Генрик Сенкевич
Children of the Soil
“What I told her,” thought he, “might be adroit, but it was dry. Let a thunderbolt strike me, if it was not, and, besides, it was unfinished. Simply I have no certainty yet, and I do not feel the thing as finished.”
Here the impressions of an artist interrupted the thread of his thought. Sheep scattered on a sloping field visible from the road shaded by distance, and also bathed in the sunlight, seemed on the green background bright spots, with a strong tint of blue fringed with gold.
“Those sheep are sky blue, – impressionists are right in a small degree,” muttered Svirski; “but may the devil take them! I am going to marry!”
And he returned to his meditations. Yes! The result did not answer to his hope and expectation. There are various thoughts which a man does not wish to confess to himself; there are feelings also which he does not wish to turn into definite thoughts. So it was with Svirski. He did not love Panna Ratkovski, and here was the direct answer to all the questions which he put to himself. But he dodged this answer as long as he could. He did not like to confess that he took that girl only because he had a great wish to marry. He wanted to explain to himself that he did not feel the affair finished, which was an evasion. He was not in love! Others reached love through a woman; but he wanted to fit a woman to his general internal demand for loving, – that is, he went by a road the reverse of the usual one. Others, having a divinity, built for it a church; he, having a church ready, was bringing into it a divinity, not because he had worshipped the divinity with all his power previously, but because it seemed to him not badly fitted for the architecture of the temple. And now he understood why he had shown so much ardor and resolution in the morning, but was so cold at that moment. By this was explained too the immense impetus in carrying out his plan, and the want of spiritual “halleluia,” after it had been carried out.
Svirski’s astonishment began to pass into sadness. He thought that he would have done better, perhaps, if, instead of thinking so much about a woman, instead of forming theories of what a woman ought to be, he had caught up the first girl who pleased his heart and senses. He understood now that a man loves the woman whom he does love, and that he does not fit to her any preconceived ideas, for ideas of love – like children – can be born only of a woman. All this was the more felt by him since he was conscious that he could love immensely; and he saw more and more positively that he was not loving as he might love. He remembered what in his time Pan Stanislav had told him in Rome of a certain young doctor, who, trampled by a thoughtless puppet, said: “I know what she is; but I cannot tear my soul from her.” There was love strong as death; that man loved! It is unknown why Panna Castelli and Pan Ignas came at once to Svirski’s mind; he remembered also Pan Ignas’s face as he had seen it in Prytulov, lost in contemplation and, as it were, rapt into Heaven.
And again was roused in him the artist, who by whole years of custom takes the place of the man, even when the man is thinking of things the most personal. For a while he forgot himself and Panna Ratkovski, and thought of Pan Ignas’s face, and of that which formed specially its most essential expression. Was it a certain concentrated exaltation? Yes! but there was something else which was still more essential.
And suddenly he trembled.
“A wonderful thing,” thought he; “that is a tragic head.”
CHAPTER LV
A few days later Pan Ignas was summoned by Pan Stanislav, and went to the city. The young man had a great desire to remain in Prytulov; but Panna Helena wished absolutely that he should be present at the opening of her father’s will. He went, therefore, with Pan Stanislav and the grand-nephew of old Pan Zavilovski, – the advocate Kononovich, – for that purpose to Yasmen. But when Pan Ignas, during the two following days, in his letters to “Nitechka,” poured forth on paper only his feelings, and made not the least reference to the will, Pani Bronich, whom such effusions had delighted up to that time, confessed now, as a secret, to Pani Aneta, that that was a stupid way of writing to a betrothed, and that there was quelque chose de louche in a silence which was as if designed. The first of those letters was sent, it is true, from the city, the second immediately after his arrival in Yasmen; the old lady insisted, however, that in every case Pan Ignas should have mentioned his hopes, at least, for by silence he showed “Nitechka” a lack of confidence, and simply offended her.
Osnovski insisted, on the contrary, that Pan Ignas was silent concerning his hopes through delicacy toward Lineta; and on this subject it came to a little dispute between him and Pani Bronich, who on that occasion uttered a psychic principle, that men in general have too weak a conception of two things: logic and delicacy. “Oh, that is true! As to logic, it is not your fault, perhaps; but you are that way, my Yozio, all of you.” Not being able, however, to stay two days in one place, she went to the city on some plausible pretext, so as to find an informant in the question of the will.
Returning on the following day, she brought with her, first, Pani Mashko, whom she met at the Prytulov station, and who had been wishing for a long time to visit “that dear Anetka,” and second, information that no new will of Pan Zavilovski had been found, and that the only and sole heiress of his immense property was Panna Helena. This news had been received in Prytulov already, by the third letter from Pan Ignas, which Lineta had received meanwhile; still its confirmation by Pani Bronich produced an uncommon impression, so that the arrival of Pani Mashko passed unobserved, as it were. This was all very strange. Those ladies had made the acquaintance of Pan Ignas as a man without property. Lineta became his betrothed when there were no hopes of a will. The affair had been arranged first under the influence of Pani Aneta, who was “firing the boilers, since there was need to move, and move quickly;” it took place under the influence of the general enthusiasm roused by Pan Ignas’s poetry, under the influence of his fame; through the vanity of Pani Bronich and Lineta, which vanity felt not only satisfied, but borne away by this fact, that that famous and celebrated Zavilovski, who had turned all eyes to himself, was kneeling at the feet of no one else, but just “Nitechka.” It took place, finally, for the sake of public opinion, which could not but glorify a young lady who had no thought for property, but only for that mental wealth which Pan Ignas possessed. It is true that, having begun in this way, everything went farther by the force too of that elemental rush, which, when once it has seized people, bears them on, without their will, as the currents of rivers bear objects swept away by them. Be what might, Lineta became the betrothed of a man without property; and had it not been for those hopes which rose afterward, neither she nor Pani Bronich, nor any one else, could have or would have taken it ill of Pan Ignas that he had no inherited fortune. But such is human nature, that just because those hopes had risen, and by rising had made Pan Ignas an imposing match in the full measure, no one could help feeling a certain disappointment when they were blown apart now by the wind of reality. Some were grieved sincerely; others, like Kopovski and like Pani Mashko, who did not know herself why, felt a certain satisfaction at such a turn of affairs, but even such a true friend as Osnovski could not resist some feeling of disappointment.
Pan Ignas, in his last letter to Lineta, wrote among other things: “I should like to have wealth for thy sake; but what meaning has all wealth for me if compared with thee! I say sincerely that I have ceased to think of it; and I know that thou, whose feet walk not on the earth, art troubled no more than I am. And, as truly as I love thee, I am not troubled at all. These great assurances which I make are for me immensely sacred; hence thou must believe ma. Various wants and lacks threaten people in life, but I tell thee this simply, I will not give thee to any one. Thou art my golden! my one dear child, and lady.”
Lineta showed this letter to Pani Aneta, to Panna Ratkovski, and on the arrival of her aunt, to her aunt, of course. Pan Ignas had, indeed, not deceived himself as to her in this regard at least, that if in all Prytulov there was no talk of anything but old Pan Zavilovski’s will, Lineta would be silent amid those conversations and regrets. It may be that her eyes assumed to a certain degree their former dreamy expression; maybe at the very corners of her mouth, when people spoke of Pan Ignas, something like a minute wrinkle of contempt might be gathered; maybe, finally, she talked very much with “aunt” evenings, when, after the general good-night, they went to their own rooms; but like a person who “does not walk on the earth,” never did she raise her voice in this question before people.
“Koposio,” once on a time, when they were left alone for a minute, began to talk with her about it; but she put her finger first to her own lips, and then pointed from a distance toward his lips, in sign that she did not wish such conversation. What is more, even Pani Bronich spoke before her little and guardedly concerning her disappointment. But when “Nitechka” was not in the room, the old woman could not stop the flow to her mouth of that bitterness which had risen in her heart; this flow carried her a number of times so far that she lacked little of quarrelling with Osnovski.
Osnovski, casting from his soul that feeling of disappointment which he had not been able to ward off at first, tried now with all his power to decrease the significance of the catastrophe, and show that Ignas was in general an exceptional match, and even in a financial view, quite a good one.
“I do not think,” said he, “that he would have stopped writing had he been old Zavilovski’s heir; but the mere management of such an immense property would have taken so much time that his talent might have suffered. As the question is of Ignas, I remember, aunt, what Henry VIII. said, when some prince threatened Holbein: ‘I can make ten lords out of ten peasants, if the fancy comes to me; but out of ten lords I cannot make one Holbein.’ Ignas is an exceptional man. Believe me, aunt, I have always considered Lineta a charming and honest girl, and have always loved her; but she really rose in my eyes only when she appreciated Ignas. To be something in the life of a man like him, is what any woman might envy her. Is it not true, Anetka?”
“Of course,” answered Pani Osnovski; “it is pleasant for a woman to belong to a man who is something.”
Osnovski seized his wife’s hand, and, kissing it, said, half in jest, half in earnest, —
“And dost thou not think that this often torments me, that such a being as thou art should belong to such a zero as Yozio Osnovski? But it is hard to help it! The thing has happened; and, besides, the zero loves much.”
Then he turned to Pani Bronich, —
“Think, aunt,” said he, “Ignas has a number of thousands of rubles of his own; and, besides, after his father’s death he will have what old Zavilovski secured to him. Poor he will not be.”
“Oh, naturally,” answered Pani Bronich, shaking her head contemptuously; “Nitechka, in accepting Zavilovski, did not look for money, of course; if she had looked for money, it would have been enough for us to raise a hand at Pan Kanafaropulos.”
“Aunt! Mercy!” exclaimed Pani Aneta, laughing.
“But nothing has happened,” said Osnovski. “It is sure that Panna Helena will not marry, and the property will pass sometime, if not to Ignas, to his children, – that’s the whole affair.”
Seeing, however, that the face of Pani Bronich was depressed continually, he added after a while, —
“Well, aunt, more agreement with the will of God! more calmness. Ignas is not an inch less.”
“Of course,” answered she, with a tinge of anger; “of course all that changes nothing. Zavilovski in his way has talent; and every one must confess that in his way he forms a match beyond all expectations. Oh, yes; of this there cannot be two opinions. Of course nothing is to be said of the property, all the more since people tell various things of the ways by which old Pan Zavilovski increased it so greatly. May God be good to him, and pardon him for having deceived me, it is unknown why! This very day Nitechka and I prayed for his soul. It was difficult to do otherwise. Of course I should prefer that he had not had that inclination to untruth, for it may be a family trait. Nitechka and I would prefer, too, that Pan Ignas had given us less frequently to understand that he would be an heir of Pan Zavilovski.”
“I beg pardon most earnestly,” interrupted Osnovski, with vigor. “He never gave that to be understood. Aunt will permit – this is too much. He did not wish to mention it; aunt asked him in my presence.”
But Pani Bronich was in her career, and nothing could stop her; so she said, with growing irritation, —
“He did not give Yozio to understand this, but he gave me to understand it. Nitechka can testify. Besides, I said to Yozio, ‘Never mind this matter.’ Of course nothing has changed; and if we have some grief, it is at least not from this cause. Yozio has never been a mother; and as a man he can never understand how much fear we mothers feel at the last moment before giving a child into strange hands. I have learned of late, just now, that Zavilovski, with all his qualities, has a violent temper; and he has. I have always suspected him of something similar; and that being so, it would be simply death for Nitechka. Pan Polanyetski himself did not deny that he has a violent temper. Pan Polanyetski himself, though his friend, so far as men can be friends, gave to understand that his father, too, had a violent temper, and because of it fell into insanity, which may be in the family. I know that Pan Ignas seems to love Nitechka, in as far as men can love truly; but will that love last long? That he is selfish, Yozio himself will not deny; for that matter, you are all selfish. Then let Yozio not be astonished that in these recent hours terror seizes me when I think that my darling may fall into the hands of a tyrant, a madman, and an egotist.”
“No,” cried Osnovski, turning to his wife; “as I love thee, one’s ears simply wither; one may simply lose one’s head.”
But Pani Aneta seemed to amuse herself with that conversation as she would in a theatre. The quarrels of her husband with Pani Bronich always amused her; but now she was carried away more than usual, for Pani Bronich, looking at Osnovski as if with pity, continued, —
“Besides, that sphere! All those Svirskis and Polanyetskis and Bigiels! We are blinded in Zavilovski, all of us; but, to tell the truth, is that sphere fit for Nitechka? Hardly. The Lord God himself made a difference between people; and from that comes a difference in breeding. Perhaps Yozio does not give himself a clear account of this, for, in general, men are unable to give account to themselves of such matters; but I tell Yozio that there are shades and shades, which in life may become enormously important. Has Yozio forgotten who Nitechka is, and that if anything pains such a person as Nitechka, if anything wounds her, she may pay for it with her life? Let Yozio think who those people are, speaking among ourselves, – such people as the Polanyetskis, and such men as Svirski, and that whole company with which Pan Ignas associates, and with which he will force Nitechka to associate, perhaps!”
“Well, let us take things from that point of view,” interrupted Osnovski. “Very well! Let it be so. First of all, then, who was old Pan Zavilovski? That aunt knows clearly enough, even out of regard to her own relations with him. If it is a question, aunt, of the sphere, I have the honor to say that we all, in relation to such people as the Polanyetskis, are parvenus, and are taking liberties with them. I never enter into genealogies; but since aunt wants them, let aunt have them. Aunt must have heard that the Svirskis are princes. That line which settled in Great Poland dropped the title, but has the right to it; that is who they are. As to us, my grandfather was a manager in the Ukraine, and I do not think of denying that. Out of what did the Broniches grow? Aunt knows better than I do. I do not touch that matter; but, since we are alone, we can speak openly. Of the Castellis, too, aunt knows.”
“The Castellis are descended from Marino Falieri,” exclaimed Pani Bronich, with enthusiasm.
“Beloved aunt! I remind thee that we are alone.”
“But it depended on Nitechka to become the Marchioness Colimaçao.”
“La vie parisienne!” answered Osnovski. “Aunt knows that operetta. There is a Swiss admiral in it.”
Pani Aneta was amused to perfection; but it became disagreeable to Osnovski that he had raised in his own house reminiscences which were not agreeable to Pani Bronich, hence he added, —
“But why all our talk? Aunt knows how I have always loved Nitechka, and how from the core of my heart I wished her to be worthy of Ignas.”
But this was pouring oil on the flames, for Pani Bronich, hearing this blasphemy, lost the last of her cool blood, and exclaimed, —
“Nitechka worthy of Ignas? Such a – ”
Happily the entrance of Pani Mashko interrupted further conversation. Aunt Bronich was silent, as if indignation had stopped the words in her mouth; Pani Aneta began to inquire of Pani Mashko what the rest of the company were doing, and where she had left them.
“Pan Kopovski, Lineta, and Stefania remained in the conservatory,” answered Pani Mashko; “the two ladies are painting orchids, and Pan Kopovski amused us.”
“How?” asked Osnovski.
“With conversation; we laughed heartily. He told us that his acquaintance, Pan Vyj, who very likely is a great man at heraldry, told him in all seriousness that there is a family in Poland with the escutcheon, ‘Table legs.’”
“If there is one,” muttered Osnovski, humorously, “it is the family of the Kopovskis, beyond doubt.”
“And did Steftsia remain, too, in the conservatory?” asked Pani Aneta.
“Yes; they are sketching together.”
“Dost wish to go to them?”
“Let us go.”
But at that moment the servant brought letters, which Pan Osnovski looked over, and delivered. “For Anetka, for Anetka!” said he; “this little literary woman has an enormous correspondence always. For you,” added he, turning to Pani Mashko; “for aunt; and this is for Steftsia, – somehow a known hand, quite familiar. The ladies will permit me to carry her this letter.”
“Of course; go,” said Pani Aneta, with animation; “and we will read ours.”
Osnovski took the letter and went in the direction of the conservatory, looking at it, and repeating, “Whence do I know this hand? – as if – I know that I have seen this hand.”
In the conservatory he found three young people, sitting under a great arum at a yellow iron table, on which the orchid was standing. Both ladies were painting it in albums. Kopovski, a little behind them, dressed in a white-flannel costume and black stockings, was looking over the shoulders of the young ladies into the albums, smoking meanwhile a slender cigarette, which he had taken from an elegant cigarette-case lying near the flower-pot.
“Good-day!” said Osnovski. “What do you think of my orchids? Splendid, aren’t they? What peculiar flowers they are! Steftsia, here is a letter; ask the company to excuse thee, and read it, for it seems to me that I know the handwriting, but I cannot in any way remember whose it can be.”
Panna Ratkovski opened the letter, and began to read. After a while her face changed; a flame passed over her forehead, then paleness, and again a flame. Osnovski looked at her with curiosity. When she had finished reading, she showed him the signature, and said, with a voice which trembled somewhat, —
“See from whom the letter is.”
“Ah!” said Osnovski, who understood everything at once.
“May I ask thee for a moment’s talk?”
“At once, my child,” answered he, as if with a certain tenderness; “I will serve thee.”
And they went out of the conservatory.
“But they have left us alone for once even,” said Kopovski, naïvely.
Lineta did not answer; but, taking Kopovski’s white-leather cigarette-case, which was lying on the table, began to draw it across her face gently.
He looked at that beautiful face with his wonderful eyes, beneath which she simply melted. Lineta had known for a long time what to think of him; his boundless stupidity had no longer any secret from her. Still the exquisiteness and incomparable beauty of that dullard brought her plebeian blood into some uncommon movement. Every hair in his beard had a certain marvellous and irresistible charm for her.
“Have you noticed that for a long time they are watching us, like I know not whom?” continued Kopovski.
But she, feigning not to hear, continued to draw the cigarette-case across her delicate face, and, bringing it nearer and nearer to her lips, said, —
“How soft this is; how pleasant to the touch!”
Kopovski took the cigarette-case; but he put it to his lips and began to kiss lightly the part which a while before had touched Lineta’s face. Then a moment of silence rose between them.
“We must go from here,” said Lineta.
And, taking the pot of orchids, she wished to put it on steps in the conservatory; she was not able to do so, however, because of the slope of those steps.
“Permit me,” said Kopovski.
“No, no!” answered Lineta; “it would fall, and be broken; I will put it on the other side.”
Saying this, she went with the pot of orchids in her hands around to the other side of the steps, where between them and the wall was a narrow passage. Kopovski followed her. There she stepped on to a pile of bricks, and put the orchids on the highest step; but at the moment when she turned to descend, the bricks moved under her feet, and she began to totter. Just at that moment, Kopovski, who was standing behind, caught her by the waist.
For a few seconds they remained in that posture, she leaning with her shoulder against his breast, he drawing her toward him. Lineta leaned over more, so that at last her head was on his shoulder.
“What are you doing? This is wrong!” she began to whisper, with panting breast, surrounding him with her hot breath.
But he, instead of an answer, pressed his mustaches to her lips. All at once her arms embraced his neck with a passionate movement, and she began breathlessly and madly to return his kisses.
In their ecstasy, neither observed that Osnovski, in returning through the open doors of the conservatory, passed along on the soft sand beyond the entrance, and looked at them with a face changed and pale as linen from emotion.
