“My father asks me to pray you to spend the evening with us. Emilia has moved to her own house, and receives no visits to-day. I send you Litka’s photograph, and beg you to come without fail. I wish to speak with you of Emilia. Papa has invited Pan Bigiel, who has promised to come; therefore you and I can talk quietly.”
“My father asks me to pray you to spend the evening with us. Emilia has moved to her own house, and receives no visits to-day. I send you Litka’s photograph, and beg you to come without fail. I wish to speak with you of Emilia. Papa has invited Pan Bigiel, who has promised to come; therefore you and I can talk quietly.”
Pan Stanislav, after reading the letter, dressed, read a certain time, then went to the Plavitskis’. Bigiel had been there a quarter of an hour, and was playing piquet with Plavitski; Marynia was sitting at some distance, by a small table, occupied in work of some kind. After he had greeted all, Pan Stanislav sat near her,—
“I thank you most earnestly for the photograph,” began he. “I saw it unexpectedly, and Litka stood before my eyes in such form that I could not control myself. Moments like that are the measure of sorrow, of which a man cannot even give account to himself. I thank you most earnestly, and for the four birches too. Touching Pani Emilia, I know everything from Vaskovski. Is this merely a project, or a fixed resolve?”
“Rather a fixed resolve,” answered Marynia; “and what do you think?”
Marynia raised her eyes to him as if waiting for some counsel.
“She has not strength for it,” said she, finally.
Pan Stanislav was silent a while; then he opened his arms helplessly, and said,—
“I have talked about this with Vaskovski. I attacked him, since I thought that the idea was his; but he swore to me that he had nothing to do with it. He asked then what other consolation I could think out for her, and I could give him no answer. What in life has remained to her really?”
“What?” returned Marynia, in a low voice.
“Do I not understand, think you, whence that resolve came? She does not wish to violate her religious principles in any way, but she wants to die as soon as possible; she knows that those duties are beyond her strength, and therefore she assumes them.”
“True,” answered Marynia; and she inclined her face so closely to her work that Pan Stanislav saw only the parting of the dark hair on her small head. Before her stood a box full of pearls, which she was sewing on to various articles to be used in a lottery for benevolent purposes; and tears, which were flowing from her eyes, began to drop on those pearls.
“I see that you are weeping,” said Pan Stanislav.
She raised tearful eyes to him, as if to say, “Before thee I shall not hide tears,” and answered, “I know that Emilia is doing well, but such a pity—”
Pan Stanislav, partly from emotion, and partly because he knew not himself what to answer, kissed her hand for the first time.
Pearls began then to drop more thickly from Marynia’s eyes, so that she had to rise and go out. Pan Stanislav approached the players, as Plavitski was saying in a sour, outspoken tone, to his partner,—
“Rubicon after Rubicon. Ha! it is difficult. You represent new times, and I old traditions. I must be beaten.”
“What has that to do with piquet?” asked Bigiel, calmly.
Marynia returned soon, with the announcement that tea was ready; her eyes were somewhat red, but her face wasclear and calm. When, a little later, Bigiel and Plavitski sat down at cards again, she conversed with Pan Stanislav in that quiet, confiding tone which people use who are very near to each other, and who have many mutual relations. It is true that those mutual relations between them had been created by the death of Litka and the misfortune of Pani Emilia,—hence the conversation could not be gladsome; but in spite of that, Marynia’s eyes, if not her lips, smiled at Pan Stanislav, and were at once thoughtful and clear.
Later in the evening, after his departure, Marynia did not name him in her mind, when she thought of him, otherwise, than “Pan Stas.”
Pan Stanislav, on his part, returned home feeling calmer by far than he had since Litka’s death. While pacing his chamber, he made frequent halts before the little girl’s photograph, and looked, too, at the four birches painted by Marynia. He thought that the bond fastened between him and Marynia by Litka was becoming closer each day, as if without any one’s will, and simply by some mysterious force of things. He thought, too, that if he lacked the former original desire to make that bond permanent, his courage would almost fail to cut it decisively, especially so soon after Litka’s death. Late in the night he sat down to the lists sent by Mashko. At times, however, he made mistakes in the reckoning, for he saw before him Marynia’s head inclining forward, and her tears falling on the box of pearls.
Next morning he bought the oak in Kremen, very profitably, for that matter.
Mashko returned in two weeks from St. Petersburg, well pleased with his arrangements for credit, and bringing important news, which had come to him, as he stated, in a way purely confidential,—news not known yet to any man. The preceding harvest had been very poor throughout the whole empire; here and there hunger had begun to appear. It was easy to divine, therefore, that, before spring, supplies would be gone in whole neighborhoods, and that the catastrophe of hunger might become universal. In view of this, people of the inner circle began to whisper about the chance of stopping the grain export; and this kind of echo Mashko brought back, with the assurance that it came to his ears through people extremely well versed in affairs. This news struck Pan Stanislav so vividly that he shut himself in for some days, pencil in hand; then he hurried to Bigiel with the proposition that the ready money at command of the house, as well as its credit, should be turned to prompt purchases of grain. Bigiel was afraid, but he began by being afraid of every new enterprise. Pan Stanislav did not conceal from him that this would be a large operation, on the success or failure of which their fate might depend. Complete failure, however, was little likely, and success might make them really rich at one sweep. It was to be foreseen that, in view of the lack of grain, prices would rise in every event. It was also to be foreseen that the law would limit the possibility of making new contracts with foreign merchants, but would respect contracts made before its promulgation; but even if it failed in this regard, the rise of prices in the country itself was a thing almost certain. Pan Stanislav had foreseen and calculated everything, in so far as man could; and Bigiel, who, in spite of his caution, was a person of judgment, was forced to confess that the chances of success were really considerable, and that it would be a pity to miss the opportunity.
In fact, after a number of new consultations, during which Bigiel’s opposition grew weaker and weaker, they decided on that which Pan Stanislav wished; and after acertain time their chief agent, Abdulski, went out with power to make contracts in the name of the house, as well for grain on hand as for grain not threshed yet.
After Abdulski’s departure, Bigiel went to Prussia. Pan Stanislav remained alone at the head of the house, toiled from morning till evening, and made scarcely a visit. But time did not drag, for he was roused by hope of great profit and a future of fuller activity.
Pan Stanislav, in throwing himself into that speculation, and drawing in Bigiel, did so, first of all, because he thought it good; but he had another thought, too,—the mercantile house with all its affairs was too narrow a field for his special training, abilities, and energies, and Pan Stanislav felt this. Finally, what was the question in affairs handled by the house? To buy cheap, sell dear, and put the profit in a safe; that was its one object. Purchases direct, or through another,—nothing more. Pan Stanislav felt confined in those limits. “I should like to dig up something, or make something,” said he to Bigiel, in moments of dissatisfaction and distaste; “at the root of the matter we are simply trying to direct to our own pockets some current from that stream of money which is flowing in the business of men, but we produce nothing.”
And that was true. Pan Stanislav wished to advance to property, to acquire capital, and then undertake some very large work, giving a wider field for labor and creativeness.
The opportunity had come, as it seemed to him; hence he grasped with both hands at it. “I will think of other things afterward,” thought he.
By “other things,” he meant his affairs of mind and heart,—that is, his relations to religion, people, country, woman. He understood that to be at rest in life one must explain these relations, and stand on firm feet. There are men who all their lives do not know their position with reference to these principles, and whom every wind turns toward a new point. Pan Stanislav felt that a man should not live thus. In his state of mind, as it then was, he saw that these questions might be decided in a manner direct to dryness, as well as positive to materialism, and in general negatively; but he understood that they must be decided.
“I wish to know clearly whether I am bound to something or not,” thought he.
Meanwhile he labored, and saw people little; he couldnot withdraw from them altogether. He convinced himself, also, that questions most intimately personal cannot be decided otherwise than internally, otherwise than by one’s own brain or heart, within the four walls of the body; but that most frequently certain external influences, certain people, near or distant, hasten the end of meditation, and the decisions flowing from it. This happened at his farewell with Pani Emilia, who was now shortening daily, and almost feverishly, the time before her entrance on her novitiate with the Sisters of Charity.
Amid all his occupations, Pan Stanislav did not cease to visit her; but a number of times he failed to find her at home. Once he met Pani Bigiel at her house, and also Pani and Panna Kraslavski, whose presence constrained him in a high degree. Afterward, when Marynia informed him that Pani Emilia would begin her novitiate in a few days, he went to take farewell of her.
He found her calm and almost joyous, but his heart was pained when he looked at her. Her face was transparent in places, as if formed of pearl; the blue veins appeared through the skin on her temples.
She was very beautiful, in a style almost unearthly, but Pan Stanislav thought: “I will take the last leave of her, for she will not hold out even a month; from one more attachment, one more grief and unhappiness.”
She spoke to him of her decision as of a thing the most usual, to be understood of itself,—the natural outcome of what had happened, the natural refuge from a life deprived of every basis. Pan Stanislav understood that for him to dissuade her would be purely conscienceless, and an act devoid of sense.
“Will you remain in Warsaw?” asked he.
“I will, for I wish to be near Litka; and the mother superior promised that I should be in the house first, and afterward, when I learn something, in one of the hospitals. Unless unusual events come to pass, while I am in the house I shall be free to visit Litka every Sunday.”
Pan Stanislav set his teeth, and was silent; he looked only at the delicate hands of Pani Emilia, thinking in his soul,—
“She wishes to nurse the sick with those hands.”
But at the same time he divined that she wanted, beyond all, something else. He felt that under her calmness and resignation there was immense pain, strong as death, andcalling for death with all the powers of her heart and soul; but she wished death to come without her fault, not through her sin, but her service,—her reward for that service was to be her union with Litka.
And now, for the first time, Pan Stanislav understood the difference between pain and pain, between sorrow and sorrow. He, too, loved Litka; but in him, besides sorrow for her, and remembrance of her, there was something else,—a certain interest in life, a certain curiosity touching the future, certain desires, thoughts, tendencies. To Pani Emilia there remained nothing,—it was as if she had died with Litka; and if anything in the world occupied her yet, if she loved those who were near her, it was only for Litka, through Litka, and in so far as they were connected with Litka.
These visits and that farewell were oppressive to Pan Stanislav. He had been deeply attached to Pani Emilia, but now he had the feeling that the cord binding them had snapped once and forever, that their roads parted at that moment, for he was going farther by the way of life; she, however, wished her life to burn out as quickly as possible, and had chosen labor,—blessed, it is true,—but beyond her strength, so as to make death come more quickly.
This thought closed his lips. In the last moments, however, the attachment which he had felt for her from of old overcame him; and he spoke with genuine emotion while kissing her hand.
“Dear, very dear lady, may God guard and comfort you!”
Here words failed him; but she said, without dropping his hand,—
“Till I die, I shall not forget you, since you loved Litka so much. I know, from Marynia, that Litka united you and her; and for that reason I know that you will be happy, otherwise God would not have inspired her. As often as I see you in life, I shall think that Litka made you happy. Let her wish be accomplished at the earliest, and God bless you both!”
Pan Stanislav said nothing; but, when returning home, he thought,—
“Litka’s will! She does not even admit that Litka’s will can remain unaccomplished; and how was I to tell her that the other is not for me now what she once was?”
Still Pan Stanislav felt with increasing distinctness thatit was not right to remain as he was any longer, and that those bonds connecting him with Marynia ought soon to be tightened, or broken, so as to end the strange condition, and the misunderstandings and sorrows which might rise from it. He felt the need of doing this quickly, so as to act with honor; and new alarm seized him, for it seemed that, no matter how he acted, his action would not bring him happiness.
When he reached home, he found a letter from Mashko, which read as follows,—
“I have called on thee twice to-day. Some lunatic has insulted me before my subordinates on account of the oak which I sold thee. His name is Gantovski. I need to speak with thee, and shall come again before evening.”
“I have called on thee twice to-day. Some lunatic has insulted me before my subordinates on account of the oak which I sold thee. His name is Gantovski. I need to speak with thee, and shall come again before evening.”
In fact, he ran in before the expiration of an hour, and asked, without removing his overcoat,—
“Dost thou know that Gantovski?”
“I know him; he is a neighbor and relative of the Plavitskis. What has happened, and how has it happened?”
Mashko removed his overcoat, and said,—
“I do not understand how news of the sale could get out, for I have not spoken of it to any one; and it was important for me that it should not become known.”
“Our agent, Abdulski, went to Kremen to look at the oak. Gantovski must have heard of the sale from him.”
“Listen; this is the event. To-day Gantovski’s card is brought into my office; not knowing who he is, I receive the man. A rough fellow enters, and asks if ’t is true that I sold the oak, and if I wish to depopulate a part of Kremen. Evidently I reply by asking how that may concern him. He answers that I have bound myself to pay old Plavitski a yearly annuity from Kremen; and that, if I ruin the place by a plundering management, there will be nothing through which to compel me. In answer, as thou canst understand, I advise him to take his cap, button up closely, in view of the frost, and go to the place whence he came. Hereupon he falls to making an uproar, calling me a cheat and a swindler. At last he says that he lives in the Hotel Saxe, and goes out. Hast thou the key to this? Canst thou tell me its meaning?”
“Of course. First, this Gantovski is of limited mind, by nature he is rude; second, for whole years he has been in love with Panna Plavitski, and has wished to be her knight.”
“Thou knowest that I have rather cool blood; but, in truth, it seems at times a dream. That a man should permit himself to insult me because I sell my own property, simply passes human understanding.”
“What dost thou think of doing? Old Plavitski will be the first to warm Gantovski’s ears, and force him to beg thy pardon.”
Mashko’s face took on such a cold and determined expression of wrath that Pan Stanislav thought,—
“Well, ‘the bear’ has brewed beer of a kind that he did not expect; now he must drink it.”
“No one has ever offended me without being punished, and no one ever will. This man not only has insulted me, but has done me a wrong beyond estimation.”
“He is a fool, simply irresponsible.”
“A mad dog, too, is irresponsible, but people shoot him in the head. I talk, as thou seest, coolly; listen, then, to what I say: a catastrophe has come to me, from which I shall not rise.”
“Thou art speaking coolly; but anger is stifling thee, and thou art ready to exaggerate.”
“Not in the least; be patient, and hear me to the end. The position is this: If my marriage is stopped, or even put off, a few months, the devils will take me, with my position, my credit, my Kremen, and all that I have. I tell thee that I am travelling with the last of my steam, and I must stop. Panna Kraslavski does not marry me for love, but because she is twenty-nine years of age, and I seem to her, if not the match she dreamed of, at least a satisfactory one. If it shall seem that I am not what she thinks, she will break with me. If those ladies should discover to-day that I sold the oak in Kremen from necessity, I should receive a refusal to-morrow. Now think: the scandal was public, for it was in presence of my subordinates. The matter will not be kept secret. I might explain to those ladies the sale of the oak, but yet I shall be an insulted man. If I do not challenge Gantovski, they may break with me, as a fellow without honor; if I challenge him,—remember that they are devotees, and, besides, women who keep up appearances as no others that I know,—they will break with me then as a man of adventures. If I shoot Gantovski, they will break with me as a murderer; if he hits me, they will break with me as an imbecile, who lets himself be insulted and beaten.In a hundred chances there are ninety that they will act in this way. Is it clear to thee now why I said that the devils will take me, my credit, my position, and Kremen in addition?”
Pan Stanislav waved his hand with all the easy egotism to which a man can bring himself in reference to another, who, at the bottom of things, is of little account to him.
“Bah!” said he; “maybe I will buy Kremen of thee. But the position is difficult. What dost thou think, then, of doing with Gantovski?”
To this Mashko answered: “So far I pay my debts. Thou dost not wish to be my groomsman; wilt thou be my second?”
“That is not refused,” answered Pan Stanislav.
“I thank thee. Gantovksi lives in the Hotel Saxe.”
“I will be with him to-morrow.”
Immediately after Mashko’s departure, Pan Stanislav went to spend the evening at Plavitski’s; on the road he thought,—
“There are no jokes with Mashko, and the affair will not finish in common fashion; but what is that to me? What are they all to me, or I to them? Still, how devilishly alone a man is in the world!”
And all at once he felt that the only person on earth who cared for him, and who thought of him, not as a thing, was Marynia.
And, in fact, when he came, he knew from the very pressure of her hand that this was true. She said to him, in greeting, with her mild and calm voice,—
“I had a presentiment that you would come. See, here is a cup waiting for you.”
When Pan Stanislav came to the Plavitskis’ he found there Gantovski. The young men greeted each other at once with evident coldness and aversion. There was not in the whole world that day an unhappier man than Gantovski. Old Plavitski bantered him as usual, and even more than usual, being in excellent humor because of his relative, the old lady from whom he expected a considerable inheritance. Gantovski’s presence was awkward for Marynia; and she strove in vain to hide this annoyance by kindness and a cordial reception. At last Pan Stanislav almost feigned not to see him. It was evident, too, that Gantovski had not confessed anything before old Plavitski, and that he was trembling lest Pan Stanislav might refer to his adventure with Mashko, or tell it outright.
Pan Stanislav understood this at once, as well as the advantage over “the bear” which was given him by his silence; wishing to use it in the interest of Mashko, he was silent for a time, but could not forego the pleasure of punishing Gantovski in another way. He occupied himself the whole evening with Marynia, as he had not done since Litka’s death. This filled Marynia with evident delight. Leaving Gantovski to her father, she walked with Pan Stanislav through the room and talked confidentially; then they sat under the palm, where Pan Stanislav had seen Pani Emilia after the funeral, and talked about her approaching admission to the order of Sisters of Charity. To Gantovski it seemed at times that only people who were betrothed could speak in that way; and he felt then what must be felt by a soul not in purgatory, for in purgatory a soul has hope yet before it, but what is felt by a soul when entering the gate with the inscription “Lasciate ogni speranza” (Leave every hope). Seeing them together in this way, he thought, too, that perhaps Polanyetski had bought the oak with the land so as to obtain for Marynia even a part of Kremen, and therefore with her will and knowledge. And this being the case, the hair rose on his head at the mere thought of how he had blundered in raising a scandal with Mashko. Plavitski, on his part, hearing his half conscious, but altogether inappropriate answers, amused himself still more at the expense of the “rustic,” who on the city pavement had lost what remained of his wit. Plavitski considered himself now as the model of a man of the “capital.”
The moment came, however, when the young men were left alone, for Marynia was occupied with tea in the next room, and Plavitski had gone for cigars to his study; Pan Stanislav turned then to Gantovski,—
“Let us go together after tea,” said he; “I wish to speak with you touching your collision with Pan Mashko.”
“Of course,” answered Gantovski, gloomily, understanding that Polanyetski was Mashko’s second.
Meanwhile they had to remain for tea, and sit long enough after that, for Plavitski did not like to go to bed early, and summoned Gantovski to a game of chess. During the play, Marynia and Pan Stanislav sat apart and conversed with animation, to the heartfelt torment of “the bear.”
“The arrival of Gantovski must be pleasing to you,” said Pan Stanislav, all at once, “for it brings Kremen to your mind.”
Astonishment flashed over Marynia’s face that he was the first to mention Kremen. She had supposed that, in virtue of a tacit agreement, he would cover that question with silence.
“I think no more now of Kremen,” answered she, after a pause.
This statement was not true, for in her heart’s depth she was sorry for the place in which she had been reared,—the place of her labor for years, and of her shattered hopes; but she thought herself forced to speak thus by duty, and by the feeling for Pan Stanislav, which was increasing continually.
“Kremen,” added she, with a voice of some emotion, “was the cause of our earliest quarrel; and I wish now for concord, concord forever.”
While saying this, she looked into Pan Stanislav’s eyes with a coquetry full of sweetness, which a bad woman is able to put on at any time, but an honest woman only when she is beginning to love.
“She is wonderfully kind,” thought he. Straightway he added aloud, “You might have a fabulous weapon against me, for you might lead me to perdition with kindness.”
“I do not wish to lead you to that,” replied she.
And in sign that she did not, she began to shake her dark, shapely head laughingly; and Pan Stanislav looked at her smiling face, and her mouth a trifle too large, and said mentally,—
“Whether I love her, or love her not, no one attracts me as she does.”
In fact, she had never occupied him and never pleased him more, even when he felt no shade of doubt that he loved her, and when he was struggling with that feeling. But at last he took farewell of her, for it had grown late; and after a while he and Gantovski found themselves on the street.
Pan Stanislav who never had been able to guard himself from impulsiveness, stopped the unfortunate “bear,” and asked almost angrily,—
“Did you know that it was I who bought the oak at Kremen?”
“I did,” answered Gantovski; “for your agent, that man who says that he is descended from Tartars—I forget what his name is—was at my house in Yalbrykov, and told me that it was you.”
“Why, then, did you make the scandal with Pan Mashko, not with me?”
“Do not push me to the wall so,” answered Gantovski, “for I do not like it. I raised the scandal with him, not with you, because the Plavitskis have nothing to do with you; but that man is obliged to pay them yearly from Kremen the amount he has engaged to pay, and if he ruins Kremen, he will have nothing to pay from. If you wished to know why I attacked him, you know now.”
Pan Stanislav had to confess in his soul that there was a certain justice in Gantovski’s answer; hence he began the conversation at once from another side,—
“Pan Mashko has begged me to be his second, that’s why I interfere in this question. I shall call on you to-morrow as a second; but as a private man, and a relative, though a distant one, of Pan Plavitski, I can tell you to-day only this,—that you have rendered the poorest service to Pan Plavitski, and if he and his daughter are left without a morsel of bread, they will have you to thank for it. This is the truth!”
Gantovski’s eyes became perfectly round.
“Without a morsel of bread? They will thank me for it?”
“That is the position,” repeated Pan Stanislav. “But listen carefully. Without reference to the result of the scandal, the circumstances are such that it may have the most fatal results. I say this to you, on my word: you have, perhaps, ruined Pan Plavitski, and taken from him and his daughter the way, or rather the means, of living.”
If Gantovski really did not like to be pressed to the wall, it was time for him then to show his dislike; but Gantovski had lost his head utterly, and stood in amazement, with open mouth, unable to find an answer; and only after a time did he begin,—
“What? How? In what way? Be sure that it will not come to that, even if I have to give them Yalbrykov.”
“Pan Gantovski,” interrupted Pan Stanislav, “it is a pity to lose words. I have known your neighborhood from the time I was a little boy. What is Yalbrykov, and what have you in Yalbrykov?”
It was true, Yalbrykov was a poor little village, with nine vlokas of land; and, besides, Gantovski had, as is usual, inherited debts higher than his ears; so his hands dropped at his sides. It occurred to him, however, that perhaps matters did not stand as Pan Stanislav represented them; and he grasped at this thought as at a plank of salvation.
“I do not understand what you say,” said he. “God is my witness that I would choose my own ruin rather than injure the Plavitskis; and know this, that I would be glad to twist the neck of Pan Mashko; but, if it is necessary,—if it is a question of the Plavitskis,—then let the devils take me first!
“Immediately after the scandal, I went to Pan Yamish, who is here at the session, and told him all. He said that I had committed a folly, and scolded me, it is true. If it were a question of my skin, it would be nothing,—I would not move a finger; but, since it touches something else, I will do what Pan Yamish tells me, even should a thunderbolt split me next moment. Pan Yamish lives at the Hotel Saxe, and so do I.”
They parted on this; and Gantovski went to his hotel, cursing Mashko, himself, and Polanyetski. He felt that it must be as Polanyetski had said,—that some incurable misfortune had happened,—and that he had wrought grievous injustice against that same Panna Marynia for whom he would have given his last drop of blood; he felt that if there had been for him any hope, he had destroyed itcompletely. Plavitski would close his door on him. Panna Marynia would marry Polanyetski, unless he didn’t want her. But who would not want her? And, at the same time, Pan Gantovski saw clearly that among those who might ask her hand, he was the last man she would marry. “What have I? Nothing,” said he to himself; “that measly Yalbrykov, nothing more,—neither good name nor money. Every man knows something; I alone know nothing. Every one means something; I alone mean nothing. That Polanyetski has learning and money; but that I love her better,—the devils to me for that, and as much to her, if I am such an idiot that through loving I harm instead of helping her.”
Pan Stanislav, on his way home, thought of Gantovski in the same way, and in general had not for him even one spark of sympathy. At home he found Mashko, who had been waiting an hour, and who said, as greeting,—
“Kresovski will be the other second.”
Pan Stanislav made somewhat of a wry face, and answered,—
“I have seen Gantovski.”
“And what?”
“He is a fool.”
“He is that, first of all. Hast thou spoken to him in my name?”
“Not in thy name. As a relative of Pan Plavitski, I told him that he had given Pan Plavitski the worst service in the world.”
“You gave no explanations?”
“None. Hear me, Mashko: it is a question for thee of complete satisfaction; it is no point for me that ye should shoot each other. In virtue of what I have told Gantovski, he is ready to agree to all thy conditions. Happily, he has committed himself to Yamish. Yamish is a mild, prudent man, who understands also that Gantovski has acted like an idiot, and will be glad to give him a lesson.”
“Very well,” said Mashko. “Give me a pen and piece of paper.”
“Thou hast them at the desk.”
Mashko sat down and wrote. When he had finished, he gave the written sheet to Pan Stanislav, who read as follows:—
“I testify this day that I attacked Pan Mashko while I was drunk, in a state of unconsciousness, and without giving myself account ofwhat I was saying. To-day, having become sober, in presence of my seconds, the seconds of Pan Mashko, and the persons who were present at the scene, I acknowledge my act as rude and senseless, and turn with the greatest sorrow and contrition to the good sense and kindness of Pan Mashko, begging him for forgiveness, and acknowledging publicly that his conduct was and is in everything above the judgment of men like me.”
“I testify this day that I attacked Pan Mashko while I was drunk, in a state of unconsciousness, and without giving myself account ofwhat I was saying. To-day, having become sober, in presence of my seconds, the seconds of Pan Mashko, and the persons who were present at the scene, I acknowledge my act as rude and senseless, and turn with the greatest sorrow and contrition to the good sense and kindness of Pan Mashko, begging him for forgiveness, and acknowledging publicly that his conduct was and is in everything above the judgment of men like me.”
“Gantovski is to declaim this, and then subscribe it,” said Mashko.
“This is devilishly unmerciful; no one will agree to it,” said Pan Stanislav.
“Dost thou acknowledge that this fool has permitted to himself something unheard of with reference to me?”
“I do.”
“And remember what result this adventure may have for me?”
“It is impossible to know that.”
“Well, I know; but I will tell thee only this much,—those ladies will regret from their souls that they are bound to me, and will use every pretext which will excuse them before society. That is certain; I am ruined almost beyond rescue.”
“The devil!”
“Thou canst understand now that what is troubling me must be ground out on some one, and that Gantovski must pay me for the injustice in one form or another.”
“Neither have I any tenderness for him. Let it be so,” said Pan Stanislav, shrugging his shoulders.
“Kresovski will come for thee to-morrow morning at nine.”
“Very well.”
“Then, till we meet again. By the way, should you see Plavitski to-morrow, tell him that his relative, Panna Ploshovski, from whom he expected an inheritance, has died in Rome. Her will was here with her manager, Podvoyni, and is to be opened to-morrow.”
“Plavitski knows of that already, for she died five days ago.”
Pan Stanislav was left alone. For a certain time he thought of his money without being able to foresee a method by which he might receive it from the bankrupt Mashko, and the thought disturbed him. He remembered, however, that the debt could not be removed from the mortgage on Kremen until it was paid in full; that in this lastcase he would continue as he had been previously,—a creditor of Kremen. Kremen, it is true, was not a much better debtor than Mashko, hence this was no great consolation; but for the time he was forced to be satisfied with it. Later on, something else also came to his head. He remembered Litka, Pani Emilia, Marynia, and he was struck by this,—how the world of women, a world of feelings purely, a world whose great interest lies in living in the happiness of those near us, differs from the world of men, a world full of rivalry, struggles, duels, encounters, angers, torments, and efforts for acquiring property. He recognized at that moment what he had not felt before,—that if there be solace, repose, and happiness on earth, they are to be sought from a loving woman. This feeling was directly opposed to his philosophy of the last few days, hence it disturbed him. But, in comparing further those two worlds, he could not withhold the acknowledgment that that feminine and loving world has its foundation and reason of existence.
If Pan Stanislav had been more intimate with the Holy Scriptures, beyond doubt the words, “Mary has chosen the better part,” would have occurred to him.
Kresovski was almost an hour late on the following morning. He was, according to a noted description among us, one of the administrators of fresh air in the city,—that is, one of the men who do nothing. He had a name sufficiently famous, and had squandered rather a large fortune. On these two foundations he lived, he went everywhere, and was recognized universally as a man of good breeding. How the above titles can provide a man everything is the secret of great cities; it is enough that not only Kresovski’s position was recognized and certain, but he was considered a person to whom it was possible to apply with safety in delicate questions. In courts of honor he was employed as an arbiter; in duels, as a second. High financial circles were glad to invite him to dinners, weddings, christenings, and solemnities of that sort, since he had a patrician baldness, and a countenance extremely Polish; hence he ornamented a table perfectly.
He was a man in the essence of things greatly disenchanted with people, a little consumptive, and very satirical. He possessed, however, a certain share of humor, which permitted him to see the laughable side of things, especially of very small things; in this he resembled Bukatski somewhat, and made sport of his own fault-finding. He permitted others to make sport of it also, but within measure. When the measure was passed, he straightened himself suddenly, and squeezed people to excess; in view of this he was looked on as dangerous. It was said of him that in a number of cases he had found courage where many would have lacked it, and that, in general, he could “carry his nose high.” He did not respect any one nor anything, except his own really very noble physiognomy; time, especially, he did not respect, for he was late always and everywhere. Coming in to Pan Stanislav’s on this occasion, he began at once, after the greeting, to explain his tardiness,—
“Have you not noticed,” asked he, “that if a man is in a real hurry, and very anxious to hasten, the things he needs most vanish purposely? The servant seeks his hat,—it is gone; looks for his overshoes,—they are not there; hunts for his pocket-book,—it is not to be had. I will wager that this is so always.”
“It happens thus,” said Pan Stanislav.
“I have, in fact, invented a cure. When something has gone from me as if it had fallen into water, I sit down, smile, and say aloud: ‘I love to lose a thing in this way, I do passionately;’ my man looks for it, becomes lively, stirs about, passes the time,—that is very wholesome and agreeable. And what will you say? Right away the lost article is found.”
“A patent might be taken for such an invention,” answered Pan Stanislav; “but let us speak of Mashko’s affair.”
“We must go to Yamish. Mashko has sent me a paper which he has written for Gantovski. He is unwilling to change a word; but it is an impossible statement, too harsh,—it cannot be accepted. I understand that a duel is waiting for us, nothing else; I see no other outcome.”
“Gantovski has intrusted himself to Pan Yamish in everything, and he will do all that Yamish commands. But Yamish, to begin with, is also indignant at Gantovski; secondly, he is a sick man, mild, calm, so that who knows that he may not accept such conditions.”
“Pan Yamish is an old dotard,” said Kresovski; “but let us go, for it is late.”
They went out. After a while the sleigh halted before the hotel. Pan Yamish was waiting for them, but he received them in his dressing-gown, for he was really in poor health. Kresovski, looking at his intelligent, but careworn and swollen face, thought,—
“He is really ready to agree to everything.”
“Sit down, gentlemen,” said Pan Yamish; “I came only three days ago, and though I do not feel well, I am glad, for perhaps the affair may be settled. Believe me that I was the first to rub the ears of my water-burner.”
Here he shrugged his shoulders, and, turning to Pan Stanislav, inquired,—
“What are the Plavitskis doing? I have not visited them yet, though I long to see my golden Marynia.”
“Panna Marynia is well,” answered Pan Stanislav.
“But the old man?”
“A few days ago a distant relative of his died,—a very wealthy woman; he is counting, therefore, on an inheritance. He told me so yesterday; but I hear that she hasleft all her property for benevolent purposes. The will is to be opened to-day or to-morrow.”
“May God have inspired her to leave something to Marynia! But let us come to our affair. I need not tell you, gentlemen, that it is our duty to finish it amicably, if we can.”
Kresovski bowed. Introductions like this, which he had heard in his life God knows how often, annoyed him.
“We are profoundly convinced of this duty.”
“So I had hoped,” answered Yamish, benevolently. “I confess myself that Pan Gantovski had not the least right to act as he did. I recognize even as just that he should be punished for it; hence I shall persuade him to all, even very considerable, concessions, fitted to assure proper satisfaction to Pan Mashko.”
Kresovski took from his pocket the folded paper, and gave it, with a smile, to Pan Yamish, saying,—
“Pan Mashko demands nothing more than that Pan Gantovski should read this little document, to begin with, in presence of his own and Pan Mashko’s seconds, as well as in presence of Pan Mashko’s subordinates, who were present at the scene, and then write under it his own respected name.”
Pan Yamish, finding his spectacles among his papers, put them on his nose, and began to read. But as he read, his face grew red, then pale; after that he began to pant. Pan Stanislav and Kresovski could scarcely believe their eyes that that was the same Pan Yamish who a moment before was ready for every concession.
“Gentlemen,” said he, with a broken voice, “Pan Gantovski has acted like a water-burner, like a thoughtless man; but Pan Gantovski is a noble, and this is what I answer in his name to Pan Mashko.”
When he said this, he tore the paper in four pieces, and threw them on the floor.
The thing had not been foreseen. Kresovski began to meditate whether Yamish had not offended his dignity of a second by this act, and in one moment his face began to grow icy, and contract like that of an angry dog; but Pan Stanislav, who loved Pan Yamish, was pleased at his indignation.
“Pan Mashko is injured in such an unusual degree that he cannot ask for less; but Pan Kresovski and I foresaw your answer, and it only increases the respect which we have for you.”
Pan Yamish sat down, and, being somewhat asthmatic, breathed rather heavily for a time; then he grew quiet, and said,—
“I might offer you an apology on the part of Pan Gantovski, but in other expressions altogether; I see, however, that we should be losing time merely. Let us talk at once of satisfaction, weapon in hand. Pan Vilkovski, Pan Gantovski’s other second, will be here soon; and if you can wait, we will fix the conditions immediately.”
“That is called going straight to the object,” said Kresovski, who quite agreed with Pan Yamish.
“But from necessity,—and sad necessity,” replied Yamish.
“I must be in my office at eleven,” said Pan Stanislav, looking at his watch; “but, if you permit, I will run in here about one o’clock, to look over the conditions and sign them.”
“That will do. We cannot draw up conditions that will rouse people’s laughter, that I understand and inform you; but I count on this,—that you, gentlemen, will not make them too stringent.”
“I have no thought, I assure you, of quarrelling to risk another man’s life.” So saying, Pan Stanislav started for his office, where, in fact, a number of affairs of considerable importance were awaiting him, and which, in Bigiel’s absence, he had to settle alone. In the afternoon he signed the conditions of the duel, which were serious, but not too stringent. He went then to dinner, for he hoped to find Mashko in the restaurant. Mashko had gone to Pani Kraslavski’s; and the first person whom Pan Stanislav saw was Plavitski, dressed, as usual, with care, shaven, buttoned, fresh-looking, but gloomy as night.
“What is my respected uncle doing here?” asked Pan Stanislav.
“When I have trouble, I do not dine at home usually, and this to avoid afflicting Marynia,” answered Plavitski. “I go somewhere; and as thou seest, the wing of a chicken, a spoonful of preserve, is all that I need. Take a seat with me, if thou hast no pleasanter company.”
“What has happened?”
“Old traditions are perishing; that has happened.”
“Bah! this is not a misfortune personal to uncle.”
Plavitski glanced at him gloomily and solemnly. “To-day,” said he, “a will has been opened.”
“Well, and what?”
“And what? People are saying now throughout Warsaw: ‘She remembered her most distant relatives!’ Nicely did she remember them! Marynia has an inheritance, has she? Knowest thou how much? Four hundred rubles a year for life. And the woman was a millionnaire! An inheritance like that may be left to a servant, not to a relative.”
“But to uncle?”
“Nothing to me. She left fifteen thousand rubles to her manager, but mentioned no syllable about me.”
“What is to be done?”
“Old traditions are perishing. How many people gained estates formerly through wills, and why was it? Because love and solidarity existed in families.”
“Even to-day I know people on whose heads thousands have fallen from wills.”
“True, there are such,—there are many of them; but I am not of the number.”
Plavitski rested his head on his hand, and from his mouth issued something in the style of a monologue.
“Yes, always somewhere somebody leaves something to somebody.” Here he sighed, and after a while added, “But to me no one leaves anything, anywhere, at any time.”
Suddenly an idea equally cruel and empty occurred to Pan Stanislav on a sudden to cheer up Plavitski; therefore he said,—
“Ai! she died in Rome; but the will here was written long ago, and before that one there was another altogether different, as people tell me. Who knows that in Rome a little codicil may not be found, and that my dear uncle will not wake up a millionnaire some day?”
“That day will not come,” answered Plavitski. Still the words had moved him; he began to gaze at Polanyetski, to squirm as if the chair on which he was sitting were a bed of torture, and said, at last, “And you think that possible?”
“I see in it nothing impossible,” answered Pan Stanislav, with real roguish seriousness.
“If the wish of Providence.”
“And that may be.”
Plavitski looked around the hall; they were alone. He pushed back his chair on a sudden, and, pointing to his shirt-bosom, said,—
“Come here, my boy!”
Pan Stanislav inclined his head, which Plavitski kissed twice, saying at the same time, with emotion,—
“Thou host consoled me; thou hast strengthened me. Let it be as God wills, but thou hast strengthened me. I confess to thee now that I wrote to Panna Ploshovski only to remind her that we were living. I asked her when the rent term of one of her estates would end; I had not, as thou knowest, the intention to take that place, but the excuse was a good one. May God reward thee for strengthening me! The present will may have been made before my letter. She went to Rome later; on the way she must have thought of my letter, and therefore of us; and, to my thinking, that is possible. God reward thee!”
After a while his face cleared up completely; all at once he laid his hand on Pan Stanislav’s knee, and, clicking with his tongue, cried,—
“Knowest what, my boy? Perhaps in a happy hour thou hast spoken; and might we not drink a small bottle of Mouton-Rothschild on account of this codicil?”
“God knows that I cannot,” said Pan Stanislav, who had begun to be a little ashamed of what he had said to the old man. “I cannot, and I will not.”
“Thou must.”
“‘Pon my word, I cannot. I have my hands full of work, and I will not befog my head for anything in the world.”
“A stubborn goat,—a regular goat! Then I will drink half a bottle to the happy hour.”
So he ordered it, and asked,—
“What hast thou to do?”
“Various things. Immediately after dinner I must be with Professor Vaskovski.”
“What kind of a figure is that Vaskovski?”
“In fact,” said Pan Stanislav, “an inheritance has fallen to him from his brother, who was a miner,—an inheritance, and a considerable one. But he gives all to the poor.”
“He gives to the poor, but goes to a good restaurant. I like such philanthropists. If I had anything to give the poor, I would deny myself everything.”
“He was ailing a long time, and the doctor ordered him to eat plentifully. But even in that case he eats only what is cheap. He lives in a poor chamber, and rears birds. Next door he has two large rooms; and knowest,uncle, who passes the night in them? Children whom he picks up on the street.”
“It seemed to me right away that he had something here,” said Plavitski, tapping his forehead with his finger.
Pan Stanislav did not find Vaskovski at home; hence after an interview with Mashko he dropped in to see Marynia about five in the afternoon. His conscience was gnawing him for the nonsense he had spoken to Plavitski. “The old man,” said he to himself, “will drink costly wines on account of that codicil; while to my thinking they are living beyond their means already. The joke should not last too long.”
He found Marynia with her hat on. She was going to the Bigiels’, but received him, and since he had not come for a long time, he remained.
“I congratulate you on the inheritance,” said he.
“I am glad myself,” replied she; “it is something sure, and in our position that is important. For that matter, I should like to be as rich as possible.”
“Why so?”
“You remember what you said once, that you would like to have enough to establish a manufactory, and not carry on a mercantile house. I remember that; and since every one has personal wishes, I should like to have much, much money.”
Then, thinking that she might have said too much, and said it too definitely, she began to straighten the fold of her dress, so as to incline her head.
“I came, for another thing, to beg your pardon,” said Pan Stanislav. “To-day at dinner I told a pack of nonsense to Pan Plavitski, saying that Panna Ploshovski had changed her will, perhaps, and left him a whole estate. Beyond my expectation he took it seriously. I should not wish to have him deceive himself; and if you will permit me, I will go at once to him and explain the matter somehow.”
“I have explained it to him already,” said Marynia, smiling; “he scolded me, and that greatly. You see how you have involved matters. You have cause indeed to beg pardon.”
“Therefore I beg.”
And, seizing her hand, he began to cover it with kisses; and she left it with him completely, repeating as if in sarcasm, but with emotion,—
“Ah, the wicked Pan Stas, the wicked Pan Stas!”
That day Pan Stanislav felt on his lips till he fell asleep the warmth of Marynia’s hand; and he thought neither of Mashko nor Gantovski, but repeated to himself with great persistence,—
“It is time to decide this.”
Kresovski, with a doctor and a case containing pistols, entered one carriage, Pan Stanislav with Mashko another, and the two moved toward Bielany. The day was clear and frosty, full of rosy haze near the ground. The wheels turned with a whining on the frozen snow; the horses were steaming, and covered with frost; on the trees abundant snow was resting.
“Frost that is frost,” said Mashko. “Our fingers will freeze to the triggers. And the delight of removing one’s furs!”
“Then be reconciled; make no delay. My dear man, tell Kresovski to begin the work straightway.”
Here Mashko wiped his damp eye-glass, and added, “Before we reach the place, the sun will be high, and there will be a great glitter from the snow.”
“Finish quickly, then,” answered Pan Stanislav. “Since Kresovski is in time, there will be no waiting for the others; they are used to early rising.”
“Dost know what makes me anxious at this moment?” asked Mashko. “This, that there is in the world one factor with which no one reckons in his plans and actions, and through which everything may be shattered, involved, and ruined,—human stupidity. Imagine me with ten times the mind that I have, and unoccupied with the interests of Pan Mashko. Imagine me, for example, some great statesman, some Bismark or Cavour, who needs to gain property to carry out his plans, and who calculates every step, every word,—what then? A beast like this comes along, stupid beyond human reckoning, and carries all away on his horns. That is something fabulous! Whether this fellow will shoot me or not, is the least account now; but the brute has spoiled my life-work.”
“Who can calculate such a thing?” said Pan Stanislav. “It is as if a roof were to fall on thy head.”
“For that very reason rage seizes me.”
“But as to his shooting thee, don’t think of that.”
Mashko recovered, wiped his glass again, and began,—
“My dear, I see that from the moment of our starting thou hast been observing me a little, and now ’tis thy wish to add to my courage. That is natural. On my part, I must calm thee; and on my word I give assurance that I will not shame thee. I feel a little disquiet,—that is simple; but knowest why? That which constitutes danger of life, the firing at one, is nothing. Let weapons be given me and him; let us into the woods. God knows that I should fire away at that idiot half a day, and meet his shots half a day. I have had a duel already, and know what it is. It is the comedy that disconcerts one, the preparations, the seconds, the idea that men will look at thee, and the fear touching how thou wilt appear, how thou wilt acquit thyself. It is simply a public exhibition, and a question of self-love,—nothing more. For nervous natures a genuine trial. But I am not over nervous. I understand, also, that in this regard I am superior to my opponent, for I am more accustomed to men. ’Tis true such an ass has less imagination, and is not able to think; for example, how he would look as a corpse; how he would begin to decay, and so on. Still I shall be able to command myself better. Besides, I will tell thee another thing: Philosophy is philosophy; but in matters like this the decisive elements are temperament and passion. This duel will not bring me to anything, will not save me in any regard; on the contrary, it may bring me to trouble. But still I cannot deny it to myself, so much indignation has collected in my soul, I so hate that idiot, and would like so to crush and trample him,—that I cease to reason. Thou mayest be certain of one thing,—that as soon as I see the face of the blockhead I shall forget disquiet, forget the comedy, and see only him.”
“I understand that well enough,” said Pan Stanislav.
And the spots on Mashko’s face increased and became blue from the frost, wherewith he had a look as stubborn as it was ugly.
Meanwhile they arrived. Almost simultaneously squeaked the carriage bringing Gantovski, with Yamish and Vilkovski. When they alighted, these gentlemen saluted their opponents; then the seven, counting the doctor, withdrew to the depth of the forest to a place selected on the preceding day by Kresovski.
The drivers, looking at the seven overcoats outlined strangely on the snow, began to mutter to themselves.
“Do you know what is going to happen?” asked one.
“Is it my first time?” answered the other.
“Let the world grow polite; let fools go to fight!”
Meanwhile the seven, clattering on in their heavy overshoes, and blowing lines of white steam from their nostrils, went toward the other end of the forest. On the way, Yamish, somewhat against the rules binding in such cases, approached Pan Stanislav, and began,—
“I wished sincerely that my man should beg pardon of Pan Mashko, but under the conditions it is not possible.”
“I proposed to Mashko, too, to tone down that note, but he would not.”
“Then there is no escape. All this is immensely foolish, but there is no escape!”
Pan Stanislav did not answer, and they walked on in silence. Pan Yamish began to speak again,—
“But I hear that Marynia Plavitski has received some inheritance?”
“She has, but a small one.”
“And the old man?”
“He is angry that the whole property is not left to him.”
Yamish tapped his forehead with his glove. “He has a little something here, that Plavitski;” then, looking around, he said, “Somehow we are going far.”
“We shall be on the ground in a moment.”
And they went on. The sun had risen above the undergrowth; from the trees there fell bluish shadows on the snow; but more and more light was coming into the forest every instant. The crows and daws, hidden somewhere among the tree-tops, shook the snow, dry as down, and it fell without noise to the ground, forming under the trees little pointed piles. Everywhere there was immense silence and rest. Men alone were disturbing it to shoot at each other.
They halted at last on the edge of the forest where it was clean. Then Yamish’s short discourse concerning the superiority of peace over war was listened to by Mashko and Gantovski with ears hidden by fur collars. When Kresovski loaded the pistols, each made his choice; and the two, throwing their furs aside, stood opposite each other with the barrels of their weapons turned upward.
Gantovski breathed hurriedly; his face was red, and his mustaches were in icicles. From his whole posture and face it was clear that the affair disconcerted him greatly; that through shame and force of will he controlled himself; and that, had he followed the natural bent of his feelings, hewould have sprung at his opponent and smashed him with the butt of his pistol, or even with his fist. Mashko, who previously had feigned not to see his opponent, looked at him now with a face full of hatred, stubbornness, and contempt. His cheeks were all in spots. He mastered himself more, however, than Gantovski; and, dressed in a long frock-coat, with a high hat on his head, with his long side-whiskers, he seemed too stiff, too much like an actor playing the rôle of a duelling gentleman.
“He will shoot ‘the bear’ like a dog,” thought Pan Stanislav.
The words of command were heard, and two shots shook the forest stillness. Mashko turned then to Kresovski, and said coolly,—
“I beg to load the pistols.”
But at the same moment at his feet appeared a spot of blood on the snow.
“You are wounded,” said the doctor, approaching quickly.
“Perhaps; load the pistols, I beg.”
At that moment he staggered, for he was wounded really. The ball had carried away the very point of his kneepan. The duel was interrupted; but Gantovski remained some time yet on the spot with staring eyes, astonished at what had happened.
After the first examination of the wound he approached, however, pushed forward by Yamish, and said as awkwardly as sincerely,—
“Now I confess that I was not right in attacking you. I recall everything that I said, and I beg your pardon. You are wounded, but I did not wish to wound you.” After a moment, when he was going away with Yamish and Vilkovski, he was heard to say, “As I love God most sincerely, it was a pure accident; I intended to fire over his head.”
Mashko did not open his mouth that day. To the question of the doctor if the wound caused much pain, he merely shook his head in sign that it did not.
Bigiel, who had just returned from Prussia with his pockets full of contracts, when he heard all that had happened, said to Pan Stanislav,—
“Mashko seems an intelligent man, but, as God lives, every one of us has some whim in his head. He, for example, has credit; he has many splendid business cases; he might have a considerable income, and make a fortune. But no, he wants to force matters, strain his credit to theutmost, buy estates, give himself out as a great proprietor, a lord,—be God knows what, only not what he is. All this is wonderful, and the more so that it is so common. More than once I think that life in itself is not bad, but that all ruin it through want of mental balance, and certain devilish whims,—through a kind of wasp, which every one has behind his collar. I understand that a man wants to have more than he has, and to mean more than he means; but why strive for it in fantastic fashion? I am first to recognize energy and cleverness in Mashko; but, taking everything into consideration, he has something here, as God is true, he has.”
Bigiel now tapped his forehead with his finger a number of times.
Meanwhile Mashko, with set teeth, was suffering, since his wound, though not threatening life, was uncommonly painful. In the evening he fainted twice in presence of Pan Stanislav. Afterward, weakness supervened, during which that boldness of spirit which had upheld the young advocate through the day gave way completely. When the doctor departed, after dressing the wound, Mashko lay quietly for a time, and then began,—
“But I am in luck!”
“Do not think of that,” answered Pan Stanislav; “thou wilt get more fever.”
But Mashko continued, however, “Insulted, ruined, wounded,—all at one blow.”
“I repeat to thee that this is no time to think of that.”
Mashko rested his elbow on the pillow, hissed from pain, and said,—
“Never mind; this is the last time that I shall converse with a decent man. One week or two from now I shall be of those whom people avoid. What do I care for this fever? There is something so unendurable in ruin so complete, in a wreck of fate so utter, that the first idiot, the first goose that comes along will say: ‘I knew that long ago; I foresaw that.’ So it is: all of them foresee everything after the event; and of him whom the thunderbolt has struck, they make in addition a fool, or a madman.”
Pan Stanislav recalled Bigiel’s words at that moment. But Mashko, by a marvellous coincidence, spoke on in such fashion as if wishing to answer those words.
“And dost think that I did not give account to myself that I was going too sharply; that I was hurrying withtoo much force; that I wanted to be something greater than I was; that I carried my nose too high? No one will render me that justice; but knowest thou that I said it to myself? But I said to myself, too: ‘It is needful to do this; this is the one way to rise to distinction. Maybe things are wrong, maybe life, in general, goes backward; but had it not been for that adventure unforeseen, and of unfathomable stupidity, I should have succeeded just because I was such as I was. If I had been a modest man, I should not have got Panna Kraslavski. With us it is necessary always to pretend something; and if the devils take me, it is not through my pride, but that blockhead.”
“But how the deuce art thou to know surely that thy marriage will fail?”
“My dear man, thou hast no knowledge of those women. They agreed on Pan Mashko through lack of something better, for Pan Mashko had good success. But if any shadow falls on my property, my position, my station, they will throw me aside without mercy, and then roll mountains on to me to shield themselves before the world of society. What knowledge hast thou of them? Panna Kraslavski is not Panna Plavitski.”
A moment of silence followed, then Mashko spoke further, with a weakening voice: “She could have rescued me. For her I should have gone on another road,—a far quieter one. In such conditions Kremen would have been saved; the debt on it would have fallen away, as well as Plavitski’s annuity. I should have waded out. Dost thou know that, besides, I fell in love with her in student fashion? It came so, unknown whence. But she chose rather to be angry with thee than love me. Now I understand; there is no help for it.”
Pan Stanislav, who did not relish this conversation, interrupted it, and spoke with a shadow of impatience,—
“It astonishes me that a man of thy energy thinks everything lost, while it is not. Panna Plavitski is a past on which thou hast made a cross, by proposing to Panna Kraslavski. As to the present, thou wert attacked, it is true; but thou hast fought, thou wert wounded, but in such a way that in a week thou wilt be well; and finally, those ladies have not announced that they break with thee. Till thou hast that, black on white, thou hast no right to talk thus. Thou art sick, and that is why thou art reading funeral services over thyself prematurely. But I will tellthee another thing. It is for thee to let those ladies know what has happened. Dost wish, I will go to them to-morrow, then they will act as they please; but let them be informed by thy second, not by city gossips.”
Mashko thought a while, and said: “I wished to write in every case to my betrothed; but if thou go, it will be better. I have no hope that she will hold to me, but it is needful to do what is proper. I thank thee. Thou wilt be able to present the affair from the best side,—only not a word touching troubles of any kind. Thou must lessen the sale of the oak to zero, to a politeness which I wished to show thee. I thank thee sincerely. Say that Gantovski apologized.”
“Hast thou some one to sit with thee?”
“My servant and his wife. The doctor will come again, and bring a surgeon. This pains me devilishly, but I am not ill.”
“Then, till we meet again.”
“Be well. I thank thee—thou art—”
“Sleep soundly.”
Pan Stanislav went out. Along the way he meditated on Mashko’s course, and meditated with a species of anger:
“He is not of the romantic school; still he is inclined to pretend something of that sort. Panna Plavitski! he loved her—he would have gone by another road—she might have saved him!—this is merely a tribute to sentimentality, and, besides, in false coin, since a month later he proposed to that puppet—for money’s sake! Maybe I am duller-witted; I do not understand this, and do not believe in disappointments cured so easily. Had I loved one woman, and been disappointed, I do not think that I should marry another in a month. Devil take me if I should! He is right, however, that Marynia is of a different kind from Kraslavski. There is no need whatever to discuss that; she is different altogether! different altogether!”
And that thought was immensely agreeable to Pan Stanislav. When he reached home, he found a letter from Bukatski, who was in Italy, and a card from Marynia, full of anxiety and questions concerning the duel. There was a request to send news early in the morning of what had happened, especially to inform her if everything was really over, and if no new encounter was threatened. Pan Stanislav, under the influence of the idea that she wasdifferent from Panna Kraslavski, answered cordially, more cordially even than he wished, and commanded his servant to deliver the note at nine the next morning. Then he set about reading Bukatski’s letter, shrugging his shoulders from the very beginning. Bukatski wrote as follows:—