May Sakya Muni obtain for thee blessed Nirvana! Besides this, tell Kaplaner not to forward my three thousand rubles to Florence, but to keep them at my order. These days I have resolved to entertain the design of forming the plan of becoming a vegetarian. Dost note how decisive this is? If the thought does not annoy me, if this plan becomes a determination, and the determination is not beyond my power, I shall cease to be a flesh-eating animal; and life will cost me less money. That is the whole question. As to thee, I beg thee to be satisfied with everything, for life is not worth fatigue.I have discovered why the Slavs prefer synthesis to analysis. It is because they are idlers, and analysis is laborious. A man can synthesize while smoking a cigar after dinner. For that matter, they are right in being idlers. It is comfortably warm in Florence, especially on Lung-Arno. I walk along for myself and make a synthesis of the Florentine school. I have made the acquaintance here of an able artist in water-colors,—a Slav, too, who lives by art; but he proves that art is swinishness, which has grown up from a mercantile need of luxury, and from over-much money, which some pile up at the expense of others. In one word, art is, to his thinking, meanness and injustice. He fell upon me as upon a dog, and asserted that to be a Buddhist and to be occupied with art is the summit of inconsistency; but I attacked him still more savagely, and answered, that to consider consistency as something better than inconsistency was the height of miserable obscurantism, prejudices, and meanness. The man was astonished, and lost speech. I am persuading him to hang himself, but he doesn’t want to. Tell me, art thou sure that the earth turns around the sun, or isn’t this all a joke? For that matter, it is all one to me! In Warsaw I was sorry for that child who died, and here too I think of her frequently. How stupid that was! What is Pani Emilia doing? People have their rôle in the world fixed beforehand, and her rôle came to her with wings and suffering. Why was she good? She would have been happier otherwise. As to thee, O man, show me one kindness. I beg thee, by all things, marry not. Remember that if thou marry, if thou have a son, if thou toil to leave him property, thou wilt do so only for this that that son may be what I am, irreparably so. Farewell burning energy, farewell mercantile house, commission firm, O transitory form, vicious toil, effort for money, future father of a family, rearer of children and trouble. Embrace for me Vaskovski. He, too, is a man of synthesis. May Sakya Muni open thy eyes to know that it is warm in the sun and cool in the shade, and to lie down is better than to stand! ThyBukatski.
May Sakya Muni obtain for thee blessed Nirvana! Besides this, tell Kaplaner not to forward my three thousand rubles to Florence, but to keep them at my order. These days I have resolved to entertain the design of forming the plan of becoming a vegetarian. Dost note how decisive this is? If the thought does not annoy me, if this plan becomes a determination, and the determination is not beyond my power, I shall cease to be a flesh-eating animal; and life will cost me less money. That is the whole question. As to thee, I beg thee to be satisfied with everything, for life is not worth fatigue.
I have discovered why the Slavs prefer synthesis to analysis. It is because they are idlers, and analysis is laborious. A man can synthesize while smoking a cigar after dinner. For that matter, they are right in being idlers. It is comfortably warm in Florence, especially on Lung-Arno. I walk along for myself and make a synthesis of the Florentine school. I have made the acquaintance here of an able artist in water-colors,—a Slav, too, who lives by art; but he proves that art is swinishness, which has grown up from a mercantile need of luxury, and from over-much money, which some pile up at the expense of others. In one word, art is, to his thinking, meanness and injustice. He fell upon me as upon a dog, and asserted that to be a Buddhist and to be occupied with art is the summit of inconsistency; but I attacked him still more savagely, and answered, that to consider consistency as something better than inconsistency was the height of miserable obscurantism, prejudices, and meanness. The man was astonished, and lost speech. I am persuading him to hang himself, but he doesn’t want to. Tell me, art thou sure that the earth turns around the sun, or isn’t this all a joke? For that matter, it is all one to me! In Warsaw I was sorry for that child who died, and here too I think of her frequently. How stupid that was! What is Pani Emilia doing? People have their rôle in the world fixed beforehand, and her rôle came to her with wings and suffering. Why was she good? She would have been happier otherwise. As to thee, O man, show me one kindness. I beg thee, by all things, marry not. Remember that if thou marry, if thou have a son, if thou toil to leave him property, thou wilt do so only for this that that son may be what I am, irreparably so. Farewell burning energy, farewell mercantile house, commission firm, O transitory form, vicious toil, effort for money, future father of a family, rearer of children and trouble. Embrace for me Vaskovski. He, too, is a man of synthesis. May Sakya Muni open thy eyes to know that it is warm in the sun and cool in the shade, and to lie down is better than to stand! Thy
Bukatski.
“Hash!” thought Pan Stanislav. “All this is artificial, all self-deception through a kind of exaggeration. But if a man accustoms himself to this, it will become in time a second nature to him, and, meanwhile, the devils take his reason; his energy and soul decay like a corpse. A man may throw himself headlong into such a hole as Mashko has, or into such a one as Bukatski. In both cases he will go under the ice. What the devil does it mean? Still there must be some healthy and normal life; only it is needful to have a little common sense in the head. But for a man like Bigiel, it is not bad in the world. He has a wife whom he loves, children whom he loves; he works like an ox. At the same time he has a great attachment for people, loves music and his violoncello, on which he plays in the moonlight, with his face raised toward the ceiling. It cannot be said that he is a materialist. No; in him one thing agrees with another somehow, and he is happy.”
Pan Stanislav began to walk through the room, and look from time to time at Litka’s face, smiling from between the birches. The need of balancing accounts with his own self seized hold of him with increasing force. Like a merchant, he set about examining his debit and credit, which, for that matter, was not difficult. On the credit side of his life, his feeling for Litka once occupied the chief place; she was so dear to him in her time that if a year before it had been said, “Take her as your own child,” he would have taken her, and considered that he had something to live for. But now this relation was only a remembrance, and from the rubric of happiness it had passed over to the rubric of misfortune. What was left? First of all, life itself; second, that mental dilettantism, which in every case is a luxury; further, the future, which rouses curiosity; further, the use of material things; and finally, his commercial house. All this had its value; but Pan Stanislav saw that there was a lack of object in it. As to the commercial house, he was pleased with the successes which he experienced, but not with the kind of work which the house demanded; on the contrary, that kind of work was not enough for him,—it was too narrow, too poor, and angered him. On the other hand, dilettantism, books, the world of mind,—all had significance as an ornament of life, but could not become its basis. “Bukatski,” said Pan Stanislav to himself, “has sunk in this up to his ears; he wished to live with it, and has become weak,incompetent, barren. Flowers are good; but whoso wishes to breathe the odor of them exclusively will poison himself.” In truth, Pan Stanislav did not need to be a great sage to see around him a multitude of people who were out of joint, whose health of soul mental dilettantism had undermined,—just as morphine undermines one’s health of body.
This dilettantism had wrought much harm to him, too, if only in this,—that it had made him a skeptic. He had been saved from grievous disease only by a sound organism, which felt the absolute need of expending its superfluous energy. But what will come later? Can he continue in that way? To this Pan Stanislav answered now with a decisive No! Since the business of his house could not fill out his life, and since it was simply perilous to fill it out with dilettantism, it was necessary to fill it out with something else,—to create new worlds, new duties, to open up new horizons; and to do this, he had to do one thing,—to marry.
On a time when he said this to himself, he saw before him a certain undefined form, uniting all the moral and physical requisites, but without a body and without a name. Now it was a real figure; it had calm blue eyes, dark hair, a mouth a trifle too large, and was called Marynia Plavitski. Of any one else there could not be even mention; and Pan Stanislav placed her before himself with such vividness that the veins throbbed in his temples with more life. He was perfectly conscious, however, that something was lacking then in his feeling for Marynia,—namely, that around which the imagination lingers, which dares not ask anything, but hopes everything; which fears, trembles, kneels; which says to the loved woman, “At thy feet;” the love in which desire is at the same time worship, homage,—a feeling which adds a kind of mystic coloring to the relations of a man to a woman; which makes of the man, not merely a lover, but a follower. That had gone. Pan Stanislav, in thinking now of Marynia, thought soberly, almost insolently. He felt that he could go and take her, and have her; and if he did so, it would be for two reasons: first, because Marynia was for him a woman more attractive than all others; and second, reason commanded him to marry, and to marry her.
“She is wonderfully reliable,” thought he; “there is nothing in her fruitless or dried up. Egotism has notdestroyed the heart in her; and it is undoubted that such a one will not think merely of what belongs to her. She is honesty incarnate, duty incarnate; and in life the only need will be to prevent her from thinking too little of herself. If reason commands me to marry, I should commit a folly, were I to look for another.”
Then he asked whether, if he abandoned Marynia, he would not act dishonorably. Litka had united them. Something in his heart revolted at the very thought of opposing the will and sacrifice of that child. If he wished, however, to act against that will, should he have borne himself as he had? No. In such an event he ought not to have shown himself at the Plavitskis’ since Litka’s death, nor have seen Marynia, nor kissed her hand, nor let himself be borne away by the current which had borne him,—by the power of events, perhaps,—but borne him so far that to-day he would disappoint Marynia, and fall in her eyes to the wretched position of a man who knows not himself what he wishes. For he would have to be blind not to see that Marynia considers herself his betrothed; and that, if she were not disquieted by his silence so far, it was simply because she ascribed it to the mourning which both had in their hearts for Litka.
“Looking, then,” said Pan Stanislav, “from the side of reason and conservative instinct, from the side of sense and honor, I ought to marry her. Therefore what? Therefore I should be an imbecile if I hesitated, and did not consider the question as settled. It is settled.”
Then he drew breath, and began to walk through the room. Under the lamp lay Bukatski’s letter. Pan Stanislav took it, and read from the place where his eyes fell by chance.
“I beg thee, by all things, marry not. Remember that if thou marry, if thou have a son, if thou toil to leave him property, thou wilt do so only for this: that that son may be what I am.”
“I beg thee, by all things, marry not. Remember that if thou marry, if thou have a son, if thou toil to leave him property, thou wilt do so only for this: that that son may be what I am.”
“Here is a nice quandary for thee,” said Pan Stanislav, with a certain stubbornness. “I will marry. I will marry Marynia Plavitski; dost hear? I will gain property; and if I have a son, I will not make of him a decadent; dost understand?”
And he was pleased with himself. A little later he looked at Litka, and felt that a sudden emotion seized him.A current of sorrow for her, and of feeling, rose with a new power in his heart. He began to converse with the child, as in important moments of life people speak usually with beloved dead,—
“Thou art pleased, kitten? Is it not true?” asked he. And she smiled at him from among the birches painted by Marynia; she seemed to blink at him, and to answer,—
“True, Pan Stas; true.”
That evening, before going to bed, he took back from the servant the note which was to be given to Marynia in the morning, and wrote another still more affectionate, and in the following words,—
Dear Lady,—Gantovski made a scene with Mashko—rather an awkward one—from which a duel came. Mashko is slightly wounded. His opponent begged his pardon on the spot. There will be no further results, save this: that I am still more convinced of how kind you are, and thoughtful and excellent; and to-morrow, if you permit, I will come with thanks to kiss your beloved and dear hands. I will come in the afternoon; for, in the morning, after visiting my office, I must go to Pani Kraslavski’s, and then say farewell to Professor Vaskovski, though, were it possible, I should prefer to begin the day not with them.Polanyetski.
Dear Lady,—Gantovski made a scene with Mashko—rather an awkward one—from which a duel came. Mashko is slightly wounded. His opponent begged his pardon on the spot. There will be no further results, save this: that I am still more convinced of how kind you are, and thoughtful and excellent; and to-morrow, if you permit, I will come with thanks to kiss your beloved and dear hands. I will come in the afternoon; for, in the morning, after visiting my office, I must go to Pani Kraslavski’s, and then say farewell to Professor Vaskovski, though, were it possible, I should prefer to begin the day not with them.
Polanyetski.
After writing these words, he looked at the clock, and, though it was eleven already, he gave command to deliver the letter, not in the morning, but straightway.
“Thou wilt go in through the kitchen,” said he to the servant; “and, if the young lady is asleep, thou wilt leave it.”
When alone, he said the following words to the lady,—
“Thou art a very poor diviner, unless thou divine why I am coming to-morrow!”
Pani Kraslavski received Pan Stanislav with great astonishment, because of the early hour; but still she received him, thinking that he had come for some uncommon reason. He, on his part, without long introductions, told her what had happened, disguising at the same time only what was necessary for shielding Mashko from suspicion of bankruptcy or unfavorable business.
He noticed that the old lady, while he was talking, kept her green eyes—made, as it were, of stone, and devoid of glitter—fixed on him, and that no muscle of her face moved. Only when he had ended did she say,—
“There is one thing in all this which I do not understand. Why did Pan Mashko sell the oak? That is no small ornament to any residence.”
“Those oaks stand far from the house,” answered Pan Stanislav, “and injure the land,—for nothing will grow in the shade of them; and Pan Mashko is a practical man. Besides, to tell the truth, we are old friends, and he did that through friendship for me. I am a merchant; I needed the oak, and Pan Mashko let me have all he could spare.”
“In such an event, I do not understand why that young man—”
“If you are acquainted with Pan Yamish,” interrupted Pan Stanislav, “he, because he lives near both Kremen and Yalbrykov, will explain to you that that young man is not of perfect mind, and is known as such in the whole neighborhood.”
“In that case Pan Mashko was not obliged to fight a duel with him.”
“In such matters,” answered Pan Stanislav, with a shade of impatience, “we have different ideas from ladies.”
“You will permit me to say a couple of words to my daughter.”
Pan Stanislav thought it time to rise and take farewell; but since he had come, as it were, on a reconnaissance, and wished to take some information to Mashko, he said,—
“If the ladies have any message to Pan Mashko, I am going to him directly.”
“In a moment,” answered Pani Kraslavski.
Pan Stanislav remained alone and waited rather long, so long indeed that he began to be impatient. At last both ladies appeared. Though her hair had not been dressed with sufficient care, the young lady, in a white chemisette and a sailor’s tie, seemed to Pan Stanislav quite beautiful, in spite of a slight inflammation of the eyes, and a few pimples on her forehead, which were powdered. There was about her a certain attractive languor, from which, having risen very late apparently, she had not been able yet to rouse herself, and a certain equally charming morning carelessness. For the rest, there was no emotion on her bloodless face.
After salutations were exchanged with Pan Stanislav, she said, with a cool, calm voice,—
“Be so kind as to tell Pan Mashko that I was greatly pained and alarmed. Is the wound really slight?”
“Beyond a doubt.”
“I have begged mamma to visit Pan Mashko; I will take her, and wait in the carriage for news. Then I will go again for mamma, and so every day till Pan Mashko has recovered. Mamma is so kind that she consents to this.”
Here a slight, barely evident blush passed over her pale face. To Pan Stanislav, for whom her words were an utter surprise, and whom they pierced with astonishment, she seemed then perfectly comely; and a moment later, when going to Mashko, he said to himself,—
“Well, the women are better than they seem. But they are two decanters of chilled water; still the daughter has some heart. Mashko did not know her, and he will have an agreeable surprise. The old woman will go to him, will see all those bishops and castellans with crooked noses over which Bukatski amused himself so much; but she will believe in Mashko’s greatness.”
Meditating in this way, he found himself in Mashko’s house, and had to wait, for he came at the moment of dressing the wound. But barely had the doctor gone, when Mashko gave command to ask him to enter, and, without even a greeting, inquired,—
“Well, hast thou been there?”
“How art thou; how hast thou slept?”
“Well. But never mind—hast thou been there?”
“I have. I will tell thee briefly. In a quarter of an hour Pani Kraslavski will be here. The young lady told me to say that she would bring her mother, and would wait to hear how thou art; and to tell thee that she is greatly alarmed, that she is very unhappy, but thanks God that there is nothing worse. Thou seest, Mashko! I add, besides, that she is good-looking, and has attracted me. Now I am going, for I have no time to wait.”
“Have mercy; wait a moment. Wait, my dear; I have not a fever, and if thou speak through fear—”
“Thou art annoying,” said Pan Stanislav; “I give thee my word that I tell the truth, and that thou hast spoken ill of thy betrothed prematurely.”
Mashko dropped his head on the pillow, and was silent for a time; then he said, as if to himself,—
“I shall be ready to fall in love with her really.”
“That is well. Be in health; I am going to take farewell of Vaskovski.”
But instead of going to Vaskovski, he went to the Plavitskis’, whom he did not find at home, however. Plavitski was never at home, and of Marynia they said that she had gone out an hour before. Usually when a man is going to a woman who rouses vivid interest in him, and makes up his mind on the way what to say to her, he has rather a stupid face if he finds that she is not at home. Pan Stanislav felt this, and was vexed. He went to a greenhouse, however, bought a multitude of flowers, and had them sent to Marynia. When he thought of the delight with which she would receive them, and with what a beating heart she would wait for evening, he was so pleased that after dinner he dropped into Vaskovski’s in the very best humor.
“I have come to take farewell, Professor; when dost thou start on the journey?”
“How art thou, my dear?” answered Vaskovski. “I had to delay for a couple of days; for, as thou seest, I am wintering various small boys here.”
“Young Aryans, I suppose, who in hours of freedom draw purses out of pockets?”
“No, they are good souls; but I cannot leave them without care. I must seek out a successor who will live in my place.”
“But who would roast himself here? How dost thou live in such heat?”
“Because I sit without a coat; and wilt thou permit menot to put it on? It is a little warm here; but perspiration is wholesome, and these little feathered creatures crave heat.”
Pan Stanislav looked around. In the room there were at least a dozen and a half of buntings, titmice, finches. Sparrows, accustomed evidently to be fed, looked in in flocks through the window. The professor kept in his room only birds purchased of dealers; sparrows he did not admit, saying that if he did there would be no end to their numbers, and that it would be unjust to receive some and reject others. The chamber birds had cages fastened to the walls and the inner sash of the window, but went into them only at night; during daylight they flew through the chamber freely, filling it with twitter, and leaving traces on books and manuscripts, with which all the corners and the tables were filled.
Some of the birds which had become very tame sat on Vaskovski’s head even. On the floor husks of hemp-seed cracked under one’s feet. Pan Stanislav, who knew that chamber thoroughly, still shrugged his shoulders, and said,—
“All this is very good, but that the professor lets them light and sing on his head; that, God knows, is too much. Besides, it is stifling here.”
“That is the fault of Saint Francis of Assisi,” answered Vaskovski, “for I learned from him to love these little birds. I have even a pair of doves, but they are home-stayers.”
“Thou wilt see Bukatski, of course; I received a letter from him,—here it is.”
“May I read it?”
“I give it to thee for that very purpose.”
Vaskovski read the letter, and said when he had finished, “I have always liked this Bukatski; he is a good soul, but—he has a little something here!” Vaskovski began, to tap his forehead with his fingers.
“This is beginning to amuse me,” exclaimed Pan Stanislav. “Imagine to thyself, Professor, for a certain number of days some one taps himself on the forehead and says of some one of our acquaintance, ‘He has something here!’ A charming society!”
“If it is a little so, it is a little so!” answered Vaskovski, with a smile. “and knowest thou what this is? It is the usual Aryan trouble of soul; and in us, as Slavs, there is more of that than in the west, for we are the youngestAryans, and therefore neither reason nor heart have settled yet into a balance. We are the youngest Aryans: we feel with more vividness; we take everything to heart more feverishly; and we arrange ourselves to the practice of life with more passion. I have seen much; I have noticed this for a long time. What wonderful natures! Just look, for example, the German students can carouse,—that doesn’t hinder them from either working or fashioning themselves into practical people; but let a Slav take this habit, and he is lost, he will do himself to death! And so with everything. A German will become a pessimist and write volumes on this,—that life is despair; but he will drink beer meanwhile, rear children, make money, cultivate his garden, and sleep under a feather tick. A Slav will hang himself, or ruin himself with mad life, with excess, smother himself in a swamp into which he will wade purposely. My dear, I remember men who Byronized themselves to death. I have seen much; I have seen men who, for example, took a fancy to peasants, and ended with drinking vodka in peasant dramshops. There is no measure with us, and there cannot be, for in us, to the excessive acceptance of every idea, are joined frivolousness and knowest what vanity. O my God, how vain we are! how we wish to push ourselves forward always, so that we may be admired and gazed at! Take this Bukatski: he has sunk in scepticism up to his ears in fact; in pessimism, Buddhism, decadency, and in what else besides—do I know?—and in these too there is a chaos at present. He has sunk so deeply that those miasmas are really poisoning him; but dost thou think that with this he is not posing? What wonderful natures! those who are most sincere, who have the most vivid feelings, taking all things to heart most powerfully,—are at the same time comedians. When a man thinks of this, he loves them, but he wants to laugh and to weep.”
Pan Stanislav recalled how during his first visit to Kremen he had told Marynia of his Belgian times, when, living with some young Belgians, occupying himself with pessimism, he noticed finally that he took all these theories far more to heart than the Belgians, and that, through this, these theories spoiled his life more. Hence he said now,—
“Professor, thy speech is truthful. I have seen such things too, and the devils will take us all.”
Vaskovski fixed his mystic eyes on the frosty window-panes, and said,—
“No; some one else will take us all. That hotness of blood, that capacity for accepting an idea, are the great basis of the mission which Christ has designed for the Slavs.” Here Vaskovski pointed to a manuscript stained by the birds, and said mysteriously,—
“I am going with that; that is the labor of my life. Dost wish I will read from it?”
“As God lives, I haven’t time; it is late already.”
“True. It is growing dark. Then I will tell thee in brief words. Not only do I think, but I believe most profoundly, that the Slavs have a great mission.”
Here Vaskovski halted, began to rub his forehead, and said,—
“What a wonderful number,—‘three.’ There is some mystery in it.”
“Thou wert going to speak of a mission,” said Pan Stanislav, disquieted.
“Never fear; the one has connection with the other. There are three worlds in Europe: the Roman, the German, and the Slav. The first and second accomplished what they had to do. The future is for that third.”
“And what has that third to do?”
“Social conditions, justice, the relations of man to man, the life of individuals, and that which is called private life, are founded on Christian science, no matter what comes. The incoherence of men has deformed this science, but still everything stands on it. Only the first half of the problem is solved,—the first epoch. There are people who think that Christianity is nearing its end. No; the second epoch is about to begin. Christ is in the life of individuals, but not in history. Dost understand? To bring Him into history, to found on Him the relations of peoples, to create the love of our neighbor in the historical sense,—that is the mission which the Slav world has to accomplish. But the Slavs are deficient in knowledge yet; and the need is to open their eyes to this mission.”
Pan Stanislav was silent, for he had nothing to answer.
Vaskovski continued: “This is what I have been pondering over a lifetime, and have explained in this work.” Here he pointed to a manuscript. “This is the labor of my life. Herethismission is outlined.”
“On which meanwhile the buntings are—” thought Pan Stanislav. “And surely it will be that way a long time.” But aloud he said, “And it is thy hope, Professor, that when such a work is printed—”
“No; I hope nothing. I have a little love, but I am a man too insignificant, too weak in mind. This will vanish, as if some one had thrown a stone into water; but there will be a circle. Let some chosen one come later on; for I know that what is predestined will not fail. He will not refuse the mission even if he wishes. There is no use in bending men from their predestination, nor in changing them by force. What is good in a different place may be bad in this, for God made us for another use. The labor is vain. Vainly too wilt thou persuade thyself that thy only wish is to gain money; thou, like others, must follow the voice of predestination and nature.”
“I am following it indeed, for I am going to marry; that is, if I be accepted.”
Vaskovski embraced him.
“I wish thee happiness! This is perfect! May God bless thee! I know that the little maid indicated it to thee. But remember how I told thee that she had something to do, and that she would not die till she had done it. May God give her light, and a blessing to both of you! Besides, Marynia is golden.”
“And to thee, beloved Professor, a happy journey and a successful mission!”
“And to thee, thy wish for thyself.”
“What do I wish?” asked Pan Stanislav, joyfully. “Well, so, half a dozen little missionaries.”
“Ah rogue! thou wert always a rogue!” answered Vaskovski. “But fly off, fly off; I will visit thee once more.”
Pan Stanislav flew out, sat on a droshky, and gave command to take him to the Plavitskis’. On the road he was arranging what to say to Marynia; and he prepared a little speech, partly sentimental, and partly sober, as befits a positive man who has found really that which he was seeking, but who also is marrying through reason. Evidently Marynia looked for him much later; for there was no light in the chamber, though the last gleam of twilight was quenched. Pan Stanislav, for a greeting, began to kiss both her hands, and, forgetting completely his wise introduction, asked in a voice somewhat uncertain and excited,—
“Have you received the flowers and the letter?”
“I have.”
“And did you guess why I sent them?”
Marynia’s heart beat with such force that she could not answer.
Pan Stanislav inquired further, with a still more broken voice,—
“Do you agree to Litka’s wish,—do you want me?”
“I do,” answered Marynia.
Then he, in the feeling that it was proper to thank her, sought words in vain; but he pressed her hands more firmly to his lips, and, holding them both, drew her gently nearer and nearer. Suddenly a flame seized him; he put his arms around her, and began to seek her lips with his own. But Marynia turned away her head so that he could kiss only the hair on her temples. For a while only their hurried breathing was heard in the darkness; at last Marynia wrested herself from his arms.
A few moments later the servant brought a light. Pan Stanislav, recovering himself, was alarmed at his own boldness, and looked into Marynia’s eyes with disquiet. He was sure that he had offended her, and was ready to beg her forgiveness. But he saw with wonder that there were no traces of anger in her face. Her eyes were downcast, her cheeks flushed, her hair disarranged somewhat; it was evident that she was disturbed and, as it were, dazed, but withal only penetrated with the perfect sweetness of that fear which comes to a woman who is loved, and who, in passing over the new threshold, feels that she must yield something there, but who passes over and yields because she wishes. She loves, and she is obliged to yield in view of the rights which she accords to the man.
But a vivid feeling of gratitude passed through Pan Stanislav at sight of her. It seemed to him then that he loved her as he had loved of old, before Litka’s death. He felt also that in that moment he could not be too delicate nor too magnanimous; hence, taking her hand again, he raised it to his lips with great respect, and said,—
“I know that I am not worthy of you; there is no discussion on that point. God knows that I shall always do for you what is in my power.”
Marynia looked at him with moist eyes and said, “If only you are happy.”
“Is it possible not to be happy with you? I saw that from the first moment at Kremen. But afterward, you know, everything was spoiled. I thought you would marry Mashko, and how I worried—”
“I was angry, and I beg forgiveness—my dear—Pan Stas.”
“This very day the professor said, ‘Marynia is gold,’” exclaimed Pan Stanislav, with great ardor. “This is true! all say the same—not only gold, but a treasure—a very precious one.”
Her kindly eyes began to smile at him: “Maybe a heavy one.”
“Let not your head ache over that. I have strength enough; I shall be able to bear it. Now at least I have something to live for.”
“And I,” answered Marynia.
“Do you know that I have been here already to-day? I sent chrysanthemums later. After yesterday’s letter to you, I said to myself, ‘That is simply an angel, and I should lack, not only heart, but common-sense to delay any longer.’”
“I was so alarmed about that duel, and so unhappy. But is it all over now?”
“I give you my word, most thoroughly.”
Marynia wanted to make further inquiries, but at that moment Plavitski came. They heard him cough a little, put away his cane, and remove his overcoat; he opened the door then, and, seeing them alone, said,—
“So you are sitting all by yourselves?”
But Marynia ran up to him, and placing her hands on his shoulders, and putting forth her forehead for a kiss, said,—
“As betrothed, papa.”
Plavitski stepped back a little and inquired, “What dost thou say?”
“I say,” answered she, looking quietly into his eyes, “that Pan Stanislav wishes to take me, and that I am very happy.”
Pan Stanislav approached, embraced Plavitski heartily, and said, “I do with uncle’s consent and permission.”
But Plavitski exclaimed, “Oh, my child!” and, advancing with tottering step to a sofa, he sat on it heavily. “Wait a moment,” said he, with emotion. “It will pass—do not mind me—my children! If that is needed, I bless you with my whole heart.”
And he blessed them; wherewith still greater emotion mastered him, for, after all, he loved Marynia really. The voice stuck in his throat repeatedly; and the two young people heard only such broken expressions as, for example, “Some corner near you—for the old man, who worked all his life—an only child—an orphan.”
They pacified him together, and pacified him so well that half an hour later Plavitski struck Pan Stanislav on the shoulder suddenly, and said,—
“Oh robber! Thou wert thinking of Marynia, and I was thinking thee a little—” He finished the rest in Pan Stanislav’s ear, who grew red with indignation, and answered,—
“How could uncle suppose such a thing? If any one else had dared to say that?”
“Well, well, well!” answered Plavitski, smiling; “there is no smoke without fire.”
That evening Marynia, taking farewell of Pan Stanislav, asked,—
“You will not refuse me one thing?”
“Nothing that you command.”
“I have said long to myself that if a moment like the present should come, we would go to Litka together.”
“Ah, my dear lady,” answered Pan Stanislav; and she continued,—
“I know not what people will say; but what do we care for the world—what indeed?”
“Nothing. I am thankful to you from my heart and soul for the thought—My dear lady—my Marynia!”
“I believe that she looks at us and prays for us.”
“Then she is our little patroness.”
“Good-night.”
“Good-night.”
“Till to-morrow.”
“Till to-morrow,” said he, kissing her hands,—“till after to-morrow, daily;” and here he added in a low voice, “Until our marriage.”
“Yes,” answered Marynia.
Pan Stanislav went out. In his head and in his heart he felt a great whirl of feelings, thoughts, impressions, above which towered one great feeling,—that something unheard of in its decisiveness had happened; that his fate had been settled; that the time of reckoning, of wavering and changing, had passed; that he must begin a new life. And that feeling was not unpleasant to him,—nay, it verged on a kind of delight, especially when he remembered how he had kissed Marynia’s hair and temples. That which was lacking in his feelings shrank and vanished almost utterly in this remembrance; and it seemed to Pan Stanislav that he had found everything requisite to perfect happiness. “I shall never grow sated with this,” thought he; and it seemed to him simply impossible that he should. He remembered then the goodness of Marynia, and how reliable she was; how on such a heart and character he might build; how in living with her nothing could ever threaten him; how she would not trample on any quality of his, nor make it of no avail; how she would receive as gold that which in him was gold; how she would live for him, not for herself. And, meditating in this way, he asked what better could he find? and he wondered indeed at his recent hesitation. Still he felt that what was coming was a change so gigantic, so immensely decisive, that somewhere at the bottom, in the deepest corner of his soul, there was roused a kind of alarm before this unknown happiness. But he did not hesitate. “I am neither a coward nor an imbecile,” thought he. “It is necessary to go ahead, and I will go.”
Returning home, he looked at Litka; and immediately there opened before him, as it were, a new, clear horizon. He thought that he might have children, have such a bright dear head as this—and with Marynia. At the very thought his heart began to beat with greater life, and to the impulse of thoughts was joined such a solace of life as he had not known previously. He felt almost perfectly happy. Looking by chance at Bukatski’s letter, which he took from his pocket before undressing, he laughed so heartily that the servant looked in with astonishment. Pan Stanislav wished to tell him that he was going to marry. He fell asleep only toward morning, but rose sprightly and fresh; after dressing, he flew to his office to announce the news to Bigiel at the earliest.
Bigiel embraced him, then, with his usual deliberation, proceeded to consider the affair, and said finally,—
“Reasoning the matter over, this is the wisest thing that thou hast done in life;” then, pointing to a box of papers, he added, “Those contracts ought to be profitable, but thine is still better.”
“Isn’t it?” exclaimed Pan Stanislav, boastfully.
“I will fly to tell my wife,” said Bigiel, “for I cannot contain myself; but go thou home, and go for good. I will take thy place till the wedding, and during the honeymoon.”
“Very well; I will hurry to see Mashko, and then Marynia and I will go to Litka.”
“That is due from you both to her.”
Pan Stanislav bought more flowers on the way, added a note to them that he would come soon, and dropped in to see Mashko. Mashko was notably better, under the care of Pani Kraslavski, and was looking for her arrival every moment. When he had heard the news, he pressed Pan Stanislav’s hand with emotion, and said,—
“I will tell thee only one thing,—I do not know whether she will be happy with thee, but certainly thou wilt be happy with her.”
“Because women are better than men,” answered Pan Stanislav. “After what has happened to thee, I hope that thou art of this opinion.”
“I confess that to this moment I cannot recover from astonishment. They are both better, and more mysterious. Imagine to thyself—” Here Mashko halted, as if hesitating whether to continue.
“What?” inquired Pan Stanislav.
“Well, thou art a discreet man, and hast given me, besides, such proofs of friendship that there may not be secrets between us. Imagine, then, that yesterday, after thy departure, I received an anonymous letter. Here, as thou art aware, the noble custom of writing such letters prevails. In the letter were tidings that Papa Kraslavski exists, is alive, and in good health.”
“Which, again, may be gossip.”
“But also may not be. He lives, probably, in America. I received the letter while Pani Kraslavski was here. I said nothing; but after a time, when she had examined those portraits, and began to inquire of my more distant family relations, I asked her, in turn, how long she had been a widow. She answered,—
“‘My daughter and I have been alone in the world nine years; and those are sad events, of which I do not wish to speak to-day.’
“Observe that she did not say directly when her husband died.”
“And what dost thou think?”
“I think that if papa is alive, he must be that kind of figure of which people do not speak, and that in truth those may be ‘sad events.’”
“The secret would have come out long ago.”
“Those ladies lived abroad some years. Who knows? That, however, will not change my plans in any way. If Pan Kraslavski is living in America, and does not return,he must have reasons; it is as if he were not in the world, then. In fact, I am gaining the hope now that my marriage will come to pass, for I understand that when people have something to hide, they exact less.”
“Pardon my curiosity,” said Pan Stanislav, taking his hat; “but with me it is a question of my money, and now touching the Kraslavskis. Dost thou know surely that these ladies have money?”
“It seems that they have much; still, I am playing against a card somewhat hidden. It is likely that they have much ready money. The mother told me repeatedly that her daughter would not need to look to her husband’s property. I saw their safe; they keep a big house. I know nearly all the money-lenders—Jews and non-Jews—in Warsaw, and I know surely that these ladies are not in debt a copper to any one; as thou knowest thyself, they have a nice villa not far from the Bigiels. They do not live on their capital, for they are too prudent.”
“Thou hast no positive figures, however?”
“I tried to get them, but in roundabout fashion. Not being too certain of my connection with the ladies, I could not insist overmuch. It was given me to understand that there would be two hundred thousand rubles, and perhaps more.”
Pan Stanislav took leave, and on the way to the Plavitskis’ thought, “All this is a kind of mystery, a kind of darkness, a kind of risk. I prefer Marynia.”
Half an hour later he was driving with Marynia to the cemetery, to Litka. The day was warm, as in spring, but gray; the city seemed sullen and dirty. In the cemetery the melting snow had slipped in patches to the ground from the graves, and covered the yellow, half-decayed grass. From the arms of crosses and leafless tree-branches large drops were falling, which, borne from time to time by gusts of warm wind, struck the faces of Pan Stanislav and Marynia. These gusts pulled Marynia’s dress, so that she had to hold it. They stopped at last before Litka’s grave.
And here all was wet, sloppy, gloomy, half-stripped of the melting snow. The thought that that child, once so cared for, so loved, and so petted, was lying in that damp dungeon darkness, could hardly find a place in Pan Stanislav’s head.
“All this may be natural,” thought he; “but it is notpossible to be reconciled with death.” And, in truth, whenever he visited Litka, he returned from the cemetery in a kind of irrepressible rebellion, with a species of passionate protest in his soul. These thoughts began to rend him in that moment also. It seemed to him simply terrible to love Litka, and to reconcile his love with the knowledge that a few steps lower down she is lying there, black and decaying. “I ought not to come,” said he to himself, “for I grow mad, lose my head here, and lose every basis of life.” But, above all, he suffered, for, if it is impossible not to think of death, it is equally impossible to explain it; hence everything touching it, which comes to the head, is, in so far as a man does not stretch forth his hand toward simple faith, at once despairing and shallow, trivial and common. “For me there is a greater question here than that of existence itself, but I am only able to answer with a commonplace. A perfectly vicious circle!”
And it was true; for if he considered, for example, that at the first thought of death everything becomes smoke, and he felt that unfortunately it does, he felt at the same time that thousands of people had come to that thought before he had, and that no one had found in it either solace or even such satisfaction as the discovery of a truth gives. Everything that he could say to himself was at once terrifying and petty. It was easy for him to understand that the whole life of man, general history, all philosophies, are at bottom merely a struggle with incessant death,—a struggle despairing, a struggle utterly senseless, and at the same time infinitely foolish and devoid of object, for it is lost in advance. But such reasoning could not bring him any comfort, since it was merely the confirmation of a new vicious circle.
For if the one object of all human efforts is life, and the only result death, the nonsense passes measure, and simply could not be accepted, were it not for that loathsome and pitiless reality, which turns beings beloved and living into rotten matter.
Pan Stanislav, during every visit to the cemetery, poisoned himself with such thoughts. To-day, while going, he thought that the presence of Marynia would liberate him from them; meanwhile, rather the opposite happened. Litka’s death, which had broken in him trust in the sense and moral object of life, undermined in himalso that first, former love for Marynia, which was so naïve and free of doubt; now, when with Marynia, he was standing at Litka’s grave, when that death, which had begun to be only a memory, had become again a thing almost tangible, its poisoning effect was increasing anew. Again it seemed to him that all life, consequently love, too, is merely an error, and the processes of life utterly useless and vain. If above life there is neither reason nor mercy, why toil, why love and marry? Is it to have children, become attached to them with every drop of one’s blood, and then look on helplessly, while that blind, stupid, insulting, brutal force chokes them, as a wolf chokes a lamb, and come to their graves, and think that they are mouldering in damp and darkness? See, Litka is down there.
A day wonderfully gloomy only strengthened the bitterness of these feelings. At times, during his previous visits, the cemetery had seemed to Pan Stanislav a kind of great void in which life was dissolving, but in which every misfortune, too, was dissolving,—something enormously dreamy, soothing. To-day there was no rest in it. Pieces of snow fell from the trees and gravestones; ravens pushed about among the wet trees with their croaking. Sudden and strong blasts of wind hurled drops of moisture from the branches, and, driving them about, produced a certain desperate struggle around the stone crosses, which stood firm and indifferent.
Just then Marynia ceased praying, and said, with that slightly suppressed voice with which people speak in cemeteries,—
“Now her soul must be near us.”
Pan Stanislav made no answer; but he thought first that he and Marynia were beings as if from two distinct worlds, and then that if there were even a particle of truth in what she said, all his mental struggles would be less important than that melting snow. “In such case,” said he to himself, “there is dying and there are cemeteries, but there is simply no death.”
Marynia began to place on the grave immortelles, which she had bought at the gate, and he to think hurriedly, rather by the aid of his impressions than his ideas, “In my world there is no answer to anything; there are only vicious circles, which lead to the precipice.”
And this struck him,—that if such ideas of death asMarynia had, did not come from faith, or if they had been unknown altogether, and if all at once some philosopher had formulated them as a hypothesis, the hypothesis would be recognized as the most genial of the genial, because it explains everything, gives an answer to questions, gives light, not only to life, but to death, which is darkness. Mankind would kneel with admiration before such a philosopher and such a scientific theory.
On the other hand, he felt that still something of Litka was there with them. She herself was falling into dust, but something had survived her; there remained, as it were, currents of her thought, of her will, of her feeling. This,—that she had brought him to Marynia; that they were betrothed; that they were then standing at her grave; that they were to be united; that their lives would go on together; that they would have children, who in their turn would live and love and increase,—what was that, if not such a current, which, coming forth from that child, might go on and on through eternity, renewing itself in an endless chain of phenomena? How then understand that from a mortal being should issue an immortal and ceaseless energy? Marynia, in the simplicity of her faith, had found an answer; Pan Stanislav had not.
And still Marynia was right. Litka was with them. Through Pan Stanislav’s head there flew at that moment a certain hypothesis, dim, and not fixed in close thought yet,—a hypothesis, that, perhaps, all which man thinks during life, all that he wishes, all that he loves, is a hundred times more intangible, a hundred times more subtile, than ether, from which rises an astral existence, conscious of itself, either eternal or successively born into beings more and more perfect, more subtile, on to infinity. And it seemed to him that atoms of thought and feeling might collect into a separate individuality, specially because they came forth from one brain or one heart; that they are related,—hence tend to one another with the same mysterious principle by which physical elements combine to form physical individualities.
At present he had not time to meditate over this, but it seemed to him that he had caught something, that in the veil before his eyes, he saw, as it were, an opening that might turn out to be a deception; but at the moment, when he felt that still Litka was with them, he thought that her presence could be understood only in that manner.
Just then some funeral came, for, in the tower, which stood in the middle of the cemetery, the bell began to sound. Pan Stanislav gave Marynia his arm, and they went towards the gate. On the way Marynia, thinking evidently more about Litka, said,—
“Now I am certain that we shall be happy.”
And she leaned more on Pan Stanislav’s arm, for the gusts of wind had become so violent that it was difficult for her to resist them. One of these carried her veil around his neck. Reality began to call to him. He pressed the arm of the living woman to his side, and felt that loving, if it cannot ward away death, can at least harmonize life.
When they were seated in the carriage, he took Marynia’s hand, and did not let it go during the whole way. At moments solace returned to him almost perfectly, for he thought that that maiden, true and kind to the core of her nature, would be able to make good what was lacking in his feeling, and revivify in him that which was palsied. “My wife! my wife!” repeated he, in mind, looking at her; and her honest, clear eyes answered, “Thine.”
When they arrived at the house, Plavitski had not returned from his walk before dinner; they were all by themselves then. Pan Stanislav sat down by her side, and under the influence of those thoughts which had passed through his head on the way, he said,—
“You declared that Litka was with us; that is true. I have always returned from the cemetery as if cut down; but it is well that we were there.”
“It is; for we went as if for a blessing,” said Marynia.
“I have that same impression; and, besides, it seems to me as if we were united already, or, at least, were nearer than before.”
“True; and this will be both a sad and a pleasant remembrance.”
He took her hand again, and said,—
“If you believe that we shall be happy, why defer happiness? My kind, my best, I, too, trust that it will be well with us; let us not defer the day. We have to begin a new life; let us begin it promptly.”
“Make the decision. I am yours with all my soul.”
Then he drew her toward him, as he had the day before, and began to seek her lips with his lips; and she, whetherunder the influence of the thought that his rights were greater on that day, or under the influence of awakening thoughts, did not turn her head away any more, but, half closing her eyes, she herself gave him her lips, as if they had been thirsty a long time.
For Pan Stanislav began now the period of ante-nuptial cares and preparations. He had, it is true, a dwelling furnished for more than a year,—that is, from a period before he knew Marynia. At that time he made no denial when Bukatski laughed at the lodgings, seeing in them a proof of how anxious his friend was to marry. “Yes,” said he; “I have property enough to permit this. I think, too, that I am doing something toward it, and that my plans are growing real.”
Bukatski said this was prevision worthy of praise, and wondered that a man of such foresight did not engage also a nurse and a midwife. At times conversation of this kind ended in a quarrel, for Pan Stanislav could not let any one deny him sound judgment in worldly matters. Bukatski affirmed that it was bird romance, worthy of a bunting, to start with building a poetic nest. One friend contended that there could be no wiser method than to build a cage, if you want a bird; the other retorted that if the bird were not found yet, and the chase was uncertain, the cage was a joke on one’s appetite. It ended with allusions to the slim legs of Bukatski, which, for him, made the chase after birds of all kinds impossible, even though they were wingless. Bukatski, on such occasions, fell into excellent humor.
Now, however, when the cage was ready, and the bird not only caught, but willing, there remained so much to be done that Pan Stanislav was seized more than once by surprise that an act so simple by nature as marriage, should be so complex in civilized societies. It seemed to him that if no one has the right to look into the moral side of the connection, since it is the outcome of genuine free-will, the formal side should be looked at still less.
But he thought so because he was not a law-giver, and was an impulsive man made impatient by the need of getting “papers.” Once he had resolved on marriage, he ceased to think or to analyze, and hastened, as a man of action, to execute.
He was even filled more than once with pride, on comparing himself with such a man, for instance, as Ploshovski, whose history had been circling from mouth to mouth in society, before people had begun to learn it from his diary. “But I am of different metal,” thought Pan Stanislav, with a certain satisfaction. At moments, again, when he recalled Ploshovski’s figure, his noble, delicate, and also firmly defined profile, his refinement, subtlety, and mental suppleness, his rare gift of winning people, especially women, it occurred to him that he, Polanyetski, is a less refined type, less noble, and, in general, a man cut from ruder materials. But to this he answered that evidently, in the face of conditions in life and the resistance required by it, too much refinement is simply fatal to mind as well as body. In himself he saw also far more ability for living. “Finally,” said he, “I can be of some service, while he would have been good only on social shelves with curiosities. I am able to win bread; he was able only to make pellets out of bread when baked. I know how, and I know well how, to color cotton; he only knew how to color women’s cheeks. But what a difference between us with reference to women! That man over-analyzed his life and the life of the woman whom he loved; he destroyed her and himself by not being able to escape from the doubt whether he loved her sufficiently. I, too, have doubts whether my love is perfect; but I take my little woman, and should be an imbecile, not a man, to fear the future, and fail to squeeze from it in simple fashion what good and happiness it will let me squeeze.”
Here Pan Stanislav, though he had forsworn analysis, began to analyze, not himself, it is true, but Marynia. He permitted this, however, only because he foresaw certainly favorable conclusions; he understood that, in calculating the future of two people, good-will on one side is not sufficient, and becomes nothing, if good-will fails on the other. But he was convinced that in taking Marynia he was not taking a dead heart. Marynia had brought to the world not only an honest nature, but from years of childhood she had been in contact with work and with conditions in which she was forced to forget herself, so as to think of others. Besides, there was above her the memory of a mother, a kind of endless blessing from beyond the grave,—a mother whose calmness, candor, and uprightness, whose life, full of trials, were remembered to thepresent with the utmost respect, throughout the whole region of Kremen. Pan Stanislav knew this, and was persuaded that, building on the heart and character of Marynia, he was building on a foundation well-nigh immovable. More than once he recalled the words of a woman, an acquaintance and friend of his mother’s, who, when some one asked her whether she was more anxious about the future of her sons than her daughters, answered, “I think only of my sons; for my daughters, in the worst case, can be only unhappy.”
So it is! School and the world rear sons, and both may make them scoundrels; daughters, in whom the home ingrafts honorableness, can, in the worst case, be only unhappy. Pan Stanislav understood that this was true with regard to Marynia. So that if he analyzed her, his analysis was rather the examination of a jeweller and his admiration for his gems, than a scientific method intended to reach results unknown and unexpected.
Still he quarrelled once with Marynia very seriously, because of a letter from Vaskovski, which Pan Stanislav received from Rome a few weeks after the professor’s departure, and which he read in its integrity to Marynia. This letter was as follows:—