Генрик Сенкевич
Children of the Soil
He understood, also, that for him it was too late to with draw from that road, and that once those same lips of his, which had sworn faith and love to Marynia, had said to another woman, “I love!” the greatest evil was committed. The rest was simply a sequence, which it was not proper to reject, even for this reason, – that in every case it was a pleasure. He imagined that all must reason thus who throw honesty through the window, and resolve on deeds of vileness; and the reasoning seemed to him as exact as it was immoral. And the more soberly he reflected, the more he was astonished at his own degradation. He had seen much evil and hidden vileness in the world under the guise of refinement and polish. He knew that corruption had worked out for itself, somehow, under the influence of bad books, a right of citizenship; but he remembered that he was indignant at this, that he wished simplicity and strictness for the society in which he lived, in the conviction that only on such bases could social strength and permanence be developed. Nothing has roused in him so many fears for the future as that refined evil of the West sown on the wild Slav field, and growing up on it with a sickly bloom of dilettantism, license, weakness, and faithlessness. More than once, as he remembered, he had reproached with such sowings, at one time high financial spheres, at another aristocracy of birth; and more than once he had attacked them without mercy. Now he understood that whoso lives in an atmosphere filled with carbonic gas, must suffocate. In what was he better than others? Or rather, how much worse was he than those who, floating in corruption, as sticks float in water, do not, at least, amuse themselves with hypocrisy, nor deceive themselves, nor prescribe rules to others, nor erect ideals of a healthy man spiritually, an honest husband, an honest father, as a binding model. And he almost refused to believe that he was the man, who once gave Pani Emilia ideal friendship, and promised faithfulness to Marynia, and who considered that he had a clear intellect and a character juster and stronger than others.
He stronger? His strength was only deception, coming from lack of temptation. If he had loved Pani Emilia with the ideal feeling of a brother; if he had resisted the coquetry of Pani Aneta, – it was only because they did not rouse in him that animal feeling which that puppet with her red eyes roused, she whom his soul rejected, but for whom his senses were striving this long time. He thought then, too, that his feeling for Marynia had never been honest, for at the basis of things it was not anything else than just such an animal attraction. Familiarity had dulled it; and, restrained by the condition of Marynia, he had turned to where he was able, and turned without restraint or scruple hardly half a year after his marriage.
And Pan Stanislav, who, on leaving Mashko’s house, had the feeling that he was a wretch, thought all at once that he was more of a wretch than at first he had imagined, for he remembered now that he was to be a father.
At home, in Marynia’s windows, the lights had not been extinguished; he would have given much to find her sleeping. It came to his mind, even, to walk on and not return till there was darkness in the chamber. But suddenly he saw her profile in the window. She must be looking for him; and, since it was clear in front of the house, she must have seen him, – hence he halted and went in.
She received him in a white night wrapper, and with unbound hair. There was in that unbound hair a certain calculated coquetry, for she knew that she had beautiful hair, and that he liked to fondle it.
“Why art thou not sleeping?” asked he, coming in.
She approached him, sleepy, but smiling, and said, —
“I was waiting for thee to say the evening prayer.”
Since their stay in Rome they had prayed together; but at present the very thought of this seemed to him insupportable. Meanwhile Marynia inquired, —
“Well, Stas, art content that thou hast saved him? Thou art, I think.”
“Yes,” answered he.
“But she does not know of his position?”
“She does and does not. It is late. Let us go to sleep.”
“Good-night. Dost thou know of what I have been thinking here alone? That thou art so good and honest.”
And, extending her face to him, she put her arms around his neck; he kissed her, feeling at the same time the pure honesty of her kiss, and his own vileness, and the whole series of vilenesses which he would have to commit later on.
One of these he committed right there, kneeling down to the prayer, which Marynia repeated aloud. He could not avoid saying it; and in saying it, he merely played a pitiful comedy, for he could not pray.
After the prayer was finished and a second good-night given, he could not sleep. It seemed to him that, when coming from Mashko’s, he had embraced with his mind his action and all its moral consequences. Meanwhile it turned out that he had not. It came to his head now that it is possible not to believe in God, but not permitted to make sport of Him. To commit, for example, a perfidy, to return home to-morrow, or the following day, after having committed adultery, and kneel down to prayer, that would be too much. He felt that it was necessary to choose either religious feeling and sincere faith, or Pani Mashko. To reconcile these was not possible. And all at once he saw that everything which he had worked out and elaborated in himself purposely for years, that all that immense calm, resulting from the solution of life’s chief enigma, – in a word, that which composed the essence of his spiritual existence, – must be rejected outright. On the other hand, he understood equally well that, from to-morrow forward, he must give the lie to his own social principles, to his recognition of the family as the basis of social existence. It is not permitted to proclaim such principles, and seduce other men’s wives in secret. It was necessary to choose here too. As to Marynia, perfidy against her had been committed already. With one sweep, then, his relations with God, with society, with his wife, had gone to ruin; the ceiling of that spiritual house, reared with great labor, and in which he had been dwelling, had tumbled on his head. And that chilling cold of evil filled him with wonder. He had not expected that, on cutting a single thread, the whole fabric would unravel so quickly; and with astonishment he asked himself how there can exist in the world opportunism of that kind, which reconciles faith-breaking in life with honesty and honor? For that is what is done. He knew many so-called decent people, married men, loving their wives, as it were, religious, – and at the same time pursuing every woman they met. These same men, who would account to their wives every deviation from duty as a crime, permitted themselves conjugal infidelity without a scruple. He remembered how one of his acquaintances, pushed to the wall on this point, wriggled out humorously with the well-known street witticism that he was not a Swedish match. Absolute infidelity was obliterated, and among men passed as something permitted, almost customary. That thought brought Pan Stanislav a moment of consolation, but a short one, for he was consistent, if not in his actions, at least in his reasoning. True! The world is not composed of thieves and hypocrites alone, but in great part of thoughtless and frivolous people; and this opportunism, reconciling adultery with honor and honesty, is nothing else than frivolity. For in what can custom excuse a man, who recognizes the immorality and stupidity of that custom? For a fool, infidelity may be a joke, thought Pan Stanislav; for a man who thinks seriously, it is scoundrelism, as much opposed to ethics as a crime, as the signing of other men’s names to notes, as the breaking of an oath, as the breaking of a word, as swindling in trade, or in cards. Religion may forgive the sin of adultery as a momentary fall; but adultery which excuses itself beforehand, excludes religion, excludes society, excludes honesty, excludes honor. Pan Stanislav, who, in his reasonings with himself, was always consistent and in general utterly unsparing, did not withdraw before this last induction. But he was frightened when he saw the precipice. If he did not withdraw, he would break his neck; but at the same time he began to fret at his own weakness. He knew himself well enough, with sorrow and with contempt also for his own weakness; he knew in advance that when he should see Pani Mashko, the human beast would get the upper hand of his soul. To withdraw? But he had repeated that to himself, and determined it after every temptation; and afterward, in presence of each succeeding one, passion had run away with his will at breakneck speed, just as a wild horse runs away with a rider. At the very remembrance of this he wanted to curse. If he had been unhappy at home, if his passion had grown up on the ground of great love, he would have had some excuse for it; but he did not love Pani Mashko, – he only desired her. He could never give himself an account of this dualism in the nature of man, – he knew only that he desired and would desire after every meeting, after every thought of her.
There remained one escape, not to see her, – an impossible escape, not only with reference to relations of acquaintance of every kind, but even with reference to this, that then Marynia would begin to suspect something. Pan Stanislav did not even suppose that that had taken place already, and that she merely concealed from him her suffering; he gave account to himself, however, that if his treason should in any way come out, it would be a blow simply beyond the strength of that mild and trusting woman. And his reproaches increased still more. Great pity and compassion for her seized him, as well as increased contempt for himself. In spite of darkness, the blood rushed to his face when he remembered that the fatal words had fallen; that he had said, “I love,” to Pani Mashko; that he had deceived and betrayed Marynia, that honest, truthful woman; and that he was capable of betraying her trust, and trampling on her heart.
For a while it seemed to him a pure impossibility; but his conscience answered him, Thou art capable! Still, in that sorrow and pity for her he found a kind of consolation, when he saw that his feeling for her was and is something more than animal attraction, and that there were in him certain attachments, flowing out of the community of life and mutual possession; from the marriage vow; from comradeship in good and evil fortune; from the great esteem and affection which in future was to be strengthened by a child. Never had he loved her more than in that moment of internal torture, and never had there risen in him greater tenderness. Day began to break; through the openings of the window the dawn was entering, and filled the chamber with a pale light, in which he could see indistinctly her dark head sunk in the pillow. His heart was filled with the feeling that that was his only and best treasure, – his greatly beloved comrade sleeping there, his best friend, his wife, and the future mother of his child. And no conclusions, no reasonings about religion and social unvirtue, filled him with such disgust for that unvirtue and for himself as the sight of that mild, sleeping face. The light through the openings entered more and more, and her head emerged more distinctly each moment from the shade. The half-circles of her eyelids were visible already on her cheeks and Pan Stanislav, looking at her, began to say to himself, “Thy honesty will help me!” All at once better feelings gained the victory in him: the beast abandoned his son and a certain consolation seized him, for he thought that if he were such a wretch as he had imagined, he would have followed the voice of passion with a lighter heart, and would not have passed through such suffering.
He woke late in the morning, wearied and somewhat ill; he felt such dissatisfaction and exhaustion as he had never felt before. But by the light of day, and besides a rainy and gloomy day, the whole affair stood before him differently, – it seemed more sober, ordinary; the future did not appear to him so terrible, nor his fault so great. Everything grew smaller in his eyes; he began to think then principally of this, whether Pani Mashko had confessed all to her husband or not. At moments he had the feeling of a man who has crawled into a great and sore trouble needlessly. Gradually, however, this feeling was changed into an ever increasing and more vivid alarm. “The position is stupid,” said he to himself. “Every reproach may be made against Mashko, but not this, that he is an incompetent or a coward; and he will not put such an insult as that into his pocket. Hence there will be an explanation, a scandal, perhaps a duel. May the thunderbolts shatter it! What a fatal history, if the thing reaches Marynia!” And he began to be angry with the whole world. Till then he had had perfect peace; he had cared for no one, counted with no one. To-day, however, he is turning to every side; in his head is the question, “Has she told; has she not told?” and from the morning he could not think of aught else. It went that far that finally he put to himself this question: “What the deuce! am I afraid of Mashko? I?” It was not Mashko whom he feared, but Marynia, which was in like manner something both new and astonishing, for a couple of days earlier he would have admitted anything rather than this, – that he would ever fear Marynia. And as midday approached, the affair, which seemed to him diminished in the morning, began again to increase in his eyes. At moments he strengthened himself with the hope that Pani Mashko would be silent; at moments he lost that hope. And then he felt that he would not dare to look into the eyes, not of Marynia, merely, but of any one; and he feared Bigiel, too, and Pani Bigiel, and Pani Emilia, Pan Ignas, – in a word, all his acquaintances. “See what it is to make a muddle!” thought he. “How much one stupidity costs!” His alarm increased to the degree that at last, under pretext of returning the cane, he sent a servant boy to Pani Mashko with a bow, and an inquiry as to her health.
The servant returned in half an hour. Pan Stanislav saw him through the window, and, going down hurriedly to meet him, learned that he had brought a note from Pani Mashko to Marynia. Taking the note, he gave it to Marynia; and his heart beat with still greater alarm while watching her face as she read it.
But Marynia, when she had finished, raised her calm eyes to him, and said, —
“Pani Mashko invites us to supper to-day – and the Bigiels also.”
“A-a!” answered Pan Stanislav, drawing a full breath. And in his soul he added, “She has not told.”
“We will go, shall we not?” asked Marynia.
“If thou wish – that is, go with the Bigiels, for after dinner I must go to the city. I must see Svirski; perhaps I shall bring him here.”
“Then we may send an excuse?”
“No, no! go with the Bigiels. Maybe I shall call in on the way and explain to her; but even that is not necessary. Thou wilt explain for me.” And he went out, for he needed to be alone with his thoughts.
“She has not told;” a feeling of relief and delight now possessed him. She had not told her husband; she was not offended; she had invited them. She has agreed, therefore, to everything; she is ready to go farther, and to go everywhere, whithersoever he may wish to lead her. What is that invitation itself, if not a wish to put him at ease, if not an answer to his, “Till to-morrow”? Now all depends on him alone; and shivers begin again to go from his feet to his head. There are no hindrances unless in himself. The fish has swallowed the hook. Temptations attacked him with new power, for uncertainty restrained them no longer. Yes, the fish had swallowed the hook; she had not resisted. Here a feeling of triumph seized him, and of satisfaction for his self-love; and at the same time, thinking of Pani Mashko, he began almost to beg pardon of her in his soul, because he had at moments been capable of doubting her, and thinking her an honest woman, for even five minutes. Now, at least, he knew what to think of her, and he was thankful. After a while he laughed at his previous fears. In this way he rendered the first tribute due her, contempt. She had ceased to be for him something unattainable, something for which a battle between hope and fear is fought. In spite of himself, he imagined her now as something of his, as his own, always attractive, but for this very reason less valuable. The thought also caused him pleasure, that if he resisted temptation at present, it would be a pure merit. Now, when the doors stood open, he saw with wonder that the desire of resistance increased in him. Once more all that he had said during the sleepless night about faith-breaking flew through his mind. Once more his heart reminded him of Marynia, her justness, her honesty, her approaching motherhood, and that great peace, that real happiness, which he could find only near her; and in the end of all these considerations he decided to go to the city, and not be at Pani Mashko’s.
After midday he gave command to bring the horses. When he was seated in Bigiel’s carriage he bent over, embraced Marynia at parting, “Amuse thyself well,” and drove away. His morning exhaustion had passed; he recovered even his humor, for he felt satisfied with himself. Confidence in his own power and character returned to him. Meanwhile, a certain exciting pleasure was caused in his mind by the thought of Pani Mashko’s astonishment when she should learn that he had gone, and had no intention to visit her. He felt a certain need of revenge on the woman for the physical impression which she had produced on him. Since the coming of that note, which she had written to Marynia, his contempt for her had increased with such force that soon he began to think that he would be in a position to come off victorious, even should he visit her.
“And if I should go there, indeed, and give another meaning to yesterday’s words,” said he. But directly he thought, “I will not be a deceiver, at least, with reference to myself.”
He was certain, however, that she would not be astonished at his coming. After what he had told her yesterday, she might suppose that he would find some excuse for visiting her before the arrival of Marynia and the Bigiels, or for remaining behind them.
But should she see him driving past, she might think that he feared her, or consider him a boor, or jester.
“There is no doubt,” monologued he, further, “that a man who does not consider himself a fool, or a dolt, incapable of resisting any puppet, would go in and try to correct in some fashion yesterday’s stupidity.”
But at the same moment fear seized him. That same voice which yesterday evening shouted in his soul that he was a wretch, began to shout again with redoubled energy.
“I will not go in,” thought Pan Stanislav. “To understand and to be able to refrain are two different matters.”
Pani Kraslavski’s villa was visible now in the distance.
Suddenly it flew into his head that Pani Mashko, through vexation and the feeling of being contemned, through offended self-love, through revenge, might tell Marynia something that would open her eyes. Maybe she would do that with one word, with one smile, giving even, it might be, to understand further, that certain insolent hopes of his had been shattered by her womanly honesty, and in that way explain his absence. Women rarely refuse themselves such small revenges, and still more rarely are they merciful one toward another.
“If I had the courage to go in – ”
At that moment the carriage was even with the gate of the villa.
“Stop!” said Pan Stanislav to the driver.
He saw on the balcony Pani Mashko, who, however, withdrew at once.
He walked through the yard; the servant received him at the door.
“The lady is upstairs,” said he.
Pan Stanislav felt that his legs were trembling under him, when he walked up the steps; meanwhile the following thoughts flew through his head, —
“He may permit himself everything who takes life lightly, but I do not take it lightly. If, after all that I have considered and thought over and said, I could not master myself, I should be the last among men.” Now, standing at the door of the room pointed out by the servant, he inquired, —
“Is it permitted?”
“I beg,” said the thin voice.
And after a while he found himself in Pani Mashko’s boudoir.
“I have come in,” said he, giving her his hand, “to explain that I cannot be at supper. I must go to the city.”
Pani Mashko stood before him with head a little inclined, with drooping eyes, confused, full of evident fear, having in her posture and expression of face something of the resigned victim, which sees that the decisive moment has come, and that the misfortune must happen.
That state of mind came on Pan Stanislav, too, in one flash; hence, approaching her suddenly, he asked with stifled voice, —
“Are you afraid? Of what are you afraid?”
