slept one hour, perhaps.”
“Panna Ratkovski?” inquired Svirski, quickly; and he began mechanically to seek with his hand in the coat pocket where he had her letter.
He remembered then her words: “I have chosen otherwise, and if I shall never be happy, I do not wish at least to reproach myself afterwards with insincerity.” “Now for the first time I understand the meaning and real tragedy of those words. Now, in spite of all social appearances, without regard to the tongues of people, this young girl has gone to watch over that suicide. What could this mean? The case is clear as the sun. It is true that Kopovski went abroad with another; but she had expressed always openly what she thought of Kopovski, and if she had cared nothing for Pan Ignas, she would not have gone this time to watch at his bedside. It seems to me that I am an ass,” muttered Svirski.
But that was not the only conclusion to which he came after mature consideration. All at once a yearning for Panna Ratkovski took hold of him, and sorrow that that had not happened which might have happened, as well as immense pity for her. “Thou hast become a poodle again, old fellow,” said he to himself, “and it serves thee right! A good man would have felt sorrow, but thou didst begin to be angry and condemn her for loving a fool and pretending to aspiration, and for having a low nature; thou didst talk ill of her before Pani Polanyetski and before him; didst do injustice to a kind and unfortunate person, not because her refusal pained thee too greatly, but through thy own self-love. Served thee right, right! thou art anass; thou art not worthy of her; and thou wilt be knocking around alone till death, like a mandrill, behind a menagerie grating.”
In these reproaches there was a portion of truth. Svirski had not fallen in love decidedly with Panna Ratkovski; but her refusal pained him more deeply than he acknowledged, and, not being able to master his vexation, he gave way to general conclusions about women, citing Panna Ratkovski as an example, and to her disadvantage.
Now he saw the whole vanity of such conclusions. “These stupid syntheses have ruined me always,” thought he. “Women are individuals like all people; and the general concept woman explains nothing whatever. There is a Panna Castelli, there is a Pani Osnovski, in whom I admit various rascalities, without, however, having proof of them; but on the other hand there is a Pani Polanyetski, a Pani Bigiel, a Sister Aniela, a Panna Helena, and a Panna Stefania. Poor child! and so it serves me right. She was there suffering in silence, and I was gnashing my teeth. If that girl isn’t worth ten times more than I, then that sun isn’t worth my pipe. She had a sacred reason in giving a refusal to such a buffalo. I will go to the Orient, and that is the end of the matter. Such light as there is in Egypt, there is nowhere else on earth. And what an honest woman! Moreover, she has done me good, even with her refusal, for through her I have convinced myself that my theory about women should be broken on the back of a dog. But if Panna Helena puts a whole regiment of dragoons before her door, I must see that poor girl and say what I think to her.”
In fact, he went on the following morning to Panna Helena’s. They did not wish to admit him, but he insisted so much that at last he was admitted. Panna Helena, judging that friendship and anxiety alone had brought him, conducted him even to the chamber in which the wounded man was lying. There, in the gloom of fastened blinds, he saw Pan Ignas, from whom came the odor of iodine, his head bound, his jaw protruding; and with him those two wearied out women, the fever of sleeplessness on their faces, and really like two shadows. The wounded man lay with open lips; he was changed, and resembled himself in nothing. He was as if incomparably older; his eyelids were swollen, and protruding from under the bandage. Svirski had liked him greatly, and with his sensitivenesshad not less sympathy for him than had Pan Stanislav and Osnovski; he was struck, however, this time by his deformity. “He has fixed himself,” thought he; then, turning to Panna Helena, he asked in an undertone,—
“Has he not regained consciousness?”
“No,” answered she, in a whisper.
“What does the doctor say?”
Panna Helena moved her thin hand in sign that all was uncertain yet.
“This is the fifth day,” whispered she again.
“And the fever decreases,” said Panna Ratkovski.
Svirski wished to offer his services in watching the sick man; but Panna Helena indicated with her eyes a young doctor, whom he was not able to distinguish at once in the darkness, but who, sitting in an armchair near the table, with a basin and pile of iodine wadding, was dozing from weariness, waiting till another should relieve him.
“We have two,” said Panna Ratkovski, “and besides people from the hospital, who know how to nurse the sick.”
“But you ladies are wonderfully wearied.”
“It is a question here of the sick man,” answered she, looking toward the bed.
Svirski followed her glance. His eyes were better accustomed now to the gloom, and saw distinctly the face, motionless, with lips almost black. The long body was motionless also, only the fingers of his emaciated hand, lying on the coverlet, stirred with a monotonous movement, as if scratching.
“They will take him out in a couple of days, as God is in Heaven!” thought he, remembering his colleague, that “Slav” with whom Bukatski had disputed in his time, and who, when he had shot himself in the head, died only after two weeks of torture.
Wishing, however, to give comfort to the women, he said, in spite of that of which he was certain,—
“Wounds of this kind are either mortal at once, or are cured.”
Panna Helena made no answer, but her face contracted nervously, and her lips grew pale. Evidently there was a terrible thought in her soul, that healsomight die, and she did not wish to admit that she had had enough with that other suicide, and at the same time it was for her a question of something more than saving his life for Pan Ignas.
Svirski began to take farewell. He entered with aspeech prepared for Panna Ratkovski, to whom he had resolved to acknowledge that he had judged her unjustly, and to express all the homage which he felt for her, and to beg for her friendship; but in presence of the real tragedy of those two women, and of the danger of death, and of that half corpse, he saw at once that everything which he intended to say would be poor and petty, and that it was not the time for such empty and personal matters.
He merely pressed to his lips in silence the hand of Panna Helena, and then that of Panna Ratkovski; and, going out of that room filled with misfortune and permeated with iodine, he drew a deep breath. In his artistic imagination was represented distinctly the changed Pan Ignas, ten years older, with bound head and black lips. And in spite of all the sympathy which he had for the man, indignation seized him all at once.
“He made a hole in his skull,” muttered he; “he made a hole in his talent,—and doesn’t care! and those souls there are dragging themselves to death and trembling like leaves.”
Then a feeling, as it were of jealousy, took hold of him, as if he were sorry for himself, and he began to speak in a monologue,—
“Well, old man! but if thou, for example, were to pack a bit of lead into thy talent, no one would walk at thy bedside on tiptoe.”
Further meditation was interrupted by Pan Plavitski; who, meeting him at the cross-street, stopped him, and began conversation,—
“I am just from Karlsbad,” said he. “O Lord, how many elegant women! I am going to Buchynek to-day. I have just seen Stanislav, and know that my daughter is well; but he has grown thin somehow.”
“Yes for he has had trouble. Have you heard of Pan Ignas?”
“I have, I have! But what will you say of that?”
“A misfortune.”
“A misfortune; but this too, that there are no principles at present. All those new ideas, those atheisms of yours, and hypnotisms, and socialisms. The young generation have no principles,—that is where the trouble lies.”
Pan Stanislav, under the impression of the catastrophe, forgot utterly his promise to inform Osnovski by letter how Pan Ignas had borne the rupture of the marriage and the departure of Lineta. But Osnovski, having learned from the newspapers what had happened, inquired every day by telegraph about the condition of the patient, and was greatly alarmed. In the press and in public the most contradictory accounts were current. Some journals declared that his condition was hopeless; others predicted a speedy recovery. For a long time Pan Stanislav could report nothing certain; and only after two weeks did he send a despatch that the sick man had ceased to waver between death and life, and that the doctors guaranteed his recovery.
Osnovski answered with a long letter, in which he gave various news from Ostend,—
“God reward you for good news! All danger has passed then decisively? I cannot tell you what a weight fell from the hearts of both of us. Tell Pan Ignas that not only I, but my wife received the news of his recovery with tears. She does not speak of any one else now, and thinks only of him. Oh, what women are! volumes might be written on this subject; but Anetka is an exception, and will you believe, that in spite of all her terror and sorrow and sympathy, Ignas has increased in her eyes through this unhappy event? They seek romantic sides always; so far does this reach that even in Kopovski, as the originator of the misfortune, Anetka, who knows all his stupidity, sees now something demonic. But beyond all she praises God for the recovery of Ignas. May he live to the glory of our society, and may he find a being worthy of him! From your despatch, I infer that he is under the care of Panna Helena. May God grant her too every blessing for such an honest heart! Really she has no one in the world nearer to her than Ignas, and I imagine that he is still dearer to her through remembrance of Ploshovski.“Now, since you have quieted me as to Ignas’s recovery, I can send you some news about Aunt Bronich and Lineta. Perhaps you have heard that they are here with Kopovski. They went first to Scheveningen; but, hearing that the small-pox was there, they escaped to Ostend, not supposing that we were here. We met a number of times in the Cursaal, but pretended not to know them. Kopovski even left cards with us; but we did not return his visit,though, as my wife says justly, he is far less to blame in all this than the two women. When I received your despatch, stating that Ignas is saved surely, I thought that humanity itself commanded me to send the news to them, and I did so. As matters stand, life is unpleasant for them here, since their acquaintances withdraw; so I wished them to know at least that they have no human life on their consciences, all the more since Lineta, as it would seem, felt the deed of Ignas. In fact, they called the same day on us, and my wife received them. She says truly that evil is moral sickness, and that we should not desert relatives in sickness. In general, this first meeting was awkward and painful for both sides. Of Ignas we said not a word. Kopovski appears here as Lineta’s betrothed; but they do not seem very happy, though, to tell the truth, she is better fitted for him than for Ignas, and in that view at least what has happened may be considered God’s work. I know also from persons aside that Aunt Bronich mentions it as such. I need not tell you how that abuse of the name of God angers me. I know that she tried to talk into some acquaintances stopping here that she and her niece broke with Ignas because of his want of religious feelings; to others she told tales of his despotism and of his disagreement in temper with Lineta. In all this she deceives not only the world, but herself. Aunt, through persuading herself and others of it unceasingly, believes at last in the lofty character of Lineta, and in this too she is immensely disappointed. She feels bound really to defend her; she invents God knows what in her behalf, and struggles like a mad woman; but a feeling of disappointment sticks in her, and I think that she grieves over it, for she has grown very thin. Evidently they value relations with us, which, as they hope, may bring them back to society; but though my wife received them, our relations cannot return to their former condition, of course. I, first of all, could not permit this, from regard to my duty of choosing a proper society for my wife. Lineta’s marriage with Kopovski is to be in Paris two months from now. Of course we shall not be present. Moreover, my wife looks on the marriage very skeptically. I have written thus at length hoping to oblige you to write as much, with all details about Ignas. If his health permits, press his hand for me, and tell him that he has and will have in me a most cordial friend, who is devoted heart and soul to him.”
“God reward you for good news! All danger has passed then decisively? I cannot tell you what a weight fell from the hearts of both of us. Tell Pan Ignas that not only I, but my wife received the news of his recovery with tears. She does not speak of any one else now, and thinks only of him. Oh, what women are! volumes might be written on this subject; but Anetka is an exception, and will you believe, that in spite of all her terror and sorrow and sympathy, Ignas has increased in her eyes through this unhappy event? They seek romantic sides always; so far does this reach that even in Kopovski, as the originator of the misfortune, Anetka, who knows all his stupidity, sees now something demonic. But beyond all she praises God for the recovery of Ignas. May he live to the glory of our society, and may he find a being worthy of him! From your despatch, I infer that he is under the care of Panna Helena. May God grant her too every blessing for such an honest heart! Really she has no one in the world nearer to her than Ignas, and I imagine that he is still dearer to her through remembrance of Ploshovski.
“Now, since you have quieted me as to Ignas’s recovery, I can send you some news about Aunt Bronich and Lineta. Perhaps you have heard that they are here with Kopovski. They went first to Scheveningen; but, hearing that the small-pox was there, they escaped to Ostend, not supposing that we were here. We met a number of times in the Cursaal, but pretended not to know them. Kopovski even left cards with us; but we did not return his visit,though, as my wife says justly, he is far less to blame in all this than the two women. When I received your despatch, stating that Ignas is saved surely, I thought that humanity itself commanded me to send the news to them, and I did so. As matters stand, life is unpleasant for them here, since their acquaintances withdraw; so I wished them to know at least that they have no human life on their consciences, all the more since Lineta, as it would seem, felt the deed of Ignas. In fact, they called the same day on us, and my wife received them. She says truly that evil is moral sickness, and that we should not desert relatives in sickness. In general, this first meeting was awkward and painful for both sides. Of Ignas we said not a word. Kopovski appears here as Lineta’s betrothed; but they do not seem very happy, though, to tell the truth, she is better fitted for him than for Ignas, and in that view at least what has happened may be considered God’s work. I know also from persons aside that Aunt Bronich mentions it as such. I need not tell you how that abuse of the name of God angers me. I know that she tried to talk into some acquaintances stopping here that she and her niece broke with Ignas because of his want of religious feelings; to others she told tales of his despotism and of his disagreement in temper with Lineta. In all this she deceives not only the world, but herself. Aunt, through persuading herself and others of it unceasingly, believes at last in the lofty character of Lineta, and in this too she is immensely disappointed. She feels bound really to defend her; she invents God knows what in her behalf, and struggles like a mad woman; but a feeling of disappointment sticks in her, and I think that she grieves over it, for she has grown very thin. Evidently they value relations with us, which, as they hope, may bring them back to society; but though my wife received them, our relations cannot return to their former condition, of course. I, first of all, could not permit this, from regard to my duty of choosing a proper society for my wife. Lineta’s marriage with Kopovski is to be in Paris two months from now. Of course we shall not be present. Moreover, my wife looks on the marriage very skeptically. I have written thus at length hoping to oblige you to write as much, with all details about Ignas. If his health permits, press his hand for me, and tell him that he has and will have in me a most cordial friend, who is devoted heart and soul to him.”
Marynia, notwithstanding the lateness of the season, was living yet in Buchynek; so that Pan Stanislav, when he received this letter in the counting-house, showed it first of all to the Bigiels, with whom he dined.
“I am glad of one thing,” said Pani Bigiel, when she had finished the letter; “she will marry that Kopovski right away. Otherwise I should be afraid that something might spring up again in Ignas, and that after he had recovered he might be ready to return to her.”
“No; Pan Ignas has much character, and I think thathe would not return in any case,” said Bigiel. “What is thy thought, Stas?”
Bigiel was so accustomed to ask the opinion of his partner in every question, that he could not get on without it in this one.
“I think that they, when they look around on what they have done, will be rather ready to return. As to Ignas, I have lived so many years, and seen so many improbable things, that I will not answer for any one.”
At that moment these words occurred again to Pan Stanislav: “I know what she is, but I cannot tear my soul from her.”
“But wouldst thou return in his place?” inquired Bigiel.
“I think not; but I will not answer for myself even. First of all, I shouldn’t have shot myself in the forehead; but still, I don’t know even that.”
And he said this with great discouragement, for he thought that if there was any man who had no right to answer for himself it was he.
But Pani Bigiel began,—
“I would give I do not know what to see Ignas; but really it is easier to take a fortress than to go to him. And I cannot understand why Panna Helena keeps him from people so, even from such friends as we are.”
“She keeps him from people because the doctor has ordered absolute quiet. Besides, since he has regained consciousness, the sight of his nearest friends, even, is terribly painful to him; and this we can understand. He cannot talk with them about his deed; and he sees that every one who approaches him is thinking of nothing else.”
“But you are there every day.”
“They admit me because I was connected with the affair from the beginning; I was the first to report the rupture of the marriage, and I watched him.”
“Does he mention that girl yet?”
“I asked Panna Helena and Panna Ratkovski about this; they answered, ‘Never.’ I have sat for hours with him alone, and have heard nothing. It is wonderful: he is conscious; he knows that he is wounded, knows that he is sick; but he seems at the same time to remember nothing of past events, just as if the past had no existence whatever. The doctors say that wounds in the head cause various and very peculiar phenomena of this kind. For the rest, he recognizes every one who approaches him, exhibits immensegratitude to Panna Helena and Panna Ratkovski. He loves Panna Ratkovski especially, and evidently yearns for her when she goes for a while from him. But they are both, as God lives!—there are no words to tell how good they are.”
“Panna Ratkovski moves me especially,” said Pani Bigiel.
Bigiel put in, “Meditating over everything carefully, I have come to the conclusion that she must have fallen in love with him.”
“Thou hast spent time for nothing in meditating,” answered Pan Stanislav, “for that is as clear as the sun. The poor thing hid this feeling in herself till misfortune came. Why did she reject such an offer as Svirski’s? I make no secret of this, for Svirski himself tells it on every side. It seems to him that he owes her satisfaction because he suspected her of being in love with Kopovski. When Pan Ignas shot himself, she was living with her relative, Pani Melnitski, after the Osnovskis had gone; but when she learned that Panna Helena had taken Ignas, she went and begged permission to remain with her. All know perfectly how to understand this; but she does not mind such considerations, just as Panna Helena herself does not mind them.”
Here Pan Stanislav turned to Pani Bigiel,—
“Panna Ratkovski moves you deeply; but think, as God lives, what a tragic figure Panna Helena is. Pan Ignas is alive, at least, but Ploshovski aimed better; and, according to her ideas, there is no mercy for him, even in that world. But she loves him. There is a position! Finally, after such a suicide, comes another; it tears open all wounds, freshens every memory. Panna Ratkovski may be a touching figure; but the other has her life broken forever, and no hope, nothing left but despair.”
“True, true! But she must be attached to Ignas, since she cares for him so.”
“I understand why she does it; she wants to beg of the Lord God mercy for the other man, because she has saved Pan Ignas.”
“That may be,” said Bigiel. “And who knows that Pan Ignas may not marry Panna Ratkovski, when he recovers?”
“If he forgets that other, if he is not broken, and if he recovers.”
“How, if he recovers? Just now thou hast said that his recovery is undoubted.”
“It is undoubted that he will live; but the question is, will he be the former Ignas? Even though he had not fired into his head, it would be difficult to say whether such an experience would not break a man who is so sensitive. But add a broken head; that must be paid for. Who knows what will happen further? but now, for example, though he is conscious, though he talks with sense, at times he breaks off, and cannot recollect the simplest expression. Before, he never hesitated. This, too, is strange,—he remembers the names of things well, but when it is a question of any act, he stops most generally, and either remembers with effort, or forgets altogether.”
“What does the doctor say?”
“In God is his hope that it will pass; the doctor does not lose hope. But even yesterday, while I was going in, Ignas said, ‘Pani—’ and stopped. Evidently he was thinking of Marynia, whom he recalled on a sudden, but he could not ask about her. Every day he talks more, it is true; but before he recovers, much time may pass, and certain traces may remain forever.”
“But does Marynia know of everything?”
“While there was no certainty that he would live, I kept everything in secret; but after that I thought it better to tell her. Of course I was very cautious. It was hard to keep the whole matter from her longer. People were talking too much about it, and I feared that she might hear from people on one side. I told her, moreover, that the wound was slight, and that nothing threatened him, but that the doctors forbade him visitors. Even thus she was greatly affected.”
“When will you bring her to the city?”
“While the weather is good, I prefer to keep her in the country.”
Further conversation was interrupted by a letter, which the servant gave Pan Stanislav. The letter was from Mashko, and contained the following words:—
“I wish to see thee in thy own interest. I will wait for thee at my house till five.”
“I wish to see thee in thy own interest. I will wait for thee at my house till five.”
“I am curious to know what he wants,” said Pan Stanislav.
“Who is it?”
“Mashko; he wants to see me.”
“Business and business,” said Bigiel; “he has business above his ears. Sometimes I wonder really whence he gets endurance and wit for all this. Dost thou know that Pani Kraslavski has come home, and that she has lost her sight altogether? She sees nothing now, or what is called nothing. We visited those ladies before they left their country house. Wherever one turns there is misery, so that at last pity seizes one while looking.”
“But in misfortune each man or woman shows his or her real nature,” said Pani Bigiel. “You remember that we considered Pani Mashko as somewhat dry in character, but you will not believe how kind she is now to her mother. She does not let a servant come near her; she attends her herself everywhere, waits on her, reads to her. Really she has given me a pleasant surprise, or rather both of them, for Path Kraslavski has lost her former pretentiousness thoroughly. It is pleasant to see how those women love each other. It seems that there was something in Pani Mashko which we could not discover.”
“Both, too, were terribly indignant at the behavior of Panna Castelli,” added Bigiel. “Pani Kraslavski said to us, ‘If my Terka had acted in that way, I should have denied her, though I am blind, and need care.’ But Pani Mashko is as she is, and she would not have acted in that way, for she is another kind of woman.”
Pan Stanislav drank his cup of black coffee, and began to take farewell. For some time past every conversation about Pani Mashko had become for the man unendurable; it seemed to him, moreover, that he was listening again to an extract from that strange human comedy which people were playing around him, and in which he, too, was playing his empty part. It did not occur to him that human nature is so composed that even in the very worst person some good element may be found, and that Pani Mashko might be, after all, a loving daughter. In general, he preferred not to think of that, but began to halt over the question, what could Mashko want of him? Forgetting that Mashko had written in the letter that he wanted to see him, not in his own, but in his (Pan Stanislav’s) interest, he supposed, with a certain alarm, that he wanted money a second time.
“But I,” thought he, “will not refuse now.”
And it occurred to him that life is like the machinery of a watch. When something is out of order in one wheel,all begin to act irregularly. What connection could there be between his adventure with Pani Mashko and his business, his money, his mercantile work? And still he felt that even as a merchant he had not, at least with reference to Mashko, the freedom that he once had.
But his suppositions proved faulty. Mashko had not come to ask money.
“I looked for thee in the counting-house, and at thy residence,” said he; “at last I divined that thou must be at the Bigiels’, and I sent my letter there. I wished to speak with thee on thy own business.”
“How can I serve thee?” asked Pan Stanislav.
“First of all, I beg that what I say may remain between us.”
“It will; I am listening.”
Mashko looked for a time in silence at Pan Stanislav, as if to prepare him by that silence for some important announcement; at last he said, with a wonderful calmness, weighing out every expression,—
“I wished to tell thee that I am lost beyond redemption.”
“Hast lost the will case?”
“No; the case will come up only two weeks from now but I know that I shall lose it.”
“Whence hast thou that certainty?”
“Dost remember what I told thee once, that cases against wills are won almost always because the attack is more energetic than the defence; because usually the overthrow of the will concerns some one personally, while maintaining it does not? Everything in the world may be attacked; for though a thing be in accordance with the spirit of the law, almost always, in a greater degree or less, it fails to satisfy the letter, and the courts must hold to the letter.”
“True. Thou hast said all that.”
“Well, so it is, too, in this case which I took up. It was not so adventurous as may seem. The whole question was to break the will; and I should, perhaps, succeed in proving certain disagreements in it with the letter of the law, were it not that there is a man striving with equal energy to prove that there are none such. I will not talk long about this; it is enough for thee to know that I have to contend not merely with an opponent who is a lawyer and a finished trickster, but a personal enemy, for whom it is a question, not only to win the case, but to ruin me. Once I slighted him, and now he is taking revenge.”
“In general, I do not understand why you have to do with any one except the State Attorney.”
“Because there were legacies to private people in defence of which the opposite side employed Sledz, that advocate. But let this rest. I must lose the case, for it is in conditions for being lost; and if I were Sledz, I would win just as he wins. I know this in advance, and I do not deceive myself. Enough now of this whole matter.”
“But go on; appeal.”
“No, my dear friend, I cannot go on.”
“Why?”
“Because I have more debts than there are hairs on my head; because, after my first defeat, creditors will rush at me; and because”—here Mashko lowered his voice—“I must flee.”
Silence followed.
Mashko rested his elbow on his knee, his head on his palm, and sat some time with his head inclined; but after a while he began to speak, as if to himself, without raising his head,—
“It is broken. I tied knots desperately, till my hands were wearied; strength would have failed any man, still I kept knotting. But I cannot knot any longer! God sees that I have no more strength left. Everything must have its end; and let this finish sometime.”
Here he drew breath, like a man who is terribly tired; then he raised his head, and said,—
“This, however, is my affair merely, and I have come to talk of thy affairs. Listen to me! According to contract concluded at the sale of Kremen, I was to make payments to thy wife after the parcelling of Magyerovka; thou hast a few thousand rubles of thy own money with me. I was to pay thy father-in-law a life annuity. Now I come to tell thee that if not in a week, then in two, I shall go abroad as a bankrupt, and thou and they will not see a copper.”
Mashko, while telling all this with the complete boldness and insolence of a man who no longer has anything to lose, looked Pan Stanislav in the eyes, as if seeking for a storm.
But he was deceived most thoroughly. Pan Stanislav’s face grew dark for one twinkle of an eye, it is true, as if from suppressed anger; but he calmed himself quickly, and said,—
“I have always expected that this would end so.”
Mashko, who, knowing with whom he had to deal supposed that Pan Stanislav would seize him by the shoulder, looked at him with amazement, as if wishing to ask what had happened.
But at that moment Pan Stanislav thought,—
“If he had wanted to borrow money for the road, I could not have refused him.”
But aloud he said, “Yes; this was to be foreseen.”
“No,” answered Mashko, with the stubbornness of a man who will not part with the thought that only a concurrence of exceptional circumstances is to blame for everything. “Thou hast no right to say this. The moment before death, I should be ready to repeat that it might have gone otherwise.”
But Pan Stanislav inquired, as if with a shade of impatience,—
“My dear, what dost thou want of me specially?”
Mashko recovered, and answered,—
“Nothing. I have come to thee only as to a man who has shown me good-will at all times, and with whom I have contracted a money debt, as well as a debt of gratitude; I have come to confess openly how things stand, and also to say to thee: save what is possible, and as much as possible.”
Pan Stanislav set his teeth; he judged that even in that irony of life, whose chattering he heard round about him continually for some time past, there ought to be a certain measure. Meanwhile Mashko’s words about friendship and a debt of gratitude seemed to him as simply passing that measure. “May the devils take the money and thee—if thou would only go!” thought he, in spirit. But compressing in himself the wish to utter this audibly, he said,—
“I see no way.”
“There is only one way,” answered Mashko. “While it is still unknown to people that I must break, while hopes are connected with the will case, while my name and signature mean something, thou hast a chance to sell thy wife’s claim. Thou wilt say to the purchaser that it is thy wish to capitalize the whole property, or something of that sort. Appearances are easy. A purchaser will be found always, especially if thou decide to sell at a certain reduction. In view of profit, any Jew will buy. I prefer thatany other should lose rather than thou; it is permitted thee not to hear what I have told thee of my coming bankruptcy, and it is permitted thee to hope that I shall win the case. Thou canst be sure that he who will buy the claim of thee, would sell it to thee, even though he knew that it would not be worth a broken copper on the morrow. The world is an exchange; and on the exchange most business is transacted on this basis. This is called cleverness.”
“No,” answered Pan Stanislav, “it has a different name. Thou hast mentioned Jews; there are certain kinds of business which they describe with one word, ‘schmuzig!’ I shall save my wife’s claim in another way.”
“As may please thee. I, my clear friend, know the value of my system; but, seest thou, in spite of all, I said to myself that I ought to tell thee this. It is perhaps the honor of a bankrupt; but now I cannot have another. It is easy for thee to divine how hard it is for me to say this. For that matter, I knew in advance that thou wouldst refuse; hence with me it was a question only of doing my own. And now give me a cup of tea and a glass of cognac, for I am barely living.”
Pan Stanislav rang for the tea and the cognac.
Mashko continued,—
“I must pluck a certain number of people,—there is no help for that; hence I prefer to pluck indifferent ones rather than those who have rendered me service. There are positions in which a man must be an opportunist with his own conscience.”
Here Mashko laughed with bitterness.
“I did not know of that myself,” continued he; “but now new horizons open themselves before me. One is learning till death. We bankrupts have a certain point of honor too. As to me, I care less for those who would have plucked me in a given case than those who are near me, and to whom I owe gratitude. This may be the morality of Rinaldini, but morality of its own kind.”
The servant brought in tea now. Mashko, needing to strengthen himself evidently, added to his cup an overflowing glass of cognac, and, cooling the hot tea in that way; drank it at a gulp.
“My dear friend,” said Pan Stanislav, “thou knowest the position better than I. All that I could say against flight, and in favor of remaining and coming to terms withcreditors, thou hast said to thyself of course, therefore I prefer to ask of something else: Hast thou something to grasp with thy hand? Hast thou even money for the road?”
“I have. Whether a man fails for a hundred thousand, or a hundred and ten thousand, is all one; but I thank thee for the question.”
Here Mashko added cognac to a second cup of tea, and said,—
“Do not think that I am beginning to drink from despair; I have not sat down since morning, and I am terribly tired. Ah, how much good this has done me! I will say now to thee openly that I have not thrown up the game. Thou seest that I have not fired into my forehead. That is a melodrama! that is played out. I know, indeed, that everything is ended for me here; but in this place I could not sail out anyhow. Here the interests are too small simply, and there is no field. Take the west, Paris! There men make fortunes; there they take a somersault, and rise again. What is to be said in the case if it is so? Dost thou know that Hirsh had not, perhaps, three hundred francs on leaving this country? I know, I know! from the standpoint of local mustiness and stupidity here, this will seem a dream,—the fever of a bankrupt. But still, men inferior to me have made millions there,—inferior to me! Lose or win. But if I come back at any time—”
And evidently the tea and cognac had begun to rouse him, for, clinching his fist, he added,—
“Thou wilt see!”
“If that is not dreaming,” answered Pan Stanislav, with still greater impatience than before, “it is the future. But now what?”
“Now,” said Mashko, after a while, “they will count me a swindler. No one will think that there are falls and falls. I will tell thee, for instance, that I have not taken from my wife a single signature, a single surety, and that she will have everything which she had before marriage. I am going now; and until I am settled she will remain here with her mother. I do not know whether you have heard that Pani Kraslavski has lost her sight. I cannot take them at present, for I am not even sure where I shall live,—in Paris perhaps, perhaps in Antwerp. But I hope that our separation will not be lasting. They know nothing yet. See in what the drama is! See what tortures me!”
And Mashko put his palm on the top of his head, blinking at the same time, as if from pain in his eyes.
“When wilt thou go?” inquired Pan Stanislav.
“I cannot tell. I will let thee know. Thou hast had the evident wish to aid me, and thou mayest, though not in money. People will avoid my wife at first; show her, then, a little attention; take her under thy protection. Is it agreed? Thou hast been really friendly to me, and I know that thou art friendly to her.”
“As God lives, one might go mad,” thought Pan Stanislav; but he said aloud,—
“Agreed.”
“I thank thee from the soul of my heart; and I have still a prayer. Thou hast much influence over those two ladies. They will believe thy words. Defend me a little in the first moments before my wife. Explain to her that dishonesty is one thing, and misfortune another. I, as God lives, am not such a rogue as people will consider me. I might have brought my wife also to ruin, but I have not done so. I might have obtained from thee a few thousand more rubles; but I preferred not to take them. Thou wilt be able to put this before her, and she will believe thee. Is it agreed?”
“Agreed,” replied Pan Stanislav.
Mashko covered his head with his hands once more, and said, with a face contracted as if from physical pain,—
“See where real ruin is! See what pains the most!”
After a while he began to take farewell, thanking Pan Stanislav, meanwhile, again for good-will toward his wife, and future care of her.
Pan Stanislav went out with him, sat in a carriage, and started for Buchynek.
On the road he thought of Mashko and his fate; but at the same time he repeated to himself, “I too am a bankrupt!”
And that was true. Besides this, for a certain time some sort of general uncomprehended alarm had tormented him; against this he could not defend himself. Round about he saw disappointment, catastrophes, ruin; and he could not resist the feeling that all these were for him, too, a kind of warning and threat of the future. He proved to himself, it is true, that such fears could not be logically justified; but none the less, the fears did not cease to stick in the bottom of his soul somewhere, andsometimes he said to himself again, “Why should I be the one exception?” Then his heart was straitened with a foreboding of misfortune. This was still worse than those pins which, without wishing it, people, even the most friendly, drove into him by any word, unconsciously. In general, his nerves had suffered recently, so that he had become almost superstitious. He returned daily to Buchynek in alarm, lest something bad might have happened in the house during his absence.
This evening, he returned later than usual because of Mashko’s call, and drove in about the time when real darkness had come. Stepping out before the entrance on the sandy road, which dulled the sound of the carriage, he saw through the window Marynia, Pani Emilia, and the professor sitting near a table in the middle of the parlor. Marynia was laying out patience, and was evidently explaining the play to Pani Emilia, for her head was turned toward her, and she had one finger on the cards. At sight of her Pan Stanislav thought that which for some time he had been repeating mentally, and which filled him at once with a feeling of happiness, and with greater anger at himself: “She is the purest soul that I have met in life.” And with that thought he entered the room.
“Thou art late to-day,” said Marynia, when he raised her hand to his lips with greeting; “but we are waiting for thee with supper.”
“Mashko detained me,” answered he. “What is to be heard here?”
“The same as ever. All happy.”
“And how art thou?”
“As well as a fish!” answered she, joyously, giving him her forehead for a kiss.
Then she began to inquire about Pan Ignas. Pan Stanislav, after the disagreeable talk with Mashko, breathed for the first time more freely. “She is in health, and all is right,” thought he, as if in wonder. And really he felt well in that bright room, in that great peace, among those friendly souls and at the side of that person so good and reliable. He felt that everything was there which he needed for happiness; but he felt that he had spoiled that happiness of his own will; that he had brought into the clear atmosphere of his house the elements of corruption and evil, and that he was living under that roof without a right.
In the middle of September such cold days came that the Polanyetskis moved from Buchynek to their house in the city. Pan Stanislav, before the arrival of his wife, had the house aired and ornamented with flowers. It seemed to him, it is true, that he had lost the right to love her, but he had lost only his former freedom with reference to her; but perhaps, just because of this, he became far more attentive and careful. The right to love no one gives, and nothing can take away. It is another case when a man has fallen, and in presence of a soul incomparably more noble than his own, feels that he is not worthy to love; he loves then with humility, and does not dare to call his feeling by its name. What Pan Stanislav had lost really was his self-confidence, his commanding ways, and his former unceremoniousness in his treatment of his wife. At present in his intercourse with her he bore himself sometimes as if she were Panna Plavitski, and he a suitor not sure of his fate yet.
Still that uncertainty of his had the aspect of coldness at times. Finally, their relation, in spite of Pan Stanislav’s increased care and efforts, had become more distant than hitherto. “I have not the right!” repeated Pan Stanislav, at every more lively movement of his heart. And Marynia at last observed that they were living now somehow differently, but she interpreted this to herself variously.
First, there were guests in the house, before whom, be what may, freedom of life must be diminished; second, that misfortune had happened to Pan Ignas,—a thing to shock “Stas” and carry his mind in another direction; and finally Marynia, accustomed now to various changes in his disposition, had ceased also to attach to them as much meaning as formerly.
Having gone through long hours of meditation and sadness, she came at last to the conviction that in the first period, while certain inequalities and bends of character are not accommodated into one common line, such various shades and changes in the disposition are inevitable,though transient. The sober judgment of Pani Bigiel helped her also to the discovery of this truth; she, on a time when Marynia began to praise her perfect accord with her husband, said,—
“Ai! it didn’t come to that at once. At first we loved each other as it were more passionately, but we were far less fitted for each other; sometimes one pulled in one and the other in another direction. But because we both had honesty and good-will the Lord God saw that and blessed us. After the first child all went at once in the best way; and this day I wouldn’t give my old husband for all the treasures of earth, though he is growing heavy, and when I persuade him to Karlsbad he will not listen to me.”
“After the first child,” inquired Marynia, with great attention. “Ah! I would have guessed at once that it was after the first child.”
Pani Bigiel began to laugh.
“And how amusing he was when our first boy was born! During the first days he said nothing at all; he would only raise his spectacles to his forehead and look at him, as at some wonder from beyond the sea, and then come to me and kiss my hands.”
The hope of a child was also a reason why Marynia did not take this new change in “Stas” to heart too much. First, she promised herself to enchant him completely both with the child, which she knew in advance would be simply phenomenal, and with her own beauty after sickness; and second, she judged that it was not permitted her to think of herself now, or even exclusively of “Stas.” She was occupied in preparing a place for the coming guest, as well in the house, as in her affections. She felt that she must infold such a figure not only in swaddling clothes, but in love. Hence she accumulated necessary supplies. She said to herself at once that life for two living together might be changeable; but for three living together it could not be anything but happiness and the accomplishment of that expected grace and mercy of God.
In general, she looked at the future with uncommon cheerfulness. If, finally, Pan Stanislav was for her in some way a different person, more ceremonious, as it were, and more distant, he showed such delicacy as he had never shown before. The care and anxiety which she saw on his face she referred to his feeling for Pan Ignas, for whose life there was no fear, it is true, but whose misfortune she feltwith a woman’s heart, understanding that it might continue as long as his life lasted. The knowledge of this gave more than one moment of sadness to her, and to the Bigiels, and to all to whom Pan Ignas had become near.
Moreover, soon after the arrival of the Polanyetskis in the city, news came all at once from Ostend which threatened new complications. A certain morning Svirski burst into the counting-house like a bomb, and, taking Bigiel and Pan Stanislav to a separate room, said, with a mien of mysteriousness,—
“Do you know what has happened? Kresovski has just been at my studio, and he returned yesterday from Ostend. Osnovski has separated from his wife, and broken Kopovski’s bones for him. A fabulous scandal! All Ostend is talking of nothing else.”
Both were silent under the impression of the news; at last Pan Stanislav said,—
“That had to come sooner or later. Osnovski was blind.”
“But I understand nothing,” said Bigiel.
“An unheard of history!” continued Svirski. “Who could have supposed anything like it?”
“What does Kresovski say?”
“He says that Osnovski made an arrangement one day to go with some Englishmen to Blanckenberg to shoot dolphins. Meanwhile he was late at the railroad, or tramway. Having an hour’s time before him, he went home again and found Kopovski in his house. You can imagine what he must have seen, since a man so mild was carried away, and lost his head to that degree that, without thinking of the scandal, he pounded Kopovski, so that Kopovski is in bed.”
“He was so much in love with his wife that he might have gone mad even, or killed her,” said Bigiel. “What a misfortune for the man!”
“See what women are!” exclaimed Svirski.
Pan Stanislav was silent. Bigiel, who was very sorry for Osnovski, began to walk back and forth in the room. At last he stopped before Svirski, and, thrusting his hands into his pockets, said,—
“But still I don’t understand anything.”
Svirski, not answering directly, said, turning to Pan Stanislav, “You remember what I said of her in Rome, when I was painting your wife’s portrait? Old Zavilovskicalled her a crested lark. I understand how just that was; for a crested lark has another name,—‘the soiler.’ What a woman! I knew that she was not of high worth, but I did not suppose that she could go so far—and with such a man as Kopovski! Now I see various things more clearly. Kopovski was there all the time, as if courting Panna Castelli, then as if courting Panna Ratkovski; and of course he and the lady were in agreement, inventing appearances together. What a cheery life the fellow had! Castelli for dinner, and Pani Osnovski for dessert! Pleasant for such a man! Between those two women there must have been rivalry; one vying with the other in concessions to attract him to herself. You can understand that in such a place woman’s self-esteem had small value.”
“You are perfectly right,” said Pan Stanislav. “Pani Osnovski was always most opposed to the marriage of Kopovski to Castelli; and very likely for that reason she was so eager to have her marry Pan Ignas. When, in spite of everything, Kopovski and Castelli came to an agreement, she went to extremes to keep Kopovski for herself. Their relation is an old story.”
“I begin to understand a little,” said Bigiel; “but how sad this is!”
“Sad?” said Svirski; “on the contrary. It was cheerful for Kopovski. Still, it was not. ‘The beginning of evil is pleasant, but the end is bitter.’ There is no reason to envy him. Do you know that Osnovski is hardly any weaker than I? for, through regard for his wife, he was afraid of growing fat, and from morning till evening practised every kind of exercise? Oh, how he loved her! what a kind man he is! and how sorry I am for him! In him that woman had everything,—heart, property, a dog’s attachment,—and she trampled on everything. Castelli, at least, was not a wife yet.”
“And have they separated really?”
“So really that she has gone. What a position, when a man like Osnovski left her! In truth, the case is a hard one.”
But Bigiel, who liked to take things on the practical side, said, “I am curious to know what she will do, for all the property is his.”
“If he has not killed her on the spot, he will not let her die of hunger, that is certain; he is not a man of that kind. Kresovski told me that he remained in Ostend, and that heis going to challenge Kopovski to a duel. But Kopovski will not rise out of bed for a week. There will be a duel when he recovers. Pani Bronich and Panna Castelli have gone away, too, to Paris.”
“And the marriage with Kopovski?”
“What do you wish? In view of such open infidelity, it is broken, of course. Evil does not prosper; they, too, were left in the lurch. Ha! let them hunt abroad for some Prince Crapulescu[14]—for after what they have done to Ignas, no one in this country would take Castelli, save a swindler, or an idiot. Pan Ignas will not return to her.”
“I told Pan Stanislav that, too,” said Bigiel; “but he answered, ‘Who knows?’”
“Ai!” said Svirski, “do you suppose really?”
“I don’t know! I don’t know anything!” answered Pan Stanislav, with an outburst. “I guarantee nothing; I guarantee nobody; I don’t guarantee myself even.”
Svirski looked at him with a certain astonishment.
“Ha! maybe that is right,” said he, after a while. “If any one had told me yesterday that the Osnovskis would ever separate, I should have looked on him as a madman.”
And he rose to take farewell; he was in a hurry to work, but wishing to hear more about the catastrophe of the Osnovskis, had engaged to dine with Kresovski. Bigiel and Pan Stanislav remained alone.
“Evil must always pay the penalty,” said Bigiel, after some thought. “But do you know what sets me thinking? that the moral level is lowering among us. Take such persons as Bronich, Castelli, Pani Osnovski,—how dishonest they are! how spoiled! and, in addition, how stupid! What a mixture, deuce knows of what! what boundless pretensions! and with those pretensions the nature of a waiting-maid. So that it brings nausea to think of them, does it not? And men, such as Ignas and Osnovski, must pay for them.”
“And that logic is not understood,” answered Pan Stanislav, gloomily.
Bigiel began to walk up and down in the room again, clicking his tongue and shaking his head; all at once he stopped before Pan Stanislav with a radiant face, and, slapping him on the shoulder, said,—
“Well, my old man, thou and I can say to ourselves that we drew great prizes in life’s lottery. We were not saints either; but perhaps the Lord God gave us luck because we have not undermined other men’s houses like bandits.”
Pan Stanislav gave no answer; he merely made ready to go.
Conditions had so arranged themselves lately that everything which took place around him, and everything which he heard, became, as it were, a saw, which was tearing his nerves. In addition, he had the feeling that that was not only terribly torturing and painful, but was beginning to be ridiculous also. At moments it came to his head to take Marynia and hide with her somewhere in some tumbledown village, if only far away from that insufferable comedy of life which was growing viler and viler. But he saw that he could not do that, even for this reason,—that Marynia’s condition hindered it. He stopped, however, the bargaining for Buchynek, which had been almost finished, so as to find for himself a more distant and less accessible summer place. In general, relations with people began to weigh on him greatly; but he felt that he was in the vortex, and could not get out of it. Sometimes the former man rose in him, full of energy and freshness, and he asked himself with wonder, “What the devil! why does a fault which thousands of men commit daily, swell up in my case beyond every measure?” But the sense of truth answered straightway that as in medicine there are no diseases, only patients, so in the moral world there are no offences, only offenders. What one man bears easily, another pays for with his life; and he tried in vain to defend himself. For a man of principles, for a man who, barely half a year before, had married such a woman as Marynia, for a man whom fatherhood was awaiting, his offence was beyond measure; and it was so inexcusable, so unheard of, that at times he was amazed that he could have committed it. Now, while returning home under the impression of Osnovski’s misfortune, and turning it over in his head in every way, he had again the feeling as if a part of the responsibility for what had happened weighed on him. “For I,” said he to himself, “am a shareholder in that factory in which are formed such relations and such women as Castelli or Pani Osnovski.” Then it occurred to him that Bigiel was right in saying that the moral level was lowering, and that the general state of mind which does not exclude the possibility of such acts is simplydangerous. For he understood that all these deviations flowed neither from exceptional misfortunes, nor uncommon passions, nor over-turbulent natures, but from social wantonness, and that the name of such deviations is legion. “See,” thought he, “only in the circle of my acquaintances, Pani Mashko, Pani Osnovski, Panna Castelli; and over against them whom shall I place? My Marynia alone.” And at that moment it did not occur to him that, besides Marynia, there were in his circle Pani Emilia, Pani Bigiel, Panna Helena, and Panna Ratkovski. But Marynia stood out before him on that ground of corruption and frivolity so unlike them, so pure and reliable, that he was moved to the depth of his soul by the mere thought of her. “That is another world; that is another kind,” thought he. For a moment he remembered that Osnovski, too, had called his own wife an exception; but he rejected this evil thought immediately. “Osnovski deceived himself, but I do not deceive myself.” And he felt that the skepticism which would not yield before Marynia would be not only stupid, but pitiable. In her there was simply no place for evil. Only swamp birds can sit in a swamp. He himself had said once in a jest to her, that if she wore heels, she would have inflammation of the conscience from remorse, because she was deceiving people. And there was truth in this jest; he saw her now just there before him as clearly as one always sees the person one thinks of with concentrated feeling. He saw her changed form and changed face, in which there remained always, however, that same shapely mouth, a little too wide, and those same clear eyes; and he was more and more moved. “Indeed, I did win a great prize in life’s lottery,” thought he; “but I did not know how to value it. ‘Evil must always pay the penalty,’ said Bigiel.” And Pan Stanislav, to whom a similar thought had come more than once, felt now a superstitious fear before it. “There is,” thought he, “a certain logic, in virtue of which evil returns, like a wave hurled from the shore, so that evil must return to me.” And all at once it seemed to him perfectly impossible that he could possess such a woman in peace, and such happiness. Just in that was lacking the logic which commands the return of the wave of evil. And then what? Marynia may die at childbirth, for instance. Pani Mashko, through revenge, may say some word about him, which will stick in Marynia’s mind, and in view of her condition, will emerge afterward in the form of a fever.Not even the whole truth is needed for that effect. On the contrary, Pani Mashko may boast even that she resisted his attempts. “And who knows,” said Pan Stanislav to himself, “if Pani Mashko is not making a visit to Marynia this moment? in such an event the first conversation about men—and a few jesting words are sufficient.”