Генрик Сенкевич
Children of the Soil
CHAPTER LII
Next morning Pani Polanyetski received a letter from her husband, stating that he would not return that day, for he was going to look at a place situated on the other side of the city. On the following day, however, he returned, and brought Svirski, who had promised Bigiel and Pan Stanislav before that he would visit them at their summer residence.
“Imagine to thyself,” said Pan Stanislav, after greeting his wife, “that that Buchynek, which I have been looking at, lies next to old Zavilovski’s Yasmen; when I learned that, I visited the old man, who is not feeling well, and in Yasmen I found Pan Svirski, unexpectedly. He helped me to look at Buchynek, and the house pleased him much. There is a nice garden, a large pond, and some forest. Once it was a considerable property; but the land has been sold away, so that little remains now with the residence.”
“A pretty, very pretty place,” said Svirski. “There is much shade, much air, and much quiet.”
“Wilt thou buy it?” inquired Marynia.
“Perhaps. Meanwhile I should like to rent it. We could live there the rest of the summer, and satisfy ourselves as to whether it would suit us. The owner is so certain that a stay there will be agreeable to us that he agrees to rent it. I should have given him earnest-money at once, but I wished to know what thy thought would be.”
Marynia was a little sorry to lose the society of the Bigiels; but, noticing that her husband was looking into her eyes earnestly, and that he had an evident wish that they should live the rest of the summer by themselves, she said that she would agree most willingly.
The Bigiels began to oppose, and offer a veto; but when Pan Stanislav represented to them that it was a question of trying a house in which he and Marynia would be likely to live every summer to the end of their lives, they had to confess that the reason was sufficient.
“To-morrow I will engage the place, and carry out all the furniture necessary from Warsaw, and we can move in the day after.”
“That is just as if you wished to flee from us as soon as possible,” said Pani Bigiel; “why such haste?”
“There is no trouble with packing,” answered he, hurriedly; “and you know that I do not like delay.”
Finally it was left in this way: that the Polanyetskis were to go to Buchynek in four days. Now dinner was served, during which Svirski told how Pan Stanislav had found him at Zavilovski’s in Yasmen.
“Panna Helena wished me to paint her father’s portrait,” said he, “and to paint it in Yasmen. I went because I was eager for work, and, besides, the old man has an interesting head. But nothing could come of that. They are in a residence with walls two yards thick; for that reason there is poor light in the rooms. I would not paint under such conditions; and then another hindrance appeared, – the model was attacked by the gout. The doctor, whom they took with them to the country, told me that the old man’s condition is not good, and may end badly.”
“I am sorry for Pan Zavilovski,” said Marynia, “for he seems a worthy man. And poor Panna Helena! In the event of his death she will be quite alone. And does he understand his own condition?”
“He does, and he does not; it is his way. He is always an original. Ask your husband how he received him.”
Pan Stanislav laughed, and said, —
“On the way to Buchynek I learned that Yasmen was near, and I resolved to go there. Panna Helena took me to her father; but he was just finishing his rosary, and did not greet me till he had said the last ‘Hail Mary.’ Then he begged my pardon, and said thus: ‘Those heavenly matadors in their own order; but with Her a man has more courage, and in old fashion, when She is merciful, all is well, for nothing is refused Her.’”
“What a type he is!” exclaimed Svirski.
The Bigiels laughed, but Marynia said that there was something affecting in such confidence. With this Svirski agreed, and Pan Stanislav continued, —
“Then he said that it was time for him to think of his will, and I did not oppose him, in usual fashion, for with me it is a question of our Pan Ignas. On the contrary, I told him that that was a purely legal matter, for which it was never too early, and that even young people ought to think of it.”
“That is my opinion, too,” put in Bigiel.
“We spoke also of Pan Ignas; the old man has come to love him heartily.”
“Yes!” exclaimed Svirski. “When he learned that I had been in Prytulov, he began at once to inquire about him.”
“Then have you been in Prytulov?” inquired Marynia.
“Four days. I like Osnovski immensely.”
“And Pani Osnovski?”
“I gave my opinion in Rome of her, and, as I remember, let my tongue out like a scourge.”
“I remember too. You were very wicked. How is it with the young couple?”
“Oh, nothing! They are happy. But Panna Ratkovski is there, – a very charming young lady. I lacked little of falling in love with her.”
“There it is for you! But Stas told me that you are in love with all ladies.”
“With all, and therefore always in love.”
Bigiel, hearing this, stopped and said earnestly, —
“That is a good way never to marry.”
“Unfortunately it is,” said Svirski. Then, turning to Marynia, he said, “Pan Stanislav must have told you of our agreement, – that when you say to me ‘marry,’ I shall marry. That was the agreement with your husband; therefore I should wish you to see Panna Ratkovski. Her name is Stefania, which means the crowned. A pretty name, is it not? She is a calm kind of person, not bold, fearing Pani Aneta and Panna Castelli, but clearly honest. I had a proof of this. Whenever a young lady is in question, I observe everything and note it down in my memory. Once a beggar came to me in Prytulov with a face like that of some Egyptian hermit from Thebes. Pani Aneta and Panna Castelli rushed out at him with their cameras and photographed him, profile and full face, as much as was possible. But the old man wanted food, I think. He had come hoping for alms, but evidently he hated to ask. Peasants have that kind of feeling. Well, none of those ladies observed this, or at least did not note it; they treated him as a thing, till Panna Ratkovski told them that they were humiliating and hurting the old man. That is a small incident, but it shows heart and delicate feelings. That handsome Kopovski dangles about her; but she is not charmed with the man, like those ladies, who are occupied with him, who paint him, invent new costumes for him, hand him around, and almost carry him in their arms, like a doll. No; she told me herself that Kopovski annoys her; and that pleases me, too, for he has as much sense as the head of a walking-stick.”
“As far as I have heard,” said Bigiel, “Pan Kopovski needs money; and Panna Ratkovski is not rich. I know that her father, when dying, was in debt to a bank for a sum which, with interest, was due on the last day of last month.”
“What is that to us?” interrupted Pani Bigiel.
“Thou art right, – that is not our affair.”
“But how does Panna Ratkovski look?” inquired Marynia.
“Panna Ratkovski? She is not beautiful, but she has a sweet face, pale complexion, and dark eyes. You will see her, for those ladies expressed a wish to come here some day. And I persuaded them to it, for I want you to see her.”
“Well,” answered Marynia, laughing, “I shall see her, and declare my sentence. But if it be favorable?”
“I will propose; I give my word. In the worst case, I’ll get a refusal. If you say ‘no,’ I’ll go after ducks. At the end of July shooting is permitted.”
“Oh, those plans are important!” said Pani Bigiel, – ”a wife or ducks! Pan Ignas would not have spoken that way.”
“Well, of what use is reason when one is in love?” said Marynia.
“You are right, and I envy him that very condition; not Panna Castelli, though I was in love with her once myself – oh, no! but just that condition in which one does not reason any longer.”
“But what have you against Panna Castelli?”
“Nothing. I owe her gratitude, for – thanks to her – I had my time of illusions; therefore I shall never say an evil word of her, though some one is pulling me by the tongue greatly. So, ladies, do not pull me.”
“On the contrary,” said Pani Bigiel, “you must tell us of both. I will ask you only on the veranda, for I have directed to bring coffee there.”
After a time they were on the veranda. The little Bigiels were running about in a many-colored crowd among the trees, circling about like bright butterflies. Bigiel placed cigars before Svirski. Marynia, taking advantage of the moment, went up to her husband, who was standing aside somewhat, and, raising her kindly eyes to him, asked:
“Why so silent, Stas?”
“I am tired. In the city there was heat, and in our house one might smother. I couldn’t sleep, for Buchynek got into my head.”
“I, too, am curious about that Buchynek, dost thou know? In truth, I am curious. Thou hast done well to see the place and hire it; very well.” And she looked at him with affection; but, seeing that he seemed really not himself, she said, —
“We will occupy Pan Svirski here, and do thou go and rest a while.”
“No; I cannot sleep.”
Meanwhile Svirski talked on. “There is no breeze,” said he; “not a twig in motion. A genuine summer day! Have you noticed that in the season of heat, and in time of such calm, the whole world seems as if sunk in meditation. I remember that Bukatski found always in this something mystical, and said that he would like to die on such a sunny day, – to sit thus in an armchair, then fall asleep, and dissipate into light.”
“Still, he did not die in summer,” remarked Bigiel.
“No, but in spring, and in good weather. Besides, taking things in general, he did not suffer, and that is beyond all.”
Here he was silent a while, and then added, —
“As to death, we may and should be reconciled to it, and death has never made me indignant; but why pain exists, that, as God lives, passes human understanding.”
No one took up the consideration, so Svirski, shaking the ashes from his cigar, said, —
“But never mind that. After dinner, and with black coffee, it is possible to find a more agreeable subject.”
“Tell us of Pan Ignas,” said Pani Bigiel.
“He pleases me. In all that he does and says the lion’s claw is evident, and, in general, his nature is uncommon, immensely vital. During those two days in Prytulov we became acquainted a little more nearly, and grew friendly. You have no idea how Osnovski has grown to like the man; and I told Osnovski openly that I feared that Pan Ignas might not be happy with those ladies.”
“But why?” asked Marynia.
“That is difficult to say, since one has no facts; but it is felt. Why? Because his nature is utterly different from theirs. You see, that all the loftier aspirations, which for Pan Ignas are the soul of his life, are for those ladies merely an ornament, – something like lace on a dress worn for guests, while on common days the person who owns it goes about in a dressing-gown; and that is a great difference. I fear lest they, instead of soaring with his flight, try to make him jog along by their side, at their own little goose-trot, and convert that which is in him into small change for their every-day social out-go. And there is something in him! I do not presuppose that catastrophes of any kind are to come, for I have not the right to refuse them ordinary petty honesty, but there may be non-happiness. I say only this much: you all know Pan Ignas, and you know that he is wonderfully simple; but still, according to me, his love for Castelka is too difficult and exclusive. He puts into it all his soul; and she is ready to give a little bit – so! The rest she would like to keep for social relations, for comforts, for toilets, for visits, for luxuries, for five o’clocks, for lawn-tennis with Kopovski, – in a word, for that mill in which life is ground into bran.”
“This may not fit Panna Castelli, and if it does not, so much the better for Pan Ignas,” said Bigiel; “but in general it is pointed.”
“No,” said Pani Bigiel, “that first of all is wicked; in truth, you hate women.”
“I hate women!” exclaimed Svirski, raising his hands toward heaven.
“Do you not see that you are making Panna Castelli a common little goose?”
“I gave her lessons in painting, but I have never been occupied in her education.”
Marynia, hearing all this, said, threatening Svirski, —
“It is wonderful that such a kind man should have such a wicked tongue.”
“There is a certain justice in that,” answered Svirski; “and more than once have I asked, am I really a kind man? But I think that I am. For there are people who calumniate their neighbors through a love for digging in the mud, and that is vile; there are others who do this through jealousy, and that is equally vile. Such a man as Bukatski talks even for a conceit; but I, first of all, am talkative; second, a human being, and especially a woman, interests me more than aught else in existence; and finally, the shabbiness and flatness and petty vanities of human nature pain me terribly. And, as God lives, it is because I could wish that all women had wings; but since I see that many of them have only tails, I begin, from amazement alone, to shout in a heaven-piercing voice – ”
“But why do you not shout in the same way against men?” inquired Pani Bigiel.
“Oh, let the men go! What do I care for them? Though, to speak seriously, we deserve perhaps to be shouted at more than the ladies.”
Here Pani Bigiel and Marynia attacked the unfortunate artist; but he defended himself, and continued, —
“Well, ladies, take such a man as Pan Ignas, and such a woman as Panna Castelli: he has worked hard since his childhood; he has struggled with difficulties, thought hard, given something to the world already, – but what is she? A real canary in a cage. They give the bird water, sugar, and seed; it has only to clean its yellow plumage with its little bill, and twitter. Or is this not true? We work immensely, ladies. Civilization, science, art, bread, and all on which the world stands is absolutely our work. And that is a marvellous work. Oh, it is easy to talk of it, but difficult to do it. Is it right, or is it natural, that men push you aside from this work? I do not know, and at this moment it is not for me a question; but taking the world in general, only one thing has remained to you, – loving; therefore you should know, at least, how to love.”
Here his dark face took on an expression of great mildness, and also, as it were, melancholy.
“Take me, for example; I am working apparently for this art of ours. Twenty-five years have I been daubing and daubing with a brush on paper or on canvas; and God alone knows how I slaved, how I toiled before I worked anything out of myself. Now I feel as much alone in the world as a finger. But what do I want? This, that the Lord God, for all this toil, might vouchsafe me some honest little woman, who would love me a little and be grateful for my affection.”
“And why do you not marry?”
“Why?” answered Svirski, with a certain outburst. “Because I am afraid; because of you, one in ten knows how to love, though you have nothing else to do.”
Further discourse was interrupted by the coming of Pan Plavitski and Pani Mashko; she, in a dark blue foulard dress with white spots, looked from afar like a butterfly. Pan Plavitski looked like a butterfly also; and, approaching the veranda, he began to cry out, —
“I seized Pani Mashko, and brought her. Good-evening to the company; good-evening, Marynia! I was coming here to you on a droshky till I saw this lady standing out on the balcony; then I seized her, and we came on foot. I dismissed the droshky, thinking that you would send me home.”
Those present began to greet Pani Mashko; and she, ruddy from the walk, fell to explaining joyously, while removing her hat from her ash-colored hair, that really Pan Plavitski had brought her away almost by force; for, awaiting the return of her husband, she did not like to leave home. Pan Plavitski pacified her by saying that her husband, not finding her at home, would guess where she was, and for the flight and the lonely walk he would not be angry, for that was not the city, where people raise scandal for any cause (here he smoothed his white shirt-front with the mien of a man who would not be at all astonished if scandal were roused touching him); “but the country has its own rights, and permits us to disregard etiquette.”
When he had said this, he looked slyly at Pani Mashko, rubbed his hands, and added, —
“Ha, ha! the country has its rights; I said well, has its rights, and so there is no place for me like the country.”
Pani Mashko laughed, feeling that the laugh was becoming, and that some one might admire her. But Bigiel, who, being himself a strict reasoner, demanded logic from all, turned to Plavitski, and said, —
“If there is no place like the country, why do you not move out of the city in summer?”
“How do you say?” asked Plavitski. “Why do I not move out? Because in the city, on one side of the street there is sun, and on the other shade. If I wish to warm myself, I walk in the sun; if it is hot for me, I walk in the shade. There is no place in summer like the city. I wanted to go to Karlsbad, but – ”
Here he was silent for a moment; and, remembering only then that what he was giving to understand might expose a young woman to the evil tongues of people, he looked with a gloomy resignation on those present, and added, —
“Is it worth while to think of that pair of years left of any life, that are of no value to me, or to any one?”
“Here it is!” cried Marynia. “If papa will not go to Karlsbad, he will drink Millbrun with us in Buchynek.”
“In what Buchynek?” asked Plavitski.
“True, we must announce la grande nouvelle.”
And she began to tell that Buchynek had been found and rented and probably would be bought; and that in three days she and her husband would move into that Buchynek for the whole summer.
Pani Mashko, hearing the narrative, raised her eyes to Pan Stanislav in wonder, and inquired, —
“Then are you really going to leave us?”
“Yes,” answered he, with a trace of snappishness.
“A-a!”
And for a while she looked at him with the glance of a person who understands nothing and asks, “What does all this mean?” but, receiving no answer, she turned to Marynia and began an indifferent conversation. She was so instructed in the forms of society that only Pan Stanislav himself could perceive that the news about Buchynek had dulled her. But she had divined that her person might come into question, and that those sudden movings might be in connection with her. With every moment that truth stood before her with increasing clearness, and her cold face took on a still colder expression. Gradually a feeling of humiliation possessed her. It seemed to her that Pan Stanislav had done something directly opposed to what she had a right to expect of him; that he had committed a grave offence not only against her, but against all those observances which a man of a certain sphere owes to a woman. And her whole soul was occupied in this because it pained her more than his removal to Buchynek. In certain cases women demand more regard the less it belongs to them, and the more respect the less they are worthy of it, because they need it for their own self-deception, and often too because the infatuation, or delicacy, or comedian character in men gives women all they demand, at least for a season. Still, in this intention of moving in a few days to the opposite side of the city, was involved, as it were, a confession of breaking off relations which was worthy of a boor. Faith-breaking has its own style of a posteriori declaration, and has it always, for there is not on earth an example of a permanent relation resting on faithlessness. But this time the rudeness surpassed every measure, and the sowing had given an untimely, peculiar harvest. Pani Mashko’s mind, though not very keen by nature, needed no extra effort to conclude that what had met her was contempt simply.
And at this very moment Pan Stanislav thought, “She must have a fabulous contempt for me.”
It did not occur to them at the time that in the best event this contempt was a question of time merely. But Pani Mashko caught after one more hope, that this might be some misunderstanding, some momentary anger, some excitability of a fantastic man, some offence which she could not explain to herself, – in a word, something which might be less decisive than seemed apparent. One word thrown out in answer might explain everything yet. Judging that Pan Stanislav might feel the need of such a conversation, she determined to get it for him. Hence after tea she began to prepare for home, and, looking at Pan Stanislav, said, —
“Now I must request one of the gentlemen to conduct me.”
Pan Stanislav rose. His tired, and at the same time angry face, seemed to say to her, “If ’tis thy wish to have the pure truth, thou wilt have it;” but unexpectedly Bigiel changed the arrangement by saying, —
“The evening is so pleasant that we can all conduct you.”
And they did. Plavitski, considering himself the lady’s knight for that day, gave her his arm with great gallantry, and during the whole way entertained her with conversation; so that Pan Stanislav, who was conducting Pani Bigiel, had no chance to say one word except “good-night” at the gate.
That “good-night” was accompanied by a pressure of the hand which was a new inquiry – without an answer. Pan Stanislav, for that matter, was glad that he had not to give explanations. He could have given only unclear and disagreeable ones. Pani Mashko roused in him then as much mental distaste as physical attraction, and for both those reasons he considered that if he remained in Bigiel’s house, she would be too near him. Moreover, he had sought Buchynek and found it chiefly because active natures, if confined too much, are forced instinctively to undertake and act even when that which they do is not in immediate connection with that which gives them pain. He had not the least feeling, however, that flight from danger was equivalent to a return to the road of honesty, or even led to it; it seemed to him then that it was too late for that, that honesty was a thing lost once and forever. “To flee,” said he to himself; “there was a time to flee. At present flight is merely the egotism of a beast disturbed in one lair and seeking another.” Having betrayed Marynia to begin with, he will betray Pani Mashko now out of fear that the relation with her may become too painful; and he will betray her in a manner as wretched as it is rude, by trampling on her. That is only a new meanness, which he permits himself like a desperado, in the conviction that, no matter how he may struggle, he will sink into the gulf ever deeper.
At the bottom of these thoughts was hidden, moreover, an immense amazement. If this had happened to some other man, who took life lightly, such a man might wave his hand and consider that one more amusing adventure had met him. Pan Stanislav understood that many would look on the affair in that way precisely. But he had worked out in himself principles, he had had them, and he fell from the whole height of them; hence his fall was the greater, hence he thought to himself, “That which I won, that to which I attained, is no protection whatever from anything. Though a man have what I had, he may break his neck as quickly as if he had nothing.” And the position seemed to him simply beyond understanding. Why is this? What is the reason of it? To this question he had no answer; and, having doubted his own honesty and honor, he began now to doubt his own intellect, for he felt that he could grasp nothing, give no answer.
In general, he felt like a man lost in some mental wilderness; he could recover nothing, not even attachment to his wife. It seemed to him that, having lost in himself all human sides, he had lost at the same time the power and right to love her. With no less astonishment did he see that in the bottom of his heart he cherished a feeling of offence against her for his own fall. Up to that time he had not injured any one; hence he could not have known that usually a man has a feeling of offence and even hatred against a person whom he has wronged.
Meanwhile the society, after taking farewell of Pani Mashko, returned home. Marynia walked at her husband’s side; but, supposing that he was occupied in calculations touching the purchase of the place, and remembering that he did not like to be interrupted in such cases, she did not break the silence. The evening was so warm that after returning they remained some time on the veranda. Bigiel tried to detain Svirski for the night, saying in jest that such a Hercules could not find room in his little brichka with Plavitski. Pan Stanislav, to whom the presence of any guest was convenient, supported Bigiel.
“Remain,” said he. “I am going to the city to-morrow morning; we can go then together.”
“But I am in a hurry to paint. To-morrow I wish to begin work early, and if I stay here there will be delay.”
“Have you any work to be finished on time?” asked Marynia.
“No; but one’s hand goes out of practice. Painting is a kind of work in which one is never permitted to rest. I have loitered much already, at one time in Prytulov, at another here; meanwhile my colors are drying.”
Both ladies began to laugh; for that was said by a famous master, who ought to be free from fear that he would forget how to paint.
“It seems to people that when a man has reached a certain skill, he owns it,” answered Svirski. “It is a wonderful thing, this human organism, which must either advance or fall back. I know not if this is so in everything, but in art it is not permitted to say to one’s self, ‘This is enough;’ there is no leave to stop. If I cease to paint for a week, not only do I lose adroitness of hand, but I do not feel in power. The hand dulls, – that I can understand, – but the artistic sense dulls also; talent simply dulls. I used to think that this was the case only in my career, for in it technique has enormous significance; but, will you believe me, Snyatinski, who writes for the theatre, told me the same. And in literature like his, in what does technique consist, if not in this? Not to have any technique, or at least, to seem not to have it. Still, even Snyatinski says that he may not stop, and that he falls back or advances in proportion to his efforts. The services of art, – that sounds beautifully. Ah, what a dog service, in which there is never rest, never peace! – nothing but toil and terror. Is that the predestination of the whole race, or are we alone those tortured figures?”
Svirski, it is true, did not look like a tortured figure in any sense; he did not fall into a pathetic tone either, complaining of his occupation. But in his sweeping words there was a sincerity which gave them power. After a while he raised his fist; and, shaking it at the moon, which was showing itself just then above the forest, he cried out, half in joy, half in anger, —
“See that chubby face there! Once it learned to go around the earth, it was sure of its art. Oh, to have one moment like that in one’s life!”
Marynia began to laugh, and, raising her eyes unwittingly in the direction of Svirski’s hand, said, —
“Do not complain. It is not merely artists who are not free to stop; whether we work on a picture, or on ourselves, it is all one, we must work every hour, otherwise life is injured.”
“There is immense need of work,” interrupted Plavitski, with a sigh.
But Marynia continued, seeking a comparison with some effort, and raising her brows at the same time, —
“And you see, if any man were to say to himself, even for a moment, ‘I am wise enough, and good enough,’ that very saying would be neither good nor wise. Now it seems to me that we are all swimming across some deep place to a better shore; but whoso just wishes to rest and stops moving his hands, is drawn to the bottom by his own weight.”
“Phrases!” exclaimed Pan Stanislav, on a sudden.
But she, pleased with the aptness of her comparison, answered, —
“No, Stas, as I love thee, they are not phrases.”
“If God would grant me to hear such things always,” said Svirski, with animation. “The lady is perfectly right.”
Pan Stanislav, in reality, was also convinced that she was right; and, what was more, in that darkness, which surrounded him, something began to gleam like a lamp. He was just the man who had said to himself, “I am wise enough, I am good enough, – and I can rest;” he was just the man who had forgotten that there was need of continual effort; he had ceased to move his hands over the depth, and therefore his own weight took him down to the bottom. Such was the case! All these lofty religious and moral principles, which he had gained, he had enclosed in his soul, as a man encloses money in a chest, – and he made dead capital of them. He had them, but, as it were, hidden away. He fell into the blindness of the miser, who cheers himself with hoarded gold, but lives like a mendicant. He had them, but he did not live on them; and, trusting in his wealth, he imagined that his life accounts were closed, and that he might rest. But now a gray dawn, as it were, began in that night which surrounded his thoughts; and out of the darkness began to rise toward him a truth hazy, and as yet undefined, declaring that accounts of that sort could never be closed, and that life is an immense daily, ceaseless labor, which, as Marynia had said, ends only there, somewhere on the other and better shore.
