Генрик Сенкевич
Children of the Soil
CHAPTER XXIX
Meanwhile winter began to break; the end of Lent was approaching, and with it the time of marriage for Pan Stanislav, as well as Mashko. Bukatski, invited as a groomsman to the former, wrote to him among other things as follows, —
“To thrust forth the all-creative energy from its universal condition, – that is, from a condition of perfect repose, – and force it by means of marriages concluded on earth to incarnate itself in more or less squalling particulars which require cradles and which amuse themselves by holding the great toe in the mouth, is a crime. Still I will come, because stoves are better with you than in this place.”
In fact, he came a week before the holidays, and brought as a gift to Pan Stanislav a sheet of parchment ornamented splendidly with something in the style of a grave hour-glass, on which was the inscription, “Stanislav Polanyetski, after a long and grievous bachelorhood.”
Pan Stanislav, whom the parchment pleased, took it next day about noon to Marynia. He forgot, however, that it was Sunday, and felt, as it were, disappointed, at finding Marynia with her hat on.
“Are you going out?” inquired he.
“Yes. To church. To-day is Sunday.”
“Ah, Sunday! True. But I thought that we should sit here together. It would be so agreeable.”
She raised her calm blue eyes to him, and said with simplicity, “But the service of God?”
Pan Stanislav received these words at once as he would have received any other, not foreseeing that, in the spiritual process which he was to pass through later on, they would play a certain rôle by reason of their directness, and said as if repeating mechanically, —
“You say the service of God. Very well! I have time; let us go together.”
Marynia received this offer with great satisfaction.
“I am the happier,” said she, on the way, “the more I love God.”
“That, too, is the mark of a good nature; some persons think of God only as a terror.”
And in the church that came again to his mind of which he had thought during his first visit to Kremen, when he was at the church in Vantory, with old Plavitski: “Destruction takes all philosophies and systems, one after another; but Mass is celebrated as of old.” It seemed to him that in that there was something which passed comprehension. He who, because of Litka, had come in contact with death in a manner most painful, returned to those dark problems whenever he happened to be in a cemetery, or a church at Mass, or in any circumstances whatever in which something took place which had no connection with the current business of life, but was shrouded in that future beyond the grave. He was struck by this thought, – how much is done in this life for that future; and how, in spite of all philosophizing and doubt, people live as if that future were entirely beyond question; how much of petty personal egotisms are sacrificed for it; how many philanthropic deeds are performed; how asylums, hospitals, retreats, churches are built, and all on an account payable beyond the grave only.
He was struck still more by another thought, – that to be reconciled with life really, it is necessary to be reconciled with death first; and that without faith in something beyond the grave this reconciliation is simply impossible. But if you have faith the question drops away, as if it had never existed. “Let the devils take mourning; let us rejoice;” for if this is true, what more can be desired? Is there before one merely the view of some new existence, in the poorest case, wonderfully curious, – even that certainty amounts to peace and quiet. Pan Stanislav had an example of that, then, in Marynia. Because she was somewhat short-sighted, she held her head bent over the book; but when at moments she raised it, he saw a face so calm, so full of something like that repose which a flower has, and so serene, that it was simply angelic. “That is a happy woman, and she will be happy always,” said he to himself. “And, besides, she has sense, for if, on the opposite side, there were at least certainty, there would be also that satisfaction which truth gives; but to torture one’s self for the sake of various marks of interrogation is pure folly.”
On the way home, Pan Stanislav, thinking continually of this expression of Marynia’s, said, —
“In the church you looked like some profile of Fra Angelico; you had a face which was indeed happy.”
“For I am happy at present. And do you know why? Because I am better than I was. I felt at one time offended in heart, and I was dissatisfied; I had no hope before me, and all these put together formed such suffering that it was terrible. It is said that misfortune ennobles chosen souls, but I am not a chosen soul. For that matter, misfortune may ennoble, but suffering, offence, ill-will, destroy. They are like poison.”
“Did you hate me much then?”
Marynia looked at him and answered, “I hated you so much that for whole days I thought of you only.”
“Mashko has wit; he described this once thus to me: ‘She would rather hate you than love me.’”
“Oi! that I would rather, is true.”
Thus conversing, they reached the house. Pan Stanislav had time then to unroll his parchment hour-glass and show it to Marynia; but the idea did not please her. She looked on marriage not only from the point of view of the heart, but of religion. “With such things there is no jesting,” said she; and after a while she confessed to Pan Stanislav that she was offended with Bukatski.
After dinner Bukatski came. During those few months of his stay in Italy he had become still thinner, which was a proof against the efficacy of “chianti” for catarrh of the stomach. His nose, with its thinness, reminded one of a knife-edge; his humorous face, smiling with irony, had become, as it were, porcelain, and was no larger than the fist of a grown man. He was related both to Pan Stanislav and Marynia; hence he said what he pleased in their presence. From the threshold almost, he declared to them that, in view of the increasing number of mental deviations in the world at present, he could only regret, but did not wonder, that they were affianced. He had come, it is true, in the hope that he would be able to save them, but he saw now that he was late, and that nothing was left but resignation. Marynia was indignant on hearing this; but Pan Stanislav, who loved him, said, —
“Preserve thy conceit for the wedding speech, for thou must make one; and now tell us how our professor is.”
“He has grown disturbed in mind seriously,” replied Bukatski.
“Do not jest in that way,” said Marynia.
“And so much without cause,” added Pan Stanislav.
But Bukatski continued, with equal seriousness: “Professor Vaskovski is disturbed in mind, and here are my proofs for you: First, he walks through Rome without a cap, or rather, he walked, for he is in Perugia at present; second, he attacked a refined young English lady, and proved to her that the English are Christians in private life only, – that the relations of England to Ireland are not Christian; third, he is printing a pamphlet, in which he shows that the mission of reviving and renewing history with the spirit of Christ is committed to the youngest of the Aryans. Confess that these are proofs.”
“We knew these ways before his departure; if nothing more threatens the professor, we hope to see him in good health.”
“He does not think of returning.”
Pan Stanislav took out his note-book, wrote some words with a pencil, and, giving them to Marynia, said, —
“Read, and tell me if that is good.”
“If thou write in my presence, I withdraw,” said Bukatski.
“No, no! this is no secret.”
Marynia became as red as a cherry from delight, and, as if not wishing to believe her eyes, asked, —
“Is that true? It is not.”
“That depends on you,” answered Pan Stanislav.
“Ah, Pan Stas! I did not even dream of that. I must tell papa. I must.”
And she ran out of the room.
“If I were a poet, I would hang myself,” said Bukatski.
“Why?”
“For if a couple of words, jotted down by the hand of a partner in the house of Bigiel and Company, can produce more impression than the most beautiful sonnet, it is better, to be a miller boy than a poet.”
But Marynia, in the rapture of her joy, forgot the notebook, so Pan Stanislav showed it to Bukatski, saying, “Read.”
Bukatski read: —
“After the wedding Venice, Florence, Rome, Naples. Is that well?”
“Then it’s a journey to Italy?”
“Yes. Imagine, she has not been abroad in her life; and Italy has always seemed to her an enchanted land, which she has not even dreamed of seeing. That is an immense delight for her; and what the deuce wonder is there, if I think out a little pleasure for her?”
“Love and Italy! O God, how many times Thou hast looked on that! All that love is as old as the world.”
“Not true! Fall in love, and see if thou’lt find something new in it.”
“My beloved friend, the question is not in this, that I do not love yet, but in this, – that I love no longer. Years ago I dug that sphinx out of the sand, and it is no longer a riddle to me.”
“Bukatski, get married.”
“I cannot. My sight is too faint, and my stomach too weak.”
“What hindrance in that?”
“Oh, seest thou, a woman is like a sheet of paper. An angel writes on one side, a devil on the other; the paper is cut through, the words blend, and such a hash is made that I can neither read nor digest it.”
“To live all thy life on conceits!”
“I shall die, as well as thou, who art marrying. It seems to us that we think of death, but it thinks more of us.”
At that moment Marynia came in with her father, who embraced Pan Stanislav, and said, —
“Marynia tells me that ’t is thy wish to go to Italy after the wedding.”
“If my future lady will consent.”
“Thy future lady will not only consent,” answered Marynia, “but she has lost her head from delight, and wants to jump through the room, as if she were ten years of age.”
To which Plavitski answered, “If the cross of a solitary old man can be of use in your distant journey, I will bless you.”
And he raised his eyes and his hand toward heaven, to the unspeakable delight of Bukatski; but Marynia drew down the raised hand, and, kissing it, said with laughter, —
“There will be time for that, papa; we are going away only after the wedding.”
“And, speaking plainly,” added Bukatski, “then there will be a buying of tickets, and giving baggage to be weighed, and starting, – nothing more.”
To this Plavitski turned to the cynic, and said, with a certain unction, —
“Have you come to this, – that you look on the blessing of a lonely old man and a father as superfluous?”
Bukatski, instead of an answer, embraced Plavitski, kissed him near the waistcoat, and said, —
“But would the ‘lonely old man’ not play piquet, so as to let those two mad heads talk themselves out?”
“But with a rubicon?” asked Plavitski.
“With anything you like.” Then he turned to the young couple: “Hire me as a guide to Italy.”
“I do not think of it,” answered Pan Stanislav. “I have been in Belgium and France, no farther. Italy I know not; but I want to see what will interest us, not what may interest thee. I have seen men such as thou art, and I know that through over-refinement they go so far that they love not art, but their own knowledge of it.”
Here Pan Stanislav continued the talk with Marynia.
“Yes, they go so far that they lose the feeling of great, simple art, and seek something to occupy their sated taste, and exhibit their critical knowledge. They do not see trees; they search simply for knots. The greatest things which we are going to admire do not concern them, but some of the smallest things, of which no one has heard; they dig names out of obscurity, occupy themselves in one way or another, persuade themselves and others that things inferior and of less use surpass in interest the better and more perfect. Under his guidance we might not see whole churches, but we might see various things which would have to be looked at through cracks. I call all this surfeit, abuse, over-refinement, and we are simply people.”
Marynia looked at him with pride, as if she would say, “Oh, that is what is called speaking!” Her pride increased when Bukatski said, —
“Thou art quite right.”
But she was indignant when he added, —
“And if thou wert not right, I could not win before the tribunal.”
“I beg pardon,” said Marynia; “I am not blinded in any way.”
“But I am not an art critic at all.”
“On the contrary, you are.”
“If I am, then, I declare that knowledge embraces a greater number of details, but does not prevent a love of great art; and believe not Pan Stanislav, but me.”
“No; I prefer to believe him.”
“That was to be foreseen.”
Marynia looked now at one, now at the other, with a somewhat anxious face. Meanwhile Plavitski came with cards. The betrothed walked through the rooms hand in hand; Bukatski began to be wearied, and grew more and more so. Toward the end of the evening the humor which animated him died out; his small face became still smaller, his nose sharper, and he looked like a dried leaf. When he went out with Pan Stanislav, the latter inquired, —
“Somehow thou wert not so vivacious?”
“I am like a machine: while I have fuel within, I move; but in the evening, when the morning supply is exhausted, I stop.”
Pan Stanislav looked at him carefully. “What is thy fuel?”
“There are various kinds of coal. Come to me: I will give thee a cup of good coffee; that will enliven us.”
“Listen! this is a delicate question, but some one told me that thou hast been taking morphine this long time.”
“For a very short time,” answered Bukatski; “if thou could only know what horizons it opens.”
“And it kills – Fear God!”
“And kills! Tell me sincerely, has this ever occurred to thee, that it is possible to have a yearning for death?”
“No; I understand just the opposite.”
“But I will give thee neither morphine nor opium,” said Bukatski, at length; “only good coffee and a bottle of honest Bordeaux. That will be an innocent orgy.”
After some time they arrived at Bukatski’s. It was the dwelling of a man of real wealth, seemingly, somewhat uninhabited, but full of small things connected with art and pictures and drawings. Lamps were burning in a number of rooms, for Bukatski could not endure darkness, even in time of sleep.
The “Bordeaux” was found promptly, and under the machine for coffee a blue flame was soon burning. Bukatski stretched himself on the sofa, and said, all at once, —
“Perhaps thou wilt not admit, since thou seest me such a filigree, that I have no fear of death.”
“This one thing I have at times admitted, that thou art jesting and jesting, deceiving thyself and others, while really the joke is not in thee, and this is all artificial.”
“The folly of people amuses me somewhat.”
“But if thou think thyself wise, why arrange life so vainly?” Here Pan Stanislav looked around on bric-à-brac, on pictures, and added, “In all this surrounding thou art still living vainly.”
“Vainly enough.”
“Thou art of those who pretend. What a disease in this society! Thou art posing, and that is the whole question.”
“Sometimes. But, for that matter, it becomes natural.”
Under the influence of “Bordeaux” Bukatski grew animated gradually, and became more talkative, though cheerfulness did not return to him.
“Seest thou,” said he, “one thing, – I do not pretend. All which I myself could tell, or which another could tell me, I have thought out, and said long since to my soul. I lead the most stupid and the vainest life possible. Around me is immense nothingness, which I fear, and which I fence out with this lumber which thou seest in this room; I do this so as to fear less. Not to fear death is another thing, for after death there are neither feelings nor thoughts. I shall become, then, a part also of nothingness; but to feel it, while one is alive, to know of it, to give account to one’s self of it, as God lives, there can be nothing more abject. Moreover, the condition of my health is really bad, and takes from me every energy. I have no fuel in myself, therefore I add it. There is less in this of posing and pretending than thou wilt admit. When I have given myself fuel, I take life in its humorous aspect; I follow the example of the sick man, who lies on the side on which he lies with most comfort. For me there is most comfort thus. That the position is artificial, I admit; every other, however, would be more painful. And see, the subject is exhausted.”
“If thou would undertake some work.”
“Give me peace. To begin with, I know a multitude of things, but I don’t understand anything; second, I am sick; third, tell a paralytic to walk a good deal when he cannot use his legs. The subject is exhausted! Drink that wine there, and let us talk about thee. That is a good lady, Panna Plavitski; and thou art doing well to marry her. What I said to thee there in the daytime does not count. She is a good lady, and loves thee.”
Here Bukatski, enlivened and roused evidently by the wine, began to speak hurriedly.
“What I say in the daytime does not count. Now it is night; let us drink wine, and a moment of more sincerity comes. Dost wish more wine, or coffee? I like this odor; one should mix Mocha and Ceylon in equal parts. Now comes a time of more sincerity! Knowest thou what I think at bottom? I have no clear idea of what happiness fame may give, for I do not possess it; and since the Ephesian temple is fired, there is no opening to fame before me. I admit, however, so, to myself, that the amount of it might be eaten by a mouse, not merely on an empty stomach, but after a good meal in a pantry. But I know what property is for I have a little of it; I know what travelling is, for I have wandered; I know what freedom is, for I am free; I know what women are – oi, devil take it! – too well, and I know what books are. Besides, in this chamber, I have a few pictures, a few drawings, a little porcelain. Now listen to what I will say to thee: All this is nothing; all is vanity, folly, dust, in comparison with one heart which loves. This is the result of my observations; only I have come to it at the end, while normal men reach it at the beginning.”
Here he began to stir the coffee feverishly with a spoon; and Pan Stanislav, who was very lively, sprang up and said, —
“And thou, O beast! what didst thou say some months since, – that thou wert going to Italy because there no one loved thee, and thou didst love no one? Dost remember? Thou’lt deny, perhaps.”
“But what did I say this afternoon to thy betrothed? That thou and she had gone mad; and now I say that thou art doing well. Dost wish logic of me? To talk and to say something are two different things. But now I am more sincere, for I have drunk half a bottle of wine.”
Pan Stanislav began to walk through the room and repeat: “But, as God lives, it is fabulous! See what the root of the matter is, and what they all say when cornered.”
“To love is good, but there is something still better, – that is, to be loved. There is nothing above that! As to me, I would give for it all these; but it is not worth while to talk of me. Life is a comedy badly written, and without talent: even that which pains terribly is sometimes like a poor melodrama; but in life, if there be anything good, it is to be loved. Imagine to thyself, I have not known that, and thou hast found it without seeking.”
“Do not say so, for thou knowest not how it came to me.”
“I know; Vaskovski told me. That, however, is all one. The question is this, – thou hast known how to value it.”
“Well, what dost thou wish? I understand that I am loved a little; hence I marry, and that is the end of the matter.”
Thereupon Bukatski put his hand on Pan Stanislav’s shoulder.
“No, Polanyetski; I am a fool in respect to myself, but not a bad observer of what is passing around me. That is not the end, but the beginning. Most men say, as thou hast, ‘I marry, – that is the end;’ and most men deceive themselves.”
“That philosophy I do not understand.”
“But thou seest what the question is? It is not enough to take a woman; a man should give himself to her also, and should feel that he does so. Dost understand?”
“Not greatly.”
“Well, thou art feigning simplicity. She should not only feel herself owned, but an owner. A soul for a soul! otherwise a life may be lost. Marriages are good or bad. Mashko’s will be bad for twenty reasons, and among others for this, of which I wish to speak.”
“He is of another opinion. But, as God lives, it is a pity that thou art not married, since thou hast such a sound understanding of how married life should be.”
“If to understand and to act according to that understanding were the same, there would not be the various, very various events, from which the bones ache in all of us. For that matter, imagine me marrying.”
Here Bukatski began to laugh with his thin little voice. Joyfulness returned to him on a sudden, and with it the vision of things on the comic side.
“Thou wilt be ridiculous; but what should I be? Something to split one’s sides at. What a moment that is! Thou wilt see in two weeks. For instance, how thou wilt dress for church. Here, love, beating of the heart, solemn thoughts, a new epoch in life; there, the gardener, with flowers, a dress-coat, lost studs, the tying of a cravat, the drawing on of patent-leather boots, – all at one time, one chaos, one confusion. Deliver me, angels of paradise! I have compassion on thee, my dear friend; and do thou, I beg, not take seriously what I say. There is a new moon now, and I have a mania for uttering commonplace sentiment at the new moon. All folly! – the new moon, nothing more! I have grown as soft-hearted as a ewe who has lost her first lamb; and may the cough split me, if I haven’t uttered commonplace!”
But Pan Stanislav attacked him: “I have seen many vain things; but knowest thou what seems to me vainest in thee and those like thee? Thou and they, who absolve yourselves from everything, recognize nothing above you, and fear like fire every honest truth, for the one reason that some one might sometime declare it. How bad this is words cannot tell. As to thee, my dear friend, thou wert sincerer a while since than now. Again, thou’rt a poodle, dancing on two legs; but I tell thee that ten like thee could not show me that I have not won a great prize in the lottery.”
He took farewell of Bukatski with a certain anger; on the road home, however, he grew pacified and repeated continually: “See where the truth is; see what Mashko, and even Bukatski, says, when ready to be sincere; but I have won simply a great prize, and I will not waste what I have won.”
When he entered his lodgings and saw Litka’s photograph, he exclaimed, “My dearest kitten!” Up to the moment of sleeping he thought of Marynia with pleasure, and with the calmness of a man who feels that some great problem of life has been settled decisively, and settled well. For, in spite of Bukatski’s words, he was convinced that, since he was going to marry, all would be decided and ended by that one act.
