Pan Wildcat!—Thou hast scratched me undeservedly, for I had no wish to offend thee; and if I say always what I think, it is permitted me because I am old. They must have told thee, too, that I never name, even to her eyes, thy young lady otherwise than Venetian half-devil. But how was I to know that thou wert in love and about to marry? I heard of this only yesterday, and only now do I understand why thou didst spring out of my sight; but since I prefer water-burners to dullards, and since through this devil of a gout I cannot go myself to thee to congratulate, do thou come to the old man, who is more thy well-wisher than seems to thee.
Pan Wildcat!—Thou hast scratched me undeservedly, for I had no wish to offend thee; and if I say always what I think, it is permitted me because I am old. They must have told thee, too, that I never name, even to her eyes, thy young lady otherwise than Venetian half-devil. But how was I to know that thou wert in love and about to marry? I heard of this only yesterday, and only now do I understand why thou didst spring out of my sight; but since I prefer water-burners to dullards, and since through this devil of a gout I cannot go myself to thee to congratulate, do thou come to the old man, who is more thy well-wisher than seems to thee.
After this letter Pan Ignas went that same day, and was received cordially, though with scolding, but so kindly that this time the old truth-teller pleased him, and he felt in him really a relative.
“May God and the Most Holy Lady bless thee!” said the old man. “I know thee little; but I have heard such things of thee that I should be glad to hear the like touching all Zavilovskis.”
And he pressed his hand; then, turning to his daughter, he said,—
“He’s a genial rascal, isn’t he?”
And at parting he inquired,—
“But ‘Teodor,’ didn’t he trouble thee too much? Hei?”
Pan Ignas, who, as an artist, possessed in a high degree the sense of the ridiculous, and to whom in his soul that Teodor, too, seemed comical, laughed and answered,—
“No. On the contrary, he was on my side.”
The old man began to shake his head.
“That is a devil of an accommodating Teodor! Be on the lookout for him; he is a rogue.”
Pani Bronich had so much genuine respect for the property and social position of old Zavilovski that she visited him next day, and began almost to thank him for his cordial reception of his relative; but the old man grew angry unexpectedly.
“Do you think that I am some empty talker?” asked he. “You have heard from me that poor relatives are a plague; and you think that I take it ill of them that they are poor. No, you do not know me! But, know this, when a noble loses everything, and is poor, he becomes almost always a sort of shabby fellow. Such is our character, or rather, its weakness. But this Ignas, as I hear from every side, is a man of honor, though poor; and therefore I love him.”
“And I love him,” answered Pani Bronich. “But you will be at the betrothal?”
“C’est décidé.Even though I had to be carried.”
Pani Bronich returned radiant, and at lunch could not restrain herself from expressing suppositions which her active fancy had begun to create.
“Pan Zavilovski,” said she, “is a man of millions, and greatly attached to the name. I should not be astonished at all were he to make our Ignas his heir, if not of the chief, of a considerable part of his property, or if he were to entail some of his estates in Poznan on him. I should not be surprised at all.”
No one contradicted her, for events like that in the world had been seen; therefore after lunch, Pani Bronich, embracing Nitechka, whispered in her ear,—
“Oi, thou, thou, future heiress!”
But in the evening she said to Pan Ignas,—
“Be not astonished if I so mix up in everything, but I am your mamma. So mamma is immensely curious to know what kind of ring you are preparing for Nitechka? It will be something beautiful, of course. There will be so many people at the betrothal. And, besides, you haveno idea what a fastidious girl! She is so æsthetic even in trifles; and she has her own taste, but what a taste! ho, ho!”
“I should like,” answered Pan Ignas, “the stones to be of colors denoting faith, hope, and love, for in her is my faith, my hope, and my love.”
“A very pretty idea! have you said this to Nitechka? Do you know what? Let there be a pearl in the middle, as a sign that she is a pearl. Symbols are in fashion now. Have I told you that Pan Svirski, when he gave her lessons, called her ‘La Perla’? Ah, yes, I did. You do not know Pan Svirski? He, too—Yozio Osnovski told me that he would come to-morrow. Well, then, a sapphire, a ruby, an emerald, and in the middle a pearl? Oh, yes! Pan Svirski, too—Will you be at the funeral?”
“Whose funeral?”
“Pan Bukatski’s. Yozio Osnovski told me that Pan Svirski brought home his body.”
“I did not know him; I have never seen him in my life.”
“That is better; Nitechka would prefer that you had not known him. God in His mercy forgive him in spite of this,—that for me he was never a sympathetic person, and Nitechka could not endure him. But the little one will be glad of the ring; and when she is glad, I am glad.”
The “Little One” was glad not only of the ring, but of life in general. The rôle of an affianced assumed for her increasing charm. Beautiful nights came, very clear, during which she and Pan Ignas sat together on the balcony. Nestling up to each other, they looked at the quivering of light on the leaves, or lost their gaze in the silver dust of the Milky Way, and the swarms of stars. From the acacia, growing under the balcony, there rose a strong and intoxicating odor, as from a great censer. Their powers seemed to go to sleep in them; their souls, lulled by silence, turned into clear light, were scattered in some way amidst the depth of night, and were melted into unity with the soft moonlight; and so the two, sitting hand in hand, half in oblivion, half in sleep, lost well-nigh the feeling of separate existence and life, preserving a mere semi-consciousness of some sort of general bliss and general “exaltation of hearts.”
Pan Ignas, when he woke and returned to real life, understood that moments like those, in which hearts meltin that pantheism of love, and beat with the same pulsation with which everything quivers that loves, unites, and harmonizes in the universe, form the highest happiness which love has the power to give, and so immeasurable that were they to continue they would of necessity destroy man’s individuality. But, having the soul of an idealist, he thought that when death comes and frees the human monad from matter, those moments change into eternity; and in that way he imagined heaven, in which nothing is swallowed up, but everything simply united and attuned in universal harmony.
Lineta, it is true, could not move with his flight; but she felt a certain turning of the head, as it were, a kind of intoxication from his flight, and she felt herself happy also. A woman even incapable of loving a man is still fond of her love, or, at least, of herself, and her rôle in it; and, therefore, most frequently she crosses the threshold of betrothal with delight, feeling at the same time gratitude to the man who opens before her a new horizon of life. Besides, they had talked love into Lineta so mightily that at last she believed in it.
And once, when Pan Ignas asked her if she was sure of herself and her heart, she gave him both hands, as if with effusion, and said,—
“Oh, truly; now I know that I love.”
He pressed her slender fingers to his lips, to his forehead, and his eyes, as something sacred; but he was disquieted by her words, and asked,—
“Why ‘now’ for the first time, Nitechka? Or has there been a moment in which thou hast thought that thou couldst not love me?”
Lineta raised her blue eyes and thought a moment; after a while, in the corners of her mouth and in the dimples of her cheeks, a smile began to gather.
“No,” said she; “but I am a great coward, so I was afraid. I understand that to love you is another thing from loving the first comer.” And suddenly she began to laugh. “Oh, to love Pan Kopovski would be as simple asbon jour; but you—maybe I cannot express it well, but more than once it seemed to me that that is like going up on some mountain or some tower. When once at the top, a whole world is visible; but before that one must go and go, and toil, and I am so lazy.”
Pan Ignas, who was tall and bony, straightened himself, and said,—
“When my dear, lazy one is tired, I’ll take her in my arms, like a child, and carry her even to the highest.”
“And I will shrink up and make myself the smallest,” answered Lineta, closing her arms, and entering into the rôle of a little child.
Pan Ignas knelt before her, and began to kiss the hem of her dress.
But there were little clouds, too, on that sky; the betrothed were not the cause, however. It seemed to the young man at times that his feelings were too much observed, and that Pani Bronich and Pani Aneta examined too closely whether he loves, and how he loves. He explained this, it is true, by the curiosity of women, and, in general, by the attention which love excites in them; but he would have preferred more freedom, and would have preferred that they would not help him to love. His feelings he considered as sacred, and for him it was painful to make an exhibition of them for uninvited eyes; at the same time every movement and word of his was scrutinized. He supposed also that there must be female sessions, in which Pani Bronich and Pani Aneta gave their “approbatur;” and that thought angered him, for he judged that neither was in a situation to understand his feelings.
It angered him also that Kopovski was invited to Prytulov, and that he went there in company with all; but in this case it was for him a question only of Osnovski, whom he loved sincerely. The pretext for the invitation was the portrait not finished yet by Lineta. Pan Ignas understood now clearly that everything took place at the word of Pani Aneta, who knew exactly how to suggest her own wishes to people as their own. At times even it came to his head to ask Lineta to abandon the portrait; but he knew that he would trouble her, as an artist, with that request, and, besides, he feared lest people might suspect him of being jealous of a fop, like “Koposio.”[11]
Svirski had come indeed from Italy with Bukatski’s body; and he went at once on the following day to Pan Stanislav’s. He met only Marynia, however, for her husband had gone outside the city to look at some residence which had been offered for sale. The artist found Marynia so changed that he recognized her with difficulty; but since he had liked her greatly in Rome, he was all the more moved at sight of her now. At times, besides, she seemed to him so touching and so beautiful in her way, with the aureole of future maternity, and besides she had brought to him so many artistic comparisons, with so many “types of various Italian schools,” that, following his habit, he began to confess his enthusiasm audibly. She laughed at his originality; but still it gave her comfort in her trouble, and she was glad that he came,—first, because she felt a sincere sympathy with that robust and wholesome nature; and second, she was certain that he would be enthusiastic about her in presence of “Stas,” and thus raise her in the eyes of her husband.
He sat rather long, wishing to await the return of Pan Stanislav; he, however, returned only late in the evening. Meanwhile there was a visit from Pan Ignas, who, needing some one now before whom to pour out his overflowing happiness, visited her rather often. For a while he and Svirski looked at each other with a certain caution, as happens usually with men of distinction, who fear each other’s large pretensions, but who come together the more readily when each sees that the other is simple. So did it happen with these men. Marynia, too, helped to break the ice by presenting Pan Ignas as the betrothed of Panna Castelli, who was known to Svirski.
“Indeed,” said Svirski, “I know her perfectly; she is my pupil!”
Then, pressing the hand of Pan Ignas, he said,—
“Your betrothed has Titian hair; she is a little tall, but you are tall, too. Such a pose of head as she has one might look for with a candle. You must have noticed thatthere is something swan-like in her movements; I have even called her ‘The Swan.’”
Pan Ignas laughed as sincerely and joyously as a man does when people praise that which he loves most in life, and said with a shade of boastfulness,—
“‘La Perla,’ do you remember?”
Svirski looked at him with a certain surprise.
“There is such a picture by Raphael in Madrid, in the Museum del Prado,” answered he. “Why do you mention ‘La Perla’?”
“It seems to me that I heard of it from those ladies,” said Pan Ignas, beaten from the track somewhat.
“It may be, for I have a copy of my own making in my studio Via Margutta.”
Pan Ignas said in spirit that there was need to be more guarded in repeating words from Pani Bronich; and after a time he rose to depart, for he was going to his betrothed for the evening. Svirski soon followed, leaving with Marynia the address of his Warsaw studio, and begging that Pan Stanislav would meet him in the matter of the funeral as soon as possible.
In fact, Pan Stanislav went to him next morning. Svirski’s studio was a kind of glass hall, attached, like the nest of a swallow, to the roof of one in a number of many storied houses, and visitors had to reach him by separate stairs winding like those in a tower. But the artist had perfect freedom there, and did not close his door evidently, for Pan Stanislav, in ascending, heard a dull sound of iron, and a bass voice singing,—
“Spring blows on the world warmly;Hawthorns and cresses are blooming.I am singing and not sobbing,For I have ceased to love thee too!Hu-ha-hu!”
“Spring blows on the world warmly;Hawthorns and cresses are blooming.I am singing and not sobbing,For I have ceased to love thee too!Hu-ha-hu!”
“Spring blows on the world warmly;
Hawthorns and cresses are blooming.
I am singing and not sobbing,
For I have ceased to love thee too!
Hu-ha-hu!”
“Well,” thought Pan Stanislav, stopping to catch breath, “he has a bass, a real, a true bass; but what is he making such a noise with?”
When he had passed the rest of the steps, however, and then the narrow corridor, he understood the reason, for he saw through the open doors Svirski, dressed to his waist in a single knitted shirt, through which was seen his Herculean torso; and in his hands were dumb-bells.
“Oh, how are you?” he called out, putting down thedumb-bells in presence of his guest. “I beg pardon that I am not dressed, but I was working a little with the dumb-bells. Yesterday I was at your house, but found only Pani Polanyetski. Well, I brought our poor Bukatski. Is the little house ready for him?”
Pan Stanislav pressed his hand. “The grave is ready these two weeks, and the cross is set up. We greet you cordially in Warsaw. My wife told me that the body is in Povanzki already.”
“It is now in the crypt of the church. To-morrow we’ll put it away.”
“Well, to-day I will speak to the priest and notify acquaintances. What is Professor Vaskovski doing?”
“He was to write you. The heat drove him out of Rome; and do you know where he went? Among the youngest of the Aryans. He said that the journey would occupy two months. He wishes to convince himself as to how far they are ready for his historical mission; he has gone through Ancona to Fiume, and then farther and farther.”
“The poor professor! I fear that new disillusions are waiting for him.”
“That may be. People laugh at him. I do not know how far the youngest of the Aryans are fitted to carry out his idea; but the idea itself, as God lives, is so uncommon, so Christian, and honest, that the man had to be a Vaskovski to come to it. Permit me to dress. The heat here is almost as in Italy, and it is better to exercise in a single shirt.”
“But best not to exercise at all in such heat.”
Here Pan Stanislav looked at Svirski’s arms and said,—
“But you might show those for money.”
“Well; not bad biceps! But look at these deltoids. That is my vanity. Bukatski insisted that any one might say that I paint like an idiot; but that it was not permitted any one to say that I could not raise a hundred kilograms with one hand, or that I couldn’t hit ten flies with ten shots.”
“And such a man will not leave his biceps nor his deltoids to posterity.”
“Ha! what’s to be done? I fear an ungrateful heart; as I love God, I fear it so much. Find me a woman like Pani Polanyetski, and I will not hesitate a day. But what should I wish you,—a son or a daughter?”
“A daughter, a daughter! Let there be sons; but the first must be a daughter!”
“And when do you expect her?”
“In December, it would seem.”
“God grant happily! The lady, however, is healthy, so there is no fear.”
“She has changed greatly, has she not?”
“She is different from what she was, but God grant the most beautiful to look so. What an expression! A pure Botticelli. I give my word! Do you remember that portrait of his in the Villa Borghese? Madonna col Bambino e angeli. There is one head of an angel, a little inclined, dressed in a lily, just like the lady, the very same expression. Yesterday that struck me so much that I was moved by it.”
Then he went behind the screen to put on his shirt, and from behind the screen he said,—
“You ask why I don’t marry. Do you know why? I remember sometimes that Bukatski said the same thing. I have a sharp tongue and strong biceps, but a soft heart; so stupid is it that if I had such a wife as you have, and she were in that condition, as God lives, I shouldn’t know whether to walk on my knees before her, or to beat the floor with my forehead, or to put her on a table, in a corner somewhere, and adore her with upraised hands.”
“Ai!” said Pan Stanislav, laughing, “that only seems so before marriage; but afterward habituation itself destroys excess of feeling.”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’m so stupid—”
“Do you know what? When my Marynia is free, she must find for thee just such a wife as she herself is.”
“Agreed!” thundered Svirski, from behind the screen. “Verbum! I give myself into her hands; and when she says ‘marry,’ I will marry with closed eyes.”
And appearing, still without a coat, he began to repeat, “Agreed, agreed! without joking. If the lady wishes.”
“Women always like that,” answered Pan Stanislav. “Have you seen, for instance, what that Pani Osnovski did to marry our Pan Ignas to Panna Castelli? And Marynia helped her as much as I permitted; she kept her ears open. For women that is play.”
“I made the acquaintance of that Pan Ignas at your house yesterday. He is an immensely nice fellow; simply a genial head. It is enough to look at him. What aprofile, and what a woman-like forehead! and with that insolent jaw! His shanks are too long, and his knees must be badly cut, but his head is splendid.”
“He is the Benjamin of our counting-house. Indeed, we love him surpassingly; his is an honest nature.”
“Ah! he is your employee? But I thought he was of those rich Zavilovskis; I have seen abroad often enough a certain old original, a rich man.”
“That is a relative of his,” said Pan Stanislav; “but our Zavilovski hasn’t a smashed copper.”
“Well,” said Svirski, beginning to laugh, “old Zavilovski with his daughter, the only heiress of millions, a splendid figure! In Florence and Rome half a dozen ruined Italian princes were dangling around this young lady; but the old man declared that he wouldn’t give his daughter to a foreigner, ‘for,’ said he, ‘they are a race of jesters.’ Imagine to yourself, he considers us the first race on earth, and among us, of course, the Zavilovskis; and once he showed that in this way: ‘Let them say what they like,’ said he; ‘I have travelled enough through the world, and how many Germans, Italians, Englishmen, and Frenchmen have cleaned boots for me? but I,’ said he, ‘have never cleaned boots for any man, and I will not.’”
“Good!” answered Pan Stanislav, laughing; “he thinks boot-cleaning not a question of position in the world, but of nationality.”
“Yes, it seems to him that the Lord God created other ‘nations’ exclusively so that a nobleman from Kutno may have some one to clean his boots whenever he chooses to go abroad. But doesn’t he turn up his nose at the marriage of the young man? for I know that he thinks the Broniches of small account.”
“Maybe he turns up his nose; but he has become acquainted with our Pan Ignas not long since. They had not met before, for ours is a proud soul, and would not seek the old man first.”
“I like him for that. I hope he has chosen well, for—”
“What! do you know Panna Castelli? What kind of a person is she?”
“I know Panna Castelli; but, you see, I am no judge of young ladies. Ba! if I knew them, I would not have waited for the fortieth year as a single man. They are all good, and all please me; but since I have seen, as married women, a few of those who pleased me, I do notbelieve in any. And that makes me angry; for if I had no wish to marry—well, I should say, leave the matter! but I have the wish. What can I know? I know that each woman has a corset; but what sort of a heart is inside it? The deuce knows! I was in love with Panna Castelli; but for that matter I was in love with all whom I met. With her, perhaps, even more than with others.”
“And how is it that a wife did not come to your head?”
“Ah, the devil didn’t come to my head! But at that time I hadn’t the money that I have to-day, nor the reputation. I was working for something then; and believe me that no people are so shy of workers as the children of workers. I was afraid that Pan Bronich or Pani Bronich might object, and I was not sure of the lady; therefore I left them in peace.”
“Pan Ignas has no money.”
“But he has reputation, and, besides, there is old Zavilovski; and a connection like that is no joke. Who among us has not heard of the old man? Besides, as to me, to tell the truth, I disliked the Broniches to the degree that at last I turned from them.”
“You knew the late Pan Bronich, then? Be not astonished that I ask, for with me it is a question of our Pan Ignas.”
“Whom have I not known? I knew also Pani Bronich’s sister,—Pani Castelli. For that matter I have been twenty-four years in Italy, and am about forty,—that is said for roundness. In fact, I am forty-five. I knew Pan Castelli, too, who was a good enough man; I knew all. What shall I say to you? Pani Castelli was an enthusiast, and distinguished by wearing short hair; she was always unwashed, and had neuralgia in the face. As to Pani Bronich, you know her.”
“But who was Pan Bronich?”
“‘Teodor’? Pan Bronich was a double fool,—first, because he was a fool; and second, because he didn’t know himself as one. But I am silent, for ‘de mortuis nil nisi bonum.’ He was as fat as she is thin; he weighed more than a hundred and fifty kilograms, perhaps, and had fish eyes. In general, they were people vain beyond everything. But why expatiate? When a man lives a while in the world, and sees many people, and talks with them, as I do while painting, he convinces himself that there is really a high society, which rests on tradition,and besides that acanaille, which, having a little money, apes great society. The late Bronich and his present widow always seemed to me of that race; therefore I chose to keep them at a distance. If Bukatski were alive, he would let out his tongue now at their expense. He knew that I was in love with Panna Castelli; and how he ridiculed me, may the Lord not remember it against him! And who knows whether he did not speak justly? for what Panna Lineta is will be shown later.”
“It concerns me most of all to learn something of her.”
“They are good, all good; but I am afraid of them and their goodness,—unless your wife would go security for some of them.”
At this point the conversation stopped, and they began to talk of Bukatski, or rather, of his burial of the day following, for which Pan Stanislav had made previously all preparations.
On the way from Svirski’s he spoke to the priest again, and then informed acquaintances of the hour on the morrow.
The church ceremony of burial had taken place at Rome in its own time, so Pan Stanislav, as a man of religious feeling, invited a few priests to join their prayers to the prayers of laymen; he did this also through attachment and gratitude to Bukatski, who had left him a considerable part of his property.
Besides the Polanyetskis came the Mashkos, the Osnovskis, the Bigiels, Svirski, Pan Plavitski, and Pani Emilia, who wished at the same time to visit Litka. The day was a genuine summer one, sunny and warm; the cemetery had a different seeming altogether from what it had during Pan Stanislav’s former visits. The great healthy trees formed a kind of thick, dense curtain composed of dark and bright leaves, covering with a deep green shade the white and gray monuments. In places the cemetery seemed simply a forest full of gloom and coolness. On certain graves was quivering a shining network of sunbeams, which had filtered in through the leaves of acacias, poplars, hornbeams, birch, and lindens; some crosses, nestling in a thick growth, seemed as if dreaming in cool air above the graves. In the branches and among the leaves were swarms of small birds, calling out from every side with an unceasing twitter, which was mild, and, as it were, low purposely, so as not to rouse the sleepers.
Svirski, Mashko, Polanyetski, and Osnovski took on their shoulders the narrow coffin containing the remains of Bukatski, and bore it to the tomb. The priests, in white surplices now gleaming in the sun, now in the shade, walked in front of the coffin; behind it the young women, dressed in black; and all the company went slowly through the shady alleys, silently, calmly, without sobs or tears, which usually accompany a coffin. They moved only with dignity and sadness, which were on their faces as the shadow of the trees on the graves. There was, however, in all this a certain poetry filled with melancholy; and the impressionable soul of Bukatski would have felt the charm of that mourning picture.
In this way they arrived at the tomb, which had the form of a sarcophagus, and was entirely above ground, for Bukatski during life told Svirski that he did not wish to lie in a cellar. The coffin was pushed in easily through the iron door; the women raised their eyes then; their lips muttered prayers; and after a time Bukatski was left to the solitude of the cemetery, the rustling trees, the twitter of birds, and the mercy of God.
Pani Emilia and Pan Stanislav went then to Litka; while the rest of the company waited in the carriages before the church, for thus Pani Aneta had wished.
Pan Stanislav had a chance to convince himself, at Litka’s grave, how in his soul that child once so beloved had gone into the blue distance and become a shade. Formerly when he visited her grave he rebelled against death, and with all the passion of fresh sorrow was unreconciled to it. To-day it seemed to him well-nigh natural that she was lying in the shadow of those trees, in that cemetery; he had the feeling almost that it must end thus. She had ceased all but completely to be for him a real being, and had become merely a sweet inhabitant of his memory, a sigh, a ray, simply one of that kind of reminiscences which is left by music.
And he would have grown indignant at himself, perhaps, were it not that he saw Pani Emilia rise after her finished prayer with a serene face, with an expression of great tenderness in her eyes, but without tears. He noticed, however, that she looked as sick people look, that she rose from her knees with difficulty, and that in walking she leaned on a stick. In fact, she was at the beginning of a sore disease of the loins, which later on confined her for years to the bed, and only left her at the coffin.
Before the cemetery gate the Osnovskis were waiting for them; Pani Aneta invited them to a betrothal party on the morrow, and then those “who were kind” to Prytulov.
Svirski sat with Pani Emilia in Pan Stanislav’s carriage, and for some time was collecting his impressions in silence; but at last he said,—
“How wonderful this is! To-day at a funeral, to-morrow at a betrothal; what death reaps, love sows,—and that is life!”
Pan Ignas wished the betrothal to be not in the evening before people, but earlier; and his wish was gratified all the more, since Lineta, who wished to show herself to people as already betrothed, supported him before Aunt Bronich. They felt freer thus; and when people began to assemble they appeared as a young couple. The light of happiness shone from Lineta. She found a charm in that rôle of betrothed; and the rôle added charm to her. In her slender form there was something winged. Her eyelids did not fall to-day sleepily over her eyes; those eyes were full of light, her lips of smiles, her face was in blushes. She was so beautiful that Svirski, seeing her, could not refrain from quiet sighs for the lost paradise, and found calmness for his soul only when he remembered his favorite song,—
“I am singing and not sobbing,For I have ceased to love thee too!Hu-ha-hu!”
“I am singing and not sobbing,For I have ceased to love thee too!Hu-ha-hu!”
“I am singing and not sobbing,
For I have ceased to love thee too!
Hu-ha-hu!”
For that matter her beauty struck every one that day. Old Zavilovski, who had himself brought in his chair to the drawing-room, held her hands and gazed at her for a time; then, looking around at his daughter, he said,—
“Well, such a Venetian half-devil can turn the head, she can, and especially the head of a poet, for in the heads of those gentlemen is fiu, fiu! as people say.”
Then he turned to the young man and asked,—
“Well, wilt thou break my neck to-day because I said Venetian half-devil to thee?”
Pan Ignas laughed, and, bending his head, kissed the old man’s shoulder. “No; I could not break any one’s neck to-day.”
“Well,” said the old man, evidently rejoiced at those marks of honor, “may God and the Most Holy Lady bless you both! I say the Most Holy Lady, for her protection is the basis.”
When he had said this, he began to search behind in the chair, and, drawing forth a large jewel-case, said to Lineta,—
“This is from the family of the Zavilovskis; God grant thee to wear it long!”
Lineta, taking the box, bent her charming figure to kiss him on the shoulder; he embraced her neck, and said to the bridegroom,—
“But thou might come.”
And he kissed both on the forehead, and said, with greater emotion than he wished to show,—
“Now love and revere each other, like honest people.”
Lineta opened the case, in which on a sapphire-colored satin cushion gleamed a splendidrivièreof diamonds. The old man said once more with emphasis, “From the family of the Zavilovskis,” wishing evidently to show that the young lady who married a Zavilovski, even without property, was not doing badly. But no one heard him, for the heads of the ladies—of Lineta, Pani Aneta, Pani Mashko, Pani Bronich and even Marynia—bent over the flashing stones; and breath was stopped in their mouths for a time, till at last a murmur of admiration and praise broke the silence.
“It is not a question of diamonds!” cried Pani Bronich, casting herself almost into the arms of old Zavilovski, “but as the gift, so the heart.”
“Do not mention it Pani; do not mention it!” said the old man, warding her off.
Now the society broke into pairs or small groups; the betrothed were so occupied with each other that the whole world vanished from before them. Osnovski and Svirski went up to Marynia and Pani Bigiel. Kopovski undertook to entertain the lady of the house; Pan Stanislav was occupied with Pani Mashko. As to Mashko himself, he was anxious evidently to make a nearer acquaintance with the Crsus, for he so fenced him off with his armchair that no one could approach him, and began then to talk of remote times and the present, which, as he divined easily, had become a favorite theme for the old man.
But he was too keen-witted to be of Zavilovski’s opinion in all things. Moreover, the old man did not attack recent times always; nay, he admired them in part. He acknowledged that in many regards they were moving toward the better; still he could not take them in. But Mashko explained to him that everything must change on earth; hence nobles, as well as other strata of society.
“I, respected sir,” said he, “hold to the land through a certain inherited instinct,—through that something which attracts to land the man who came from it; but, whilemanaging my own property, I am an advocate, and I am one on principle. We should have our own people in that department; if we do not, we shall be at the mercy of men coming from other spheres, and often directly opposed to us. And I must render our landholders this justice, that for the greater part they understand this well, and choose to confide their business to me rather than to others. Some think it even a duty.”
“The bar has been filled from our ranks at all times,” answered Pan Zavilovski; “but will the noble succeed in other branches? As God lives, I cannot tell. I hear, and hear that we ought to undertake everything; but people forget that to undertake and to succeed are quite different. Show me the man who has succeeded.”
“Here he is, respected sir, Pan Polanyetski: he in a commission house has made quite a large property; and what he has is in ready cash, so that he could put it all on the table to-morrow. He will not deny that my counsels have been of profit to him frequently; but what he has made, he has made through commerce, mainly in grain.”
“Indeed, indeed!” said the old noble, gazing at Pan Stanislav, and staring from wonder, “has he really made property? Is it possible? Is he of the real Polanyetskis? That’s a good family.”
“And that stalwart man with brown hair?”
“Is Svirski the artist.”
“I know him, for I saw him abroad; and the Svirskis did not make fires as an occupation.”
“But he can only paint money, for he hasn’t made any.”
“He hasn’t!” said Mashko, in a confidential tone. “Not one big estate in Podolia will give as much income as aquarelles give him.”
“What is that?”
“Pictures in water-colors.”
“Is it possible? not even oil paintings! And he too—? Ha! then, perhaps, my relative will make something at verses. Let him write; let him write. I will not take it ill of him. Pan Zygmund was a noble, and he wrote, and not for display. Pan Adam was a noble also; but he is famous,—more famous than that brawler who has worked with democracy— What’s his name? Never mind! You say that times are changing. Hm, are they? Let them change for themselves, if only with God’s help, for the better.”
“The main thing,” said Mashko, “is not to shut up a man’s power in his head, nor capital in chests; whoever does that, simply sins against society.”
“Well, but with permission! How do you understand this,—Am I not free to close with a key what belongs to me; must I leave my chests open to a robber?”
Mashko smiled with a shade of loftiness, and, putting his hand on the arm of the chair, said,—
“That is not the question, respected sir.” And then he began to explain the principles of political economy to Pan Zavilovski; the old noble listened, nodding his head, and repeating from time to time,—
“Indeed! that is something new! but I managed without it.”
Pani Bronich followed the betrothed with eyes full of emotion, and at the same time told Plavitski (who on his part was following Pani Aneta with eyes not less full of emotion) about the years of her youth, her life with Teodor, and the misfortune which met them because of the untimely arrival in the world of their only descendant, and Plavitski listened with distraction; but, moved at last by her own narrative, she said with a somewhat quivering voice,—
“So all my love, hope, and faith are in Lineta. You will understand this, for you too have a daughter. And as to Lolo, just think what a blessing that child would have been had he lived, since even dead he rendered us so much service—”
“Immensely touching, immensely touching!” interrupted Plavitski.
“Oh, it is true,” continued Pani Bronich. “How often in harvest time did my husband run with the cry, ‘Lolo monte!’ and send out all his laboring men to the field. With others, wheat sprouted in the shocks, with us, never. Oh, true! And the loss was the greater in this, that that was our last hope. My husband was a man in years, and I can say that for me he was the best of protectors; but after this misfortune, only a protector.”
“Here I cease to understand him,” said Plavitski. “Ha, ha! I fail altogether to understand him.”
And, opening his mouth, he looked roguishly at Pani Bronich; she slapped him lightly with her fan, and said,—
“These men are detestable; for them there is nothing sacred.”
“Who is that, a real Perugino,—that pale lady, with whom your husband is talking?” asked Svirski now of Marynia.
“An acquaintance of ours, Pani Mashko. Have you not been presented to her?”
“Yes; I became acquainted with her yesterday at the funeral, but forget her name. I know that she is the wife of that gentleman who is talking with old Pan Zavilovski. A pure Vannuci! The same quietism, and a little yellowish; but she has very beautiful lines in her form.”
And looking a little longer he added,—
“A quenched face, but uncommon lines in the whole figure. As it were slender; look at the outline of her arms and shoulders.”
But Marynia was not looking at the outlines of the arms and shoulders of Pani Mashko, but at her husband; and on her face alarm was reflected on a sudden. Pan Stanislav was just inclining toward Pani Mashko and telling her something which Marynia could not hear, for they were sitting at a distance; but it seemed to her that at times he gazed into that quenched face and those pale eyes with the same kind of look with which during their journey after marriage he had gazed at her sometimes. Ah, she knew that look! And her heart began now to beat, as if feeling some great danger. But immediately she said to herself, “That cannot be! That would be unworthy of Stas.” Still she could not refrain from looking at them. Pan Stanislav was telling something very vivaciously, which Pani Mashko listened to with her usual indifference. Marynia thought again: “Something only seemed to me! He is speaking vivaciously as usual, but nothing more.” The remnant of her doubt was destroyed by Svirski, who, either because he noticed her alarm and inquiring glance, or because he did not notice the expression on Pan Stanislav’s face, said,—
“With all this she says nothing. Your husband must keep up the conversation, and he looks at once weary and angry.”
Marynia’s face grew radiant in one instant. “Oh, you are right! Stas is annoyed a little, surely; and the moment he is annoyed he is angry.”
And she fell into perfect good-humor. She would have been glad to give arivièreof diamonds, like that which Pan Zavilovski had brought to Lineta, to make “Stas” approach at that moment, to say something herself to him, and hear akind word from him. In fact, a few minutes later her wish was accomplished, for Osnovski approached Pani Mashko; Pan Stanislav rose, and, saying a word or two on the way to Pani Aneta, who was talking to Kopovski, sat down at last by his wife.
“Dost wish to tell me something?” he inquired.
“How wonderful it is, Stas, for I called to thee that moment, but only in mind; still thou hast felt and art here with me.”
“See what a husband I am,” answered he, with a smile. “But the reason is really very simple: I noticed thee looking at me; I was afraid that something might have happened, and I came.”
“I was looking, for I wanted something.”
“And I came, for I wanted something. How dost thou feel? Tell the truth! Perhaps thou hast a wish to go home?”
“No, Stas, as I love thee, I am perfectly comfortable. I was talking with Pan Svirski of Pani Mashko, and was entertained well.”
“I guessed that you were gossiping about her. This artist says himself that he has an evil tongue.”
“On the contrary,” answered Svirski, “I was only admiring her form. The turn for my tongue may come later.”
“Oh, that is true,” said Pan Stanislav; “Pani Osnovski says that she has indeed a bad figure, and that is proof that she has a good one. But, Marynia, I will tell thee something of Pani Osnovski.” Here he bent toward his wife, and whispered, “Knowest what I heard from Kopovski’s lips when I was coming to thee?”
“What was it? Something amusing?”
“Just as one thinks: I heard him say thou to Pani Aneta.”
“Stas!”
“As I love thee, he did. He said to her, ‘Thou art always so.’”
“Maybe he was quoting some other person’s words.”
“I don’t know. Maybe he was; maybe he wasn’t. Besides, they may have been in love sometime.”
“Fi! Be ashamed.”
“Say that to them—or rather to Pani Aneta.”
Marynia, who knew perfectly well that unfaithfulness exists, but looking on it rather as some French literary theory,—she had not even imagined that one might meetsuch a thing at every step and in practice,—began to look now at Pani Aneta with wonder, and at the same time with the immense curiosity with which honest women look at those who have had boldness to leave the high-road for by-paths. She had too truthful a nature, however, to believe in evil immediately, and she did not; and somehow it would not find a place in her head that really there could be anything between those two, if only because of the unheard-of stupidity of Kopovski. She noticed, however, that they were talking with unusual vivacity.
But they, sitting somewhat apart between a great porcelain vase and the piano, had not only been talking, but arguing for a quarter of an hour.
“I fear that he has heard something,” said Pani Aneta, with a certain alarm, after Pan Stanislav had passed. “Thou art never careful.”
“Yes, it is always my fault! But who is forever repeating, ‘Be careful’?”
In this regard both were truly worthy of each other, since he could foresee nothing because of his dulness, and she was foolhardy to recklessness. Two persons knew their secret now; others might divine it. One needed all the infatuation of Osnovski not to infer anything. But it was on that that she reckoned.
Meanwhile Kopovski looked at Pan Stanislav and said,—
“He has heard nothing.”
Then he returned to the conversation which they had begun; but now he spoke in lower tones and in French,—
“Didst thou love me, thou wouldst be different; but since thou dost not love, what harm could that be to thee?”
Then he turned on her his wonderful eyes without mind, while she answered impatiently,—
“Whether I love, or love not, Castelka never! Dost understand? Never! I would prefer any other to her, though, if thou wert in love with me really, thou wouldst not think of marriage.”
“I would not think of it, if thou wert different.”
“Be patient.”
“Yes! till death? If I married Castelka, we should then be near really.”
“Never! I repeat to thee.”
“Well, but why?”
“Thou wouldst not understand it. Besides, Castelka is betrothed; it is too bad to lose time in discussing this.”
“Thou thyself hast commanded me to pay court to her, and now art casting reproaches. At first I thought of nothing; but afterward she pleased me,—I do not deny this. She pleases all; and, besides, she is a good match.”
Pani Aneta began to pull at the end of her handkerchief.
“And thou hast the boldness to say to my eyes that she pleased thee,” said she at last. “Is it I, or she?”
“Thou, but thee I cannot marry; her I could, for I saw well that I pleased her.”
“If thou wert better acquainted with women, thou wouldst be glad that I did not let it go to marriage. Thou dost not know her. She is just like a stick, and, besides, is malicious in character. Dost thou not understand that I told thee to pay court to her out of regard to people, and to Yozio? Otherwise, how explain thy daily visits?”
“I could understand, wert thou other than thou art.”
“Do not oppose me. I have fixed all, as thou seest, to keep thy portrait from being finished, and give thee a chance to visit Prytulov. Steftsia Ratkovski, a distant relative of Yozio’s, will be there soon. Dost understand? Thou must pretend that she pleases thee; and I will talk what I like into Yozio. In this way thou wilt be able to stop at Prytulov. I have written to Panna Ratkovski already. She is not a beauty, but agreeable.”
“Always pretence, and nothing for it.”
“Suppose I should say to thee: Don’t come.”
“Anetka!”
“Then be patient. I cannot be angry long with thee. But now go thy way. Amuse Pani Mashko.”
And a moment later Pani Aneta was alone. Her eyes followed Kopovski a while with the remnant of her anger, but also with a certain tenderness. In the white cravat, with his dark tint of face, he was so killingly beautiful that she could not gaze at him sufficiently. Lineta was now the betrothed of another; still the thought seemed unendurable that that daily rival of hers might possess him, if not as husband, as lover. Pani Aneta, in telling Kopovski that she would yield him to any other rather than to Castelka, told the pure truth. That was for her a question, at once of an immense weakness for that dull Endymion, and a question of self-love. Her nerves simply could not agree to it. Certain inclinations of the senses, which she herself looked on as lofty, and rising from a Grecian nature, butwhich at the root of the matter were common, took the place in her of morality and conscience. By virtue of these inclinations, she fell under the irresistible charm of Kopovski; but having not only a heated head, but a temperament of fishy coldness, she preferred, as Pan Ignas divined intuitively, the play with evil to evil itself. Holding, in her way, to the principle, “If not I, then no one!” she was ready to push matters to the utmost to prevent the marriage of Kopovski to Lineta, the more since she saw that Lineta, in spite of all her “words” about Kopovski, in spite of the irony with which she had mentioned him and her jests about the man, was also under the charm of his exceptional beauty; that all those jests were simply self-provocation, under which was concealed an attraction; and that, in general, the source of her pleasure and Lineta’s was the same. But she did not observe that, for this reason, she at the bottom of her soul had contempt for Lineta.
She knew that Lineta, through very vanity, would not oppose her persuasion, and the homages of a man with a famous name. In this way, she had retained Kopovski, and, besides, had produced for herself a splendid spectacle, on which women, who are more eager for impressions than feelings, look always with greediness. Besides, if that famous Pan Ignas, when his wife becomes an every-day object, should look somewhere for a Beatrice, he might find her. Little is denied men who have power to hand down, to the memory of mankind and the homage of ages, the name of a loved one. These plans for the future Pani Aneta had not outlined hitherto expressly; but she had, as it were, a misty feeling that her triumph would in that case be perfect.
Moreover, she had triumphed even now, for all had gone as she wished. Still Kopovski made her angry. She had considered him as almost her property. Meanwhile, she saw that, so far as he was able to understand anything, he understood this, that the head does not ache from abundance, and that Aneta might not hinder Lineta. That roused her so keenly that at moments she was thinking how to torment him in return. Meanwhile, she was glad that Lineta paraded herself as being in love really, soul and heart, with Pan Ignas, which for Kopovski was at once both a riddle and a torture.
These thoughts flew through her head like lightning, and flew all of them in the short time that she was alone.At last she was interrupted by the serving of supper. Osnovski, who desired that his wife should be surrounded by such homage from every one as he himself gave, and to whom it seemed that what he had said to Pan Ignas about his married life was very appropriate, had the unhappy thought to repeat at the first toast the wish that Pan Ignas might be as happy with Lineta as he with his wife. Hereupon, the eyes of Pan Ignas and Pan Stanislav turned involuntarily to Pani Osnovski, who looked quickly at Pan Stanislav, and doubts on both sides disappeared in one instant; that is, she gained the perfect certainty that Pan Stanislav had heard them, and he, that Kopovski had not quoted the words of another, but had saidthouin direct speech to the lady. Pani Aneta had guessed even that Pan Stanislav must have spoken of that to Marynia, for she had seen how, after he had passed, both had talked and looked a certain time at her with great curiosity. The thought filled her with anger and a desire of revenge, so that she listened without attention to the further toasts, which were given by her husband, by Pan Ignas, by Plavitski, and at last by Pan Bigiel.
But, after supper, it came to her head all at once to arrange a dancing-party; and “Yozio,” obedient as ever to each beck of hers, and, besides, excited after feasting, supported the thought enthusiastically. Marynia could not dance, but besides her there were five youthful ladies,—Lineta, Pani Osnovski, Pani Bigiel, Pani Mashko, and Panna Zavilovski. The last declared, it is true, that she did not dance; but, since people said that she neither danced, talked, ate, nor drank, her refusal did not stop the readiness of others. Osnovski, who was in splendid feeling, declared that Ignas should take Lineta in his arms, for surely he had not dared to do so thus far.
It turned out, however, that Pan Ignas could not avail himself of Pan Osnovski’s friendly wishes, for he had never danced in his life, and had not the least knowledge of dancing, which not only astonished Pani Bronich and Lineta, but offended them somewhat. Kopovski, on the other hand, possessed this art in a high degree; hence he began the dance with Lineta, as the heroine of the evening. They were a splendid pair, and eyes followed them involuntarily. Pan Ignas was forced to see her golden head incline toward Kopovski’s shoulder, to see their bosoms near each other, to see both whirling to the time of Bigiel’swaltz, joined in the harmony of movement, blending, as it were, into one tune and one unity. Even from looking at all this, he grew angry, for he understood that there was a thing which he did not know, which would connect Lineta with others and disconnect her with him. Besides, people about him mentioned the beauty of the dancing couple; and Svirski, sitting near him, said,—
“What a beautiful man! If there were male houris, as there are female, he might be a houri in a Mussulman paradise for women.”
They waltzed long; and there was in the tones of the music, as in their movements, something, as it were, intoxicating, a kind of dizzy faintness, which incensed Pan Ignas still more, for he recalled Byron’s verses on waltzing,—verses as cynical as they are truthful. At last, he said to himself, with complete impatience: “When will that ass let her go?” He feared, too, that Kopovski might tire her too much.
The “ass” let her go at last at the other end of the hall, and straightway took Pani Aneta. But Lineta ran up to her betrothed, and, sitting down at his side, said,—
“He dances well, but he likes to exhibit his skill, for he has nothing else. He kept me too long. I have lost breath a little, and my heart is beating. If you could put your hand there and feel how it beats—but it is not proper to do so. How wonderful, too, for it is your property.”
“My property!” said Pan Ignas, holding out his hand to her. “Do not say ‘your’ to me to-day, Lineta.”
“Thy property,” she whispered, and she did not ward off his hand, she only let it drop down a little on her robe, so that people might not notice it.
“I was jealous of him,” said Pan Ignas, pressing her fingers passionately.
“Dost wish I will dance no more to-day? I like to dance, but I prefer to be near thee.”
“My worshipped one!”
“I am a stupid society girl, but I want to be worthy of thee. As thou seest, I love music greatly,—even waltzes and polkas. Somehow they act on me wonderfully. How well this Pan Bigiel plays! But I know that there are things higher than waltzes. Hold my handkerchief, and drop my hand for a moment. It is thy hand, but I must arrange my hair. It is time to dance; to dance is notwrong, is it? But if thou wish, I will not dance, for I am an obedient creature. I will learn to read in thy eyes, and afterward shall be like water, which reflects both clouds and clear weather. So pleasant is it for me near thee! See how perfectly those people dance!”
Words failed Pan Ignas; only in one way could he have shown what he felt,—by kneeling before her. But she pointed out Pan Stanislav, who was dancing with Pani Mashko, and admired them heartily.
“Really he dances better than Pan Kopovski,” said she, with gleaming eyes; “and she, how graceful! Oh, I should like to dance even once with him—if thou permit.”
Pan Ignas, in whom Pan Stanislav did not rouse the least jealousy, said,—
“My treasure, as often as may please thee. I will send him at once to thee.”
“Oh, how perfectly he dances! how perfectly! And this waltz, it is like some delightful shiver. They are sailing, not dancing.”
Of this opinion, too, was Marynia, who, following the couple with her eyes, experienced a still greater feeling of bitterness than Pan Ignas a little while earlier; for it seemed a number of times to her that Pan Stanislav had looked again on Pani Mashko with that expression with which he had looked when Svirski supposed that either he was annoyed, or was angry. But now such a supposition was impossible. At moments both dancers passed near her; and then she saw distinctly how his arm embraced firmly Pani Mashko’s waist, how his breath swept around her neck, how his nostrils were dilated, how his glances slipped over her naked bosom. That might be invisible for others, but not for Marynia, who could read in his face as in a book. And all at once the light of the lamps became dark in her eyes; she understood that it was one thing not to be happy, and another to be unhappy. This lasted briefly,—as briefly as one tact of the waltz, or one instant in which a heart that is straitened ceases to beat; but it sufficed for the feeling that life in the future might be embroiled, and present love changed into a bitter and contemptuous sorrow. And that feeling filled her with terror. Before her was drawn aside, as it were, a curtain, behind which appeared unexpectedly all the sham of life, all the wretchedness and meanness of human nature. Nothing had happened yet, absolutely nothing; but a visioncame to Marynia, in which she saw that there might be a time when her confidence in her husband would vanish like smoke.
She tried, however, to ward away doubts; she wished to talk into herself that he was under the influence of the dance, not of his partner; she preferred not to believe her eyes. Shame seized her for that “Stas” of whom she had been so proud up to that time; and she struggled with all her strength against that feeling, understanding that it was a question of enormous importance, and that from that little thing, and from that fault of his, hitherto almost nothing, might flow results which would act on their whole future.
At that moment was heard near her the jesting voice of Pani Aneta.
“Ah, Marynia, nature has created, as it were, purposely, thy husband and Pani Mashko to waltz with each other. What a pair!”
“Yes,” answered Marynia, with an effort.
And Pani Aneta twittered on: “Perfectly fitted for each other. It is true that in thy place I should be a little jealous; but thou, art thou jealous? No? I am outspoken, and confess freely that I should be; at least, it was so with me once. I know, for that matter, that Yozio loves me; but these men, even while loving, have their little fancies. Their heads do not ache the least on that score; and that our hearts ache, they do not see, or do not wish to see. The best of them are not different. Yozio? true! he is a model husband; and dost thou think that I do not know him? Now, when I have grown used to him, laughter seizes me often, for they are all so awkward! I know the minute that Yozio is beginning to be giddy; and knowest thou what my sign is?”
Marynia was looking continually at her husband, who had ceased now to dance with Pani Mashko, and had taken Lineta. She felt great relief all at once, for it seemed to her that “Stas,” while dancing with Lineta, had the same expression of face. Her suspicions began to fade; and she thought at once that she had judged him unjustly, that she herself was not good. She had never seen him dancing before; and the thought came to her head that perhaps he danced that way always.
Then Pani Aneta repeated, “Dost know how I discover when Yozio is beginning to play pranks?”
“How?” inquired Marynia, with more liveliness.
“I will teach thee the method. Here it is: the moment he has an unclean conscience, he puts suspicion on others, and shares these suspicions with me, so as to turn attention from himself. Dear Yozio! that is their method. How they lie, even the best of them!”
When she had said this, she went away, with the conviction that on the society chessboard she had made a very clever move; and it was clever. In Marynia’s head a kind of chaos now rose; she knew not what to think at last of all this. Great physical weariness seized her also. “I am not well,” said she to herself; “I am excited, and God knows what may seem to me.” And the feeling of weariness increased in her every moment. That whole evening seemed a fever dream. Pan Stanislav had mentioned Pani Aneta as a faith-breaking woman; Pani Aneta had said the same of all husbands. Pan Stanislav had been looking with dishonest eyes on Pani Mashko, and Pani Aneta had saidthouto Kopovski. To this was added the dancing couples, the monotonous tact of the waltz, the heads of the lovers, and finally, a storm, which was heard out of doors. What a mixture of impressions! what a phantasmagoria! “I am not well,” repeated Marynia in her mind. But she felt also that peace was leaving her, and that this was the unhappy evening of her life. She wished greatly to go home, but, as if to spite her, there was a pouring rain. “Let us go home! let us go home!” If “Stas” should say some good and cordial word besides. Let him only not speak of Pani Aneta or Pani Mashko; let him speak of something that related to him and her, and was dear to them.
“Oh, how tired I am!”
At that moment Pan Stanislav came to her; and at sight of her poor, pale face, he felt a sudden sympathy, to which his heart, kind in itself, yielded easily.
“My poor dear,” said he, “it is time for thee to go to bed; only let the rain pass a little. Thou art not afraid of thunder?”
“No; sit near me.”
“The summer shower will pass soon. How sleepy thou art!”
“Perhaps I ought not to have come, Stas. I have great need of rest.”
He had a conscience which was not too clear, and wasangry at himself. But it had not come to his mind that what she was saying of rest might relate to him and his attempts and conduct with Pani Mashko; but he felt all at once that if she had suspected, her peace would be ruined forever through his fault, and since he was not a spoiled man, fear and compunction possessed him.
“To the deuce with all dances!” said he. “I will stay at home, and take care of that which belongs to me.”
And he said this so sincerely that a shadow of doubt could not pass through her head, for she knew him perfectly. Hence a feeling of immense relief came upon her.
“When thou art with me,” said she, “I feel less tired right away. A moment ago I felt ill somehow. Aneta sat near me; but what can I care for her? When out of health, one needs a person who is near, who is one’s own, and reliable. Perhaps thou wilt scold me for what I say, since it is strange to say such things at a party, among strangers, and so long after marriage. I understand myself that it is somewhat strange; but I need thee really, for I love thee much.”
“And I love thee, dear being,” answered Pan Stanislav, who felt then that love for her could alone be honest and peaceful.
Meanwhile the rain decreased; but there was lightning yet, so that the windows of the villa were bright blue every moment. Bigiel, who, after the dancing, had played a prelude of Chopin’s, was talking now with Lineta and Pan Ignas about music, and, defending his idea firmly, said,—
“That Bukatski invented various kinds and types of women; and I have my musical criterion. There are women who love music with their souls, and there are others who love it with their skin,—these last I fear.”
A quarter of an hour later the short summer storm had passed by, and the sky had cleared perfectly; the guests began to prepare for home. But Zavilovski remained longer than others, so that he might be the last to say good-night to Lineta.
Out of fear for Marynia, Pan Stanislav gave command to drive the carriage at a walk. The picture of her husband dancing with Pani Mashko was moving in her tortured, head continually. Pani Aneta’s words, “Oh, how they lie! even the best of them,” were sounding in her ears. But Pan Stanislav supported her meanwhile with his arm,and held her resting against him during the whole way; hence her disquiet disappeared gradually. She wished from her soul to put some kind of question to him, from which he might suspect her fears and pacify her. But after a while she thought: “If he did not love me, he would not show anxiety; he could be cruel more readily than pretend. I will not ask him to-day about anything.” Pan Stanislav, on his part, evidently under the influence of the thought which moved in his head, and under the impression that she alone might be his right love and true happiness, bent down and kissed her face lightly.
“I will not ask him about anything to-morrow either,” thought Marynia, resting her head on his shoulder. And after a while she thought again, “I will never tell him anything.” And fatigue, both physical and mental, began to overpower her, so that before they reached home her eyes were closed, and she had fallen asleep on his arm.
Pani Bronich was sitting, meanwhile, in the drawing-room, looking toward the glass door of the balcony, to which the betrothed had gone out for a moment to breathe the air freshened by rain, and say good-night to each other without witnesses. After the storm the night had become very clear, giving out the odor of wet leaves; it was full of stars, which were as if they had bathed in the rain, and were smiling through tears. The two young people stood some time in silence, and then began to say that they loved each other with all their souls; and at last Pan Ignas stretched forth his hand, on which a ring was glittering, and said,—
“My greatly beloved! I look at this ring, and cannot look at it sufficiently. To this moment it has seemed to me that all this is a dream, and only now do I dare to think that thou wilt be mine really.”
Then Lineta placed the palm of her hand on his, so that the two rings were side by side; and she said, with a voice of dreamy exaltation,—
“Yes; the former Lineta is no longer in existence, only thy betrothed. Now we must belong with our whole lives to each other; and it is a marvel to me that there should be such power in these little rings, as if something holy were in them.”
Pan Ignas’s heart was overflowing with happiness, calm, and sweetness.
“Yes,” said he; “for in the ring is the soul, whichyields itself, and in return receives another. In such a golden promise is ingrafted everything which in a man says, ‘I wish, I love, and promise.’”
Lineta repeated like a faint echo, “I wish, I love, and promise.”
Next he embraced her and held her long at his breast, and then began to take farewell. But, borne away by the might of love and the impulse of his soul, he made of that farewell a sort of religious act of adoration and honor. So he gave good-night to those blessed hands which had given him so much happiness, and good-night to that heart which loved him, and good-night to the lips which had confessed love, and good-night to the clear eyes through which mutuality gazed forth at the poet; and at last the soul went out of him, and changed itself, as it were, into a shining circle, around that head which was dearest in the world and worshipped.
“Good-night!”
After a while Pani Bronich and Lineta were alone in the drawing-room.
“Art wearied, child?” inquired Pani Bronich, looking at Lineta’s face, which was as if roused from sleep.
And Lineta answered,—
“Ah, aunt, I am returning from the stars, and that’s such a long journey.”