Генрик Сенкевич
Children of the Soil
The night was calm and warm. Around the Forum and Colosseum the place was completely deserted; as, for that matter, it is in the day sometimes. Near the church of Santa Maria Liberatrice some person in an open window was playing on a flute, and one could hear every note in the stillness. On the front of the Forum a deep shadow fell from the height of the Capitol and its edifices; but farther on it was flooded with clear, greenish light, as was also the Colosseum, which seemed silver. When the carriage halted at the arches of the gigantic circus, Pan Stanislav, Svirski, and Vaskovski entered the interior, and pushed toward the centre of the arena, avoiding the fragments of columns, friezes, piles of bricks, stones, and bases of columns standing here and there, and fragments piled up near the arches. Under the influence of silence and loneliness, words did not rise to their lips. Through the arched entrances came to the interior sheaves of moonlight, which seemed to rest quietly on the floor of the arena, on the opposite walls, on the indentations, on openings in the walls, on breaks, on the silvered mosses and ivy, covering the ruin here and there. Other parts of the building, sunk in impenetrable darkness, produced the impression of black and mysterious gulleys. From the low-placed cunicula came the stern breath of desolation. Reality was lost amidst that labyrinth and confusion of walls, arches, bright spots, bright stripes, and deep shadows. The colossal ruin seemed to lose its real existence, and to become a dream vision, or rather, a kind of wonderful impression composed of silence, night, the moon, sadness, and the remembrance of a past, mighty, but full of blood and suffering.
Svirski began to speak first, and in a subdued voice, —
“What pain, what tears, were here! what a measureless tragedy! Let people say what they please, there is something beyond human in Christianity; and that thought cannot be avoided.”
Here he turned to Marynia, and continued, —
“Imagine that might: a whole world, millions of people, iron laws, power unequalled before or since, an organization such as has never been elsewhere, greatness, glory, hundreds of legions, a gigantic city, possessing the world, – and that Palatine hill over there, possessing the city; it would seem that no earthly power could overturn it. Meanwhile two Jews come, – Peter and Paul, not with arms, but a word; and see, here is a ruin, on the Palatine a ruin, in the Forum a ruin, and above the city crosses, crosses, crosses and crosses.”
Again there was silence; but from the direction of Santa Maria Liberatrice the sound of the flute came continually.
After a while Vaskovski said, pointing to the arena, —
“There was a cross here, too, but they have borne it away.”
Pan Stanislav was thinking, however, of Svirski’s words; for him they had a more vital interest than they could have for a man who had finished the spiritual struggle with himself. At last he said, following his own course of thought, —
“Yes, there is something beyond human in this; some truth shines into the eyes here, like that moon.”
They were going slowly toward the entrance, when a carriage rattled outside. Then in the dark passage leading to the centre of the circus, steps were heard; two tall, figures issued from the shade into the light. One of these, dressed in gray stuff, which gleamed like steel in the moonlight, approached a number of steps to distinguish the visitors better, and said all at once, —
“Good-evening! The night is so beautiful that we, too, came to the Colosseum. What a night!”
Pan Stanislav recognized the voice of Pani Osnovski.
Giving her hand, she spoke with a voice as soft as the sound of that flute which came from the direction of the church, —
“I shall begin to believe in presentiments, for really something told me that here I should find acquaintances. How beautiful the night is!”
CHAPTER XXXIV
On returning to the hotel, Pan Stanislav and Marynia were surprised somewhat to find the Osnovskis’ cards; and their astonishment rose from this, that, being newly married, it was their duty to make the first visit. For this unusual politeness it was needful to answer with equal politeness, hence they returned the visit on the following day. Bukatski, who saw them before they made it, though he was very unwell, and could barely drag his feet along, brought himself still to one of his usual witticisms, and said to Pan Stanislav, when they were alone for a moment, —
“She will play the coquette; but if thou suppose that she will fall in love with thee, thou art mistaken. She is a little like a razor, – she needs a strap to sharpen herself; in the best event, thou wilt be a strap for her.”
“First, I do not wish to be her strap,” answered Pan Stanislav; “and second, it is too early.”
“Too early? That means that thou art reserving the future for thyself.”
“No; it means that I am thinking of something else, and also that I love my Marynia more and more. And when that ends, too early will be too late, and that Pani Osnovski might dent, but not sharpen herself, on me.”
And Pan Stanislav, in saying this, was sincere: he had his thoughts occupied really with something else; he was too honorable to betray his wife at any time, but even if not, it was too early to begin.
He was so greatly sure of his strength that he felt a certain readiness to expose himself to trial. In other words, it would have given the man a kind of pleasure if Pani Osnovski had dented herself on him.
After lunch he went with Marynia to sit to Svirski; the sitting, however, was short, since the artist was judge in some exhibition, and had to hasten to a meeting. They returned home, and Pan Osnovski came to them a quarter of an hour later.
Pan Stanislav, after his conversation with Svirski, had a kind of compassion for Osnovski, but also a sort of small opinion. Marynia, however, felt for him a living sympathy; she was won by what she had heard of his kindness and delicacy, as well as his attachment to his wife. It seemed to her now that all these qualities were as if written on his face, – a face by no means ugly, though it had pimples here and there.
After the greeting, Osnovski began to speak with the confident freedom of a man accustomed to good society:
“I come at the instance of my wife with a proposal. Praise to God, visiting ceremonies are ended between us, though abroad it is not worth while to reckon too precisely in this matter. The affair is this: We are going to St. Paul’s to-day, and then to the Three Fountains. That is outside the city; there is an interesting cloister in the place, and a beautiful view. It would be very agreeable to us if you would consent to make the trip in our company.”
Marynia was always ready for every trip, especially in company, and with pleasant conversation; in view of this she looked at her husband, waiting for what he would say. Pan Stanislav saw that she wished to go, and, besides, he thought in his soul, “If the other wants to dent herself, let her do it.” And he answered, —
“I would consent willingly, but this depends on my superior power.”
His “superior power” was not sure yet whether the obedient subordinate meant that really; but, seeing on his face a smile and good-humor, she made bold to say at last, —
“With much thankfulness; but shall we not cause trouble?”
“Not trouble, but pleasure,” answered Osnovski. “In that event the matter is ended. We’ll be here in a quarter of an hour.”
In fact, they set out a quarter of an hour later. Pani Osnovski’s Chinese eyes were full of satisfaction and repose. Wearing an iris-colored robe, in which she might pass for the eighth wonder of the world, she looked really like a rusalka.6 And before they had reached St. Paul’s, Pan Stanislav did not know how Pani Osnovski, who had not spoken on this subject to him, had been able somehow to say to him, or at least to give him to understand, more or less as follows: “Thy wife is a pleasant little woman from the country; of my husband nothing need be said. We two only are able to understand each other and share impressions.“
But he resolved to torment her. When they arrived at St. Paul’s, which Pani Osnovski did not mention otherwise than as “San Poolo fuori le Mura,”7 her husband wished to stop the carriage, but she said, —
“We will stop when returning, for we shall know then how much time is left for this place; but now we’ll go straight to the Three Fountains.”
ning to Pan Stanislav, she continued, “There are in this famous place various things, about which I should like to ask you.”
“Then you will do badly, for I know nothing at all of these matters.”
It appeared soon, on passing various monuments, that of the whole party Pan Osnovski knew most. The poor man had been studying the guide-books from morning till evening, so that he might be a guide for his wife, and also to please her with his knowledge. But she cared nothing for explanations which her husband could give, precisely because they came from him. The insolent self-assurance with which Pan Stanislav had confessed that he had no idea of antiquities was more to her taste.
Beyond St. Paul’s opened out a view on the Campagna with its aqueducts, which seemed to run toward the city in haste, and on the Alban hills, veiled, as they were, with the blue haze of distance, – a view at once calm and bright. Pani Osnovski gazed for some time with a dreamy look, and then inquired, —
“Have you been in Albani or Nemi?”
“No,” answered Pan Stanislav; “sitting to Svirski breaks the day so for us that we cannot make long excursions till the portrait is finished.”
“We have been there; but when you are going, take me with you, take me with you! Is it agreed? Will you permit?” added she, turning to Marynia. “I shall be a fifth wheel to some extent, but never mind. Besides, I shall sit quietly, very quietly, in a corner of the carriage, and not give out one mru mru! Is it agreed?”
“Oi! little one, little one,” said Pan Osnovski.
But she continued, “My husband will not believe that I am in love with Nemi; but I am. When I was there, it seemed to me that Christianity had not reached the place yet; that in the night certain priests come out and celebrate pagan rites on the lake. Silence and mystery! there you have Nemi. Will you believe that when I was there the wish came to me to be a hermit, and it has not left me to this moment? I would build a cell on the bank of the lake for myself, and wear a robe long and gray, like the habit of Saint Francis of Assisi, and go barefoot. What would I give to be a hermit! I see myself at the lake – ”
“Anetka,8 but what would become of me?” inquired Osnovski, half in jest, half in earnest.
“Oh, thou wouldst console thyself,” said she, curtly.
“Thou wouldst be a hermitess,” thought Pan Stanislav, “if on the other side of the lake there were a couple of dozen dandies gazing through glasses to see what the hermitess was doing, and how she looked.”
He was too well-bred to tell her this directly; but he told her something similar, and which could be understood.
“Naturally,” said she, laughing; “I should live by alms, and should have to see people sometimes; if you came to Nemi, I should come to you too and repeat in a very low voice, ‘Un soldo! un soldo!’”
Saying this, she stretched her small hands to him, and shook them, repeating humbly, —
“Un soldo per la povera! un soldo!”
And she looked into his eyes.
Pan Osnovski spoke meanwhile to Marynia.
“This is called Three Fountains,” said he, “for there are three springs here. Saint Paul’s head was cut off at this place; and there is a tradition that the head jumped three times, and that on those places springs burst forth. The place belongs now to the Trappists. Formerly people could not pass a night here, there was such fever; now there is less, for they have planted a whole forest of eucalyptuses on the hills. Oh, we can see it already.”
But Pani Osnovski, bending back somewhat, half closed her eyes for a moment, and said to Pan Stanislav, —
“This Roman air intoxicates me. I am as if beside myself. At home I cannot force from life more than it gives me; but here I am demoralized, I feel that something is wanting to me. Do I know what? Here one feels something, divines something, yearns for something. Maybe that is bad. Maybe it is not right for me to say this. But I say always what passes through my mind. At home, when a child, they called me Little Sincerity. I shall beg my husband to take me hence. It may be better to live in my own narrow shell, like a nut, or a snail.“
“It may be pleasant in shells for nuts or snails,” answered Pan Stanislav, with gravity, “but not for birds, and besides birds of paradise, of which there is a tradition that they have no legs and can never rest, but must fly and fly.”
“What a beautiful tradition!” exclaimed Pani Osnovski. And, raising her hands, she began to move them, imitating the motion of wings, and repeating, —
“This way, forever through the air.”
The comparison flattered her, though she was astonished that Pan Stanislav had uttered it with a serious voice, but with an inattentive and, as it were, ironical face. He began to interest her, for he seemed very intelligent, and more difficult to master than she had expected.
Meanwhile they arrived at Three Fountains. They visited the garden, the church, and the chapel, in the basement of which three springs were flowing. Pan Osnovski explained, in his kind, somewhat monotonous voice, what he had read previously. Marynia listened with interest; but Pan Stanislav thought, —
“Still to live three hundred and sixty-five days in a year with him, must be a little tiresome.”
That justified Pani Osnovski in his eyes for the moment; she, taking upon herself now the new role of bird of paradise, did not rest for a moment, not merely on the ground, but on any subject. First she drank eucalyptus liquor, which the cloister prepared as a means against fever; then she declared decisively that if she were a man she would be a Trappist. Later, however, she remembered that her sailing career would be agreeable “ever between sea and sky, as if living in endlessness;” at last the wish to become a great, a very great writer, gained the day against everything else, – a writer describing the minutest movements of the soul, half-conscious feelings, desires incompletely defined, all forms, all colors, all shades. The party learned also, as a secret, that she was writing her memoirs, which “that honest Yozio” considers a masterpiece; but she knows that that is nothing, she has not the least pretensions, and she ridicules Yozio and the memoirs.
“Yozio” looks at her with loving eyes, and with great affection on his pimpled face, and says with a protest, —
“As to the memoirs, I beg pardon greatly.”
They drove away about sundown. There were long shadows from the trees; the sun was large and red. The distant aqueducts and the Alban hills were gleaming in rose-color. They were halfway when the “Angelus” was sounded in the tower of St. Paul’s, and immediately after were heard a second, a third, a tenth. Each church gave the signal to the succeeding one; and such a mighty chorus was formed as if the whole air were ringing, as if the “Angelus” had been sounded not merely by the city, but the whole region, the plains, and the mountains.
Pan Stanislav looked on Marynia’s face, lighted by the golden gleams. There was great calm in it and attention. It was evident that she was repeating the “Angelus” now, as she had repeated it in Kremen, when it was sounded in Vantory. Always and everywhere the same. Pan Stanislav remembered again the “service of God.” It seemed to him more simple and pacifying than ever. But now, while approaching the city, he understood the permanence, the vitality, the immensity, of those beliefs. “All this,” thought he, “has endured thus for a thousand and a half of years; and the strength and certainty of this city is only in those towers, those bells, that permanence of the cross, which endures and endures.” Again Svirski’s words came to him: “Here a ruin, on the Palatine a ruin, in the Forum a ruin, but over the city crosses, crosses, crosses and crosses.” It seemed to him beyond a doubt that in that very permanence there is something superhuman. Meanwhile the bells sounded, and the heavens above the city were covered with twilight. Under the impression produced by the praying Marynia, and the bells, and that vesper feeling, which seemed to hover over the city and the whole land, the following thought began to take form in Pan Stanislav, who had much mental directness: “What an idiot and vain fool should I be, in view of the needs of faith and that feeling of God, were I to seek some special forms of love and reverence of my own, instead of accepting those which Marynia calls ‘service of God,’ and which still must be the best, since the world has lived nearly two thousand years in them!” Then the reasoning side of this thought struck him as a practical man, and he continued to himself, almost joyously: “On one side the traditions of a thousand years, the life of God knows how many generations and how many societies, for which there was and is delight in those forms, the authority for God knows how many persons who consider them as the only forms; on the other side, who? I, a partner in the commission house of Bigiel and Polanyetski; and I had the pretension to think out something better into which the Lord God would fit Himself more conveniently. For this it is needful at least to be a fool! I, besides, am a man sincere with myself; and I could not endure it if from time to time the thought came to me, – I am a fool. But my mother believed in this, and my wife believes; and I have never seen greater peace in any one than in them.”
Here he looked at Marynia once and a second time; she had finished evidently her “Angelus,” for she smiled at him in answer, and inquired, —
“Why so silent?”
“We are all silent,” he answered.
And so it was, but for various reasons. While Pan Stanislav was occupied with his thoughts, Pani Osnovski attacked him a number of times with her eyes and her words. He answered her words with something disconnected, and did not notice her glances in any way. He simply offended her: she might have forgiven him, she might have been pleased even, if to her statement that she wished to be a nun, he had answered with impudence concealed in polished words; but he wounded her mortally when he ceased to notice her, and in punishment she ceased also to notice him.
But as a person of good breeding she became all the politer to Marynia. She inquired touching her plans on the following day; and, learning that they were to be at the Vatican, she announced that she and her husband had tickets of admission, and would use the opportunity also.
“You know the dress?” inquired she. “A black robe, and black lace on the head. One looks a little old in them, but no matter.”
“I know; Pan Svirski forewarned me,” answered Marynia.
“Pan Svirski always talks of you to me when I am sitting to him. He has great regard for you.”
“And I for him.”
During this conversation they arrived at the hotel. Pan Stanislav received such a slight and cool pressure of the hand from the fair lady that, though his head was occupied with something else, he noticed it.
“Is that a new method,” thought he, “or have I said something that displeased her?”
“What dost thou think of Pani Osnovski?” asked he of Marynia in the evening.
“I think that Pan Svirski may be right in some measure.”
And Pan Stanislav answered: “She is writing at this moment ‘memoirs,’ which ‘Yozio’ considers a masterpiece.”
CHAPTER XXXV
Next morning when Marynia came out to her husband he hardly knew her. Dressed in black, and with a black lace veil on her head, she seemed taller, more slender, darker, and older. But he was pleased by a certain solemnity in her which recalled the ceremony of their marriage. Half an hour later they started. On the road Marynia confessed to fear, and a beating of the heart. He pacified her playfully, though he, too, was moved somewhat; and when, after a short drive, they entered the gigantic half-circle in front of St. Peter’s, he felt also that his pulse was not beating as every day, and, besides, he had a strange feeling of being smaller than usual. Near the steps, where stood a number of Swiss guards, arrayed in the splendid uniform invented by Michael Angelo, they found Svirski, who led them up with a throng of people, mostly Belgians. Marynia, who was somewhat dazed, did not know herself when she entered a very spacious hall, in which the throng was still denser, excepting on a space in the centre, where the Swiss guards were posted in lines, and kept a broad passage open. The crowd, among which the French and Flemish languages were to be heard, whispered in low voices, and turned their heads and eyes toward a passage, in which, from time to time, appeared, through the adjoining hall, forms in remarkable costumes, which reminded Pan Stanislav of galleries in Antwerp or Brussels. It seemed to him that the Middle Ages were rising from the dead: now it was some knight of those ages, in a helmet, different indeed from helmets on the ancient portraits, but with steel on his breast; now a herald in a short red dalmatica, and with a red cap on his head; at times through the open door appeared purple cardinals, or violet bishops, ostrich feathers, lace on black velvet, and heads immensely venerable, white hair and faces, as if from a sarcophagus. But it was evident that the glances of the throng were falling on those peculiar dresses and colors and faces, as if, in passing, that their eyes were waiting for something beyond, something higher, some other heart; it was clear that in people’s minds attention was fixed as was feeling in their souls, in waiting for a moment which comes once in a lifetime, and is memorable ever after. Pan Stanislav, holding Marynia by the hand, so as not to lose her in the throng, felt that hand tremble from emotion; as to him, in the midst of those silent crowds and beating hearts, before that historical dignity of former ages rising from the dead, as it were, in the midst of that attention and expectation, he felt a second time the wonderful impression of becoming smaller and smaller, till he was the smallest that he had ever been in life.
At that moment a low and rather panting voice whispered near them, —
“I have been looking for you, and found you with difficulty. The ceremony will begin at once, it seems.”
But it was not to begin at once. The monsignor acquaintance greeted Svirski meanwhile, and, speaking a few words to him, conducted the whole party politely to the adjoining hall, which was fitted in crimson damask. Pan Stanislav saw with astonishment that this hall, too, was full of people, with the exception of one end, which was reserved by a guard of honor, and in which was an armchair on an elevation, and before it a number of prelates and bishops conversing confidentially. Here expectation and attention were more expressly visible. It was evident that people were holding their breath; and all faces had a solemn, mysterious expression. The azure clearness of the day, mingled with the purple reflections of the tapestry, filled that hall with a kind of unusual light, in which the rays of the sun, breaking in here and there through the window-panes, appeared very ruddy and of a deeper red.
They waited some time yet; at last, in the first hall a murmur was heard, then a muttering, then a shout, and, finally, in the open side door appeared a white figure borne by the noble guard. Marynia’s hand pressed Pan Stanislav’s nervously; he returned the pressure; and swift impressions, merged in one general feeling of the exceptional and solemn import of the moment, flashed through their minds, as during the ceremony of their marriage.
One of the cardinals began to speak, but Pan Stanislav neither heard nor understood what he said. His eyes, his thoughts, his whole soul, were with the figure clothed in white. Nothing in it escaped his attention, – its unparalleled emaciation, its frailness, its thinness, and its face as pale, and at the same time as transparent, as faces of the dead are. There was in it something which had no physical strength, or in every case it seemed to him simply half body, half apparition, as it were, a light shining through alabaster; a spirit, fixed in some transparent matter; an intermediate link between two worlds; a link human yet, though already preterhuman, earthly so far, but also above earthly things. And through a marvellous antithesis the matter in it seemed to be something apparitional, and the spirit something material.
Afterward, when people began to approach it for a blessing; when Pan Stanislav saw his Marynia at its feet; when he felt that to those knees, already half empyrean, one might still incline as to those of a father, – an emotion surpassing everything seized him; his eyes were as if mist-covered; never in life had he felt himself such a small grain of sand, but at the same time he felt himself a grain of sand in which the grateful heart of a little child was throbbing.
After they had gone out, all were silent. Marynia had eyes as if roused from sleep; Vaskovski’s hands were trembling. Bukatski dragged himself in to lunch; but, being ill, he could not excite conversation in any one. Svirski, strange to say, talked little while Marynia was sitting, and returned continually to the same subject; from time to time he repeated, —
“Yes, yes; whoever has not seen that can have no conception of it. That will remain.”
In the evening Pan Stanislav and Marynia went to see the sunset from Trinità dei Monti. The day ended very beautifully. The whole city was buried in a kind of hazy golden gleam; under their feet, far down in the valley, on the Piazza di Spagna, darkness was beginning, but a darkness yet lighted, in the mild tones of which irises and white lilies were visible among the flowers set out on both sides of the Via Condotti. In the whole picture there was great and undisturbed repose, – a kind of soothing announcement of night and sleep. Then the Piazza di Spagna began to sink more and more in the shade, but the Trinità was shining continually in purple.
Pan Stanislav and Marynia felt this calmness reflected in themselves; they descended the giant stairs then with a wonderful feeling of peace in their souls. All the impressions of the day settled down in them in lines as great and calm as those twilight belts, which were still shining above them.
“Knowest thou,” said Pan Stanislav, “what I remember yet from childhood’s years? That with us at home they always said the evening rosary together.” And he looked with an inquiring glance into Marynia’s eyes.
“Oh, my Stas!” said she, with a voice trembling from emotion, “I did not dare to mention this – my best.”
“‘Service of God,’ – dost thou remember?”
But she had said that formerly with such simplicity, and as a thing so self-evident, that she remembered nothing whatever about it.
