Генрик Сенкевич
Children of the Soil
“How – how could she?”
Then, removing his hat, he passed his hand through his hair.
“I do not know what Osnovski has written,” said Pan Stanislav, “but it is true. There is no reason to diminish the affair. Have courage; say to yourself that this has happened, and happened beyond recall. You were lost on her, for you are worth more than all that. There are people who know your worth, and who love you. I am aware that this is a mighty misfortune; your own brother would not be pained on your behalf more than I am. But it has happened! My dear Pan Ignas, they have gone, God knows whither. The Osnovskis too. There is no one in Prytulov. I understand what must take place in you; but you have a better future by yourself than with Panna Castelli. God destined you to higher purposes, and surely gave greater power to you than to others. You are the salt of the earth. You have exceptional duties to yourself and the world. I know that it is difficult to wave your hand at once on that which has been loved, and I do not ask you to do so; but you are not permitted to yield to despair like the first comer. My dear, poor Pan Ignas!”
Pan Stanislav spoke long, and spoke with power, for he was moved. In the further course of his speech he said things which were not only heartfelt, but wise: that misfortune has this in itself, that it stands still; while a man, whether he wishes or wishes not, must move on into the future; therefore he goes away from it ever farther and farther. A man drags, it is true, a thread of pain and remembrance behind him; but the thread grows ever more slender, for the force of things is such that he lives in the morrow. All this was true, but it was something by itself; far nearer, more real, more tangible was that which Osnovski’s letter mentioned. Beyond the fact described in that letter there existed only empty sounds, striking on his ears externally, but without meaning, and for Pan Ignas as devoid of sense as the rattle of the iron lattice-work on the bridge, past which he was driving with Pan Stanislav. Pan Ignas could feel and think only in an immensely dull way; he had, however, the feeling first that what had happened was simply impossible, but still it had happened; second, that in no measure could he be reconciled to it, and never would he be reconciled, – a fact, however, which had not the least significance. There was no place in his head for another idea. He was not conscious of having lost anything except Lineta. He was not conscious of pain or sorrow or ruin or desolation, or the loss of every basis of life; he knew only that Lineta had gone, that she had not loved him, that she had left him, that she had gone with Kopovski, that the marriage was broken, that he was alone, that all this had happened, and that he did not want it, – as a thing incredible, impossible, and dreadful. Still, it had happened.
The droshky moved slowly beyond the bridge, for they were passing through a herd of oxen driven toward the city; and in the midst of the heavy tramping of these beasts, Pan Stanislav continued. Pan Ignas’s ears were struck by the words, “Svirski, abroad, Italy, art;” but he did not understand that Svirski meant an acquaintance, abroad a journey, Italy a country. Now, he was talking to Lineta: “That is all well,” said he; “but what will become of me? How couldst thou forget that I love thee so immensely?” And for a time it seemed to him that if he could see her, if he could tell her that one must think of the suffering of people, she would fall to weeping and throw herself on his neck. “And so many things unite us,” said he to her; “besides, I am the same, thine.” And suddenly his jaw protruded; it began to tremble; the veins swelled in his forehead, and his eyes were filled with a mist of tears. Pan Stanislav, who had an uncommonly kind hearty and who thought, besides, that he might touch his feelings, put his arm around his neck suddenly, and, being affected himself, began to kiss him on the cheek. But Pan Ignas’s emotion did not continue; he returned to the feeling of reality. “I will not tell her that,” thought he, “for I shall not see her, since she has gone with her betrothed, – with Kopovski.” And at that thought his face became rigid again. He began then to take in effectively the whole extent of the misfortune. The thought struck him for the first time that if Lineta had died, his loss would have been less. The gulf caused by death leaves to believers the hope of a common life on the other shore; to unbelievers, a common nothingness; hence, to some the hope of a union, to others a common fate. Death is powerless against love which passes beyond the grave; death may wrest a dear soul from us, but cannot prevent us from loving it, and cannot degrade it. On the contrary, death makes that soul sacred; makes it not only beloved, but holy. Lineta, in taking from Pan Ignas herself, – that is, his most precious soul, – took from him at once the right of loving and grieving and yearning and honoring; by going herself, she left a memory behind her which was ruined in full measure. Now Pan Ignas felt clearly that if he should not be able to cease loving her; he would thereby become abject; and he felt that he would not be able to cease loving. Only in that moment did he see the whole greatness of his wreck, ruin, and suffering. In that moment he understood that it was more than he could bear.
“Go with Svirski to Italy,” said Pan Stanislav. “Suffer out the pain, my dear friend; endure till it is over. You cannot do otherwise. The world is wide! There is so much to see, so much to love. Everything is open before thee; and before no one as before thee. Much is due to the world from thee; but much also to thee from the world. Go, my dear. Life is around thee; life is everywhere. New impressions will come; thou wilt not resist them; they will occupy thy thought, soften thy pain. Thou wilt not be circling around one existence. Svirski will show thee Italy. Thou wilt see what a comrade he is, and what horizons he will open. Besides, I tell thee that a man such as thou art, should have that power which the pearl oyster has, of turning everything into pearl simply. Listen to what thy true friend says. Go, and go at once. Promise me that thou wilt go. God grant my wife to pass her illness safely; then we may journey there also in spring. Thou wilt see how beautiful it will be for us. Well, Ignas, promise me. Dost thou say yes?”
“Yes.” answered Pan Ignas, hearing the last word, but not knowing in general what the question was.
“Well, now, praise God,” replied Pan Stanislav. “Let us return to the city, and spend the evening together. I have something to do in the counting-house, and I have left home for two days.”
Then he gave command to turn back, for the sun was toward setting. It was a beautiful day, of those which come at the end of summer. Over the city a golden, delicate dust was borne; the roofs, and especially the church towers, gleamed at the edges, as it were with the reflection of amber, and, outlined clearly in the transparent air, seemed to delight in it. The two men rode for some time in silence.
“Wilt thou go to my house, or to thy own lodgings?” asked Pan Stanislav, when they entered the city.
The city movement seemed to calm Pan Ignas, for he looked at Pan Stanislav with perfect presence of mind, and said, —
“I have not been at home since yesterday, for I spent the night with my father. Perhaps there are letters for me; let us drive to my lodgings.”
And he foresaw correctly, for at his lodgings a letter from Pani Bronich in Berlin was awaiting him. He tore open the envelope feverishly, and began to read; Pan Stanislav, looking at his changing face, thought, —
“It is evident that some hope is hidden yet in him.”
Here he remembered all at once that young doctor, who in his time said of Panna Kraslavski, “I know what she is, but I cannot tear my soul from her.”
Pan Ignas finished reading, and, resting his head on his hand, looked without thought on the table and the papers lying on it. At last he recovered, and gave the letter to Pan Stanislav.
“Read,” said he.
Pan Stanislav took the letter and read as follows: —
“I know that you believed really in your feeling for Nitechka, and that at the first moment what has happened will seem to you a misfortune; believe me, too, that to me and to her it was not easy to resolve on the decisive step. Perhaps you will not be able to estimate Nitechka well, – there are so many things which men cannot estimate; but you ought to know her at least enough to know how much it costs her when she is forced to cause the slightest pain, even to a stranger. But what can we do! such is the will of God, which it would be a sin not to obey. We both act as our consciences dictate; and Nitechka is too just to give her hand to you without a real attachment. What has taken place, has taken place not only in conformity with the will of God, but in conformity with your good and hers; for if, without loving you sufficiently, she had become your wife, how would she be able to resist the temptations to which such a being would with certainty be exposed in view of the corruption of society? Besides, you have your talent; therefore you have something. Nitechka has only her heart, which violence would break in one moment; and if it seems to you that she has disappointed you, think conscientiously whose fault is the greater? You have done much harm to Nitechka, for you fettered her will, and you did not let her follow the natural impulse of her heart; and by thus doing you sacrificed, or were ready to sacrifice, through your selfishness, her happiness, and even her life, for I am convinced that under such conditions she would not have survived a single year. Nevertheless may God forgive you as we forgive; and be it known to you that this very day we prayed for you at a Mass ordered purposely for your intention, in the church of Saint Yadviga.
“You will be pleased to send the ring to Pan Osnovski’s villa; your ring, since the Osnovskis had to go abroad too, will reach you through the hands of Panna Ratkovski. Once more, may God forgive you everything, and keep you in His protection!”
“This is something unparalleled!” said Pan Stanislav.
“It is evident that truth may be treated as love is,” said Pan Ignas, with a heart-rending sorrow; “but I had not supposed that.”
“Listen to me, Ignas,” said Pan Stanislav, who under the impulse of sympathy had begun to say thou to Zavilovski; “this is not merely a question of thy happiness, but of thy dignity. Suffer as much as may please thee; but it is thy duty to find strength to show that thou art indifferent to all this.”
A long silence followed. But Pan Stanislav, remembering the letter, repeated from time to time, —
“This passes human understanding.” Finally he turned to Pan Ignas, —
“Svirski is returning to-day from Buchynek, and late in the evening he will come to my house. Come thou too. We will pass the evening together, and he and thou will talk of the journey.”
“No,” said Pan Ignas; “on my return from Prytulov, I was to spend the night with my father, so I must go to him. To-morrow morning I will be with you and see Svirski.”
But he merely said that, for he wanted to be alone. Pan Stanislav did not oppose his intention of spending the night at the institution, for he judged that occupation near the sick man, and care for him, would occupy his mind, then weariness and need of sleep would come. He determined, however, to drive with him to the institution.
In fact, they took farewell only at the gate. Pan Ignas, however, after he had remained a few minutes in the institution and inquired of the overseer touching his father, went out and returned home by stealth.
He lighted a candle, read Pani Bronich’s letter once more, and, covering his face with his hands, began to meditate. In spite of Osnovski’s letter and in spite of everything which Pan Stanislav had told him, a certain doubt and a certain hope had lingered in his soul, yet he knew that all was over; but at moments he had the feeling that that was not reality, but an evil dream. It was only Pani Bronich’s letter that had penetrated to that little corner of his soul which was unwilling to believe, and burned out in it the remnant of illusion. So there was no Lineta any longer; there was no future, no happiness. Kopovski had all that; for him were left only loneliness, humiliation, and a ghastly vacuum. There was left to him also the impression that if “Nitechka” could have snatched from him that talent too, of which Pani Bronich made mention, she would have snatched it and given it to Kopovski. What was he for her in comparison with Kopovski? “I shall never really understand this,” thought he; “but it is so.” And he began to meditate over this, what was there in him so abject that she should sacrifice him thus without mercy, without the least consideration, to take less note of him than the meanest worm. “Why does she love Kopovski and not me, the man to whom she confessed love?” And he recalled how once she had quivered in his arms, when after the betrothal he gave her good-night. But now she is quivering in Kopovski’s arms in precisely the same way. And at this thought he seized his handkerchief and squeezed it between his teeth, so as not to scream from pain and madness. “What is this? Why has it happened?” But there was a time when he, Ignas, did not love her; why did she not marry Kopovski at that time? What motive could she have to trample him without need?
And again he caught after the letter of Pani Bronich, as if hoping to find in it an answer to these terrible questions. He read once more the passage about the will of God, and about this, – that he was guilty, that he had done much harm to “Nitechka,” and that she forgave him, and about the Mass, which was celebrated for his intention in Saint Yadviga’s; and when he had ended he began to gaze at the light, blinking and saying, —
“How is that possible? How have I offended?” And suddenly he felt that the understanding of what truth is and what falsehood, of what evil is, and what good, and what is proper and improper, began to desert him. Lineta had gone from him, taken herself from him, taken his future, and now one after another all the bases of life were gliding away – and reason and thought and life itself. He saw yet that he had always loved this “Nitechka” of his beyond life, and in no way was he able to wish any harm to her; but besides that impression, everything which composes a thinking being was crushed into dust in him, and flew apart like dust in that mighty wind of misfortune.
Still he loved. Lineta became divided for him now into the Lineta of to-day and the Lineta of the past. He began to call to mind her voice, her face, her bright golden hair, her eyes and mouth, her tall form, her hands, and that warmth which so many times he had felt from her lips. His powerful imagination recreated her almost tangibly; and he saw that not only had he loved his own distant one, but he loved her yet, – that is, he yearned for her beyond measure, and was suffering beyond measure for the loss of her.
And, recognizing this, he began again to speak to her:
“How couldst thou think me able to bear this?”
At that moment he had not the least doubt of this either, that God knew the position very well. He sat a long time more in silence, and the light had burned out half its length almost when he came to himself.
But something uncommon took place in him then. He had an impression as if he were going from land in a ship, and that seemed to him which seems always on such an occasion, that it was not he who was moving away, but the shore on which he had dwelt hitherto. Everything – that was he, and in general his life; all thoughts, hopes, ambitions, objects, plans, even love, even Lineta, even his loss; and those vicious circles, and those tortures through which he had passed – seemed not merely removed from him, but foreign, and belonging exclusively to that land off there. And gradually they sank, gradually they melted, becoming ever smaller, ever more visionary, ever more dreamlike; and he went on, he became more distant, feeling that to that foreignness he does not wish to return, that he cannot return, and that all which is left of him belongs to the space which has taken him to itself, and opened its bosom before him, immense and mysterious.
CHAPTER LVIII
Four days later, on the Assumption of the Most Blessed Lady, which was also Marynia’s name’s13 day, the Bigiels and Svirski went to Buchynek. They did not find Marynia at home, for she was at vespers in the church of Yasmen with Pani Emilia. When Pani Bigiel learned this, she followed them with the whole crowd of little Bigiels. The men, left alone, began to talk of the event of which for a number of days the whole city had been talking, – that was of the attempted suicide of the poet Zavilovski.
“I went to see him to-day three times,” said Bigiel; “but Panna Helena’s servants have the order to admit no one except the doctors.”
“As for me,” said Pan Stanislav, “this is the first day on which I have not been able to visit him; but during the previous days I spent a number of hours with him regularly. I tell my wife that I am at the counting-house on business.”
“Tell me how it happened,” said Bigiel, who wanted to know all the details, so as to consider them exactly afterward in his fashion.
“It happened this way,” said Pan Stanislav. “Ignas told me that he was going to the institution, to his father. I was glad, for I judged that that would keep him away from his thoughts. I took him, however, to the gate, and he promised to visit me next day. Meanwhile it turned out that he wanted to be rid of me, so as to shoot himself undisturbed.”
“Then you were not the first to find him?”
“No; I suspected nothing of that kind, and I should have looked for him next day. Luckily Panna Helena came at the mere news that the marriage was broken.”
“I informed her,” said Svirski, “and she took the matter to heart so much that I was astonished. She had a forewarning, as it were, of what would follow.”
“She is a wonderful person,” said Pan Stanislav. “I have not been able to learn how it happened; but she found him; she saved him; she called in a whole circle of doctors, and finally gave command to take him to her house.”
“But the doctors insist that he will live?”
“They know nothing yet definitely. In shooting, he must have turned the pistol so that the ball, after passing through his forehead, went up and lodged under the skull. They found the ball, and extracted it easily enough; but whether he will live – and if he lives, whether his mind will survive – is unknown. One doctor fears a disturbance in his speech; but his life is in question yet.”
The event, though known generally, and described every day in the papers, had made so great an impression that silence continued awhile. Svirski, who, with his muscles of an athlete, had the sensitiveness of a woman, burst forth, —
“Through such women!”
But Vaskovski, sitting near, said in a low voice, —
“Leave them to the mercy of God.”
“Is it possible?” said Bigiel, turning to Pan Stanislav; “and thou hadst no suspicion?”
“It did not come to my head even that he would shoot himself. I saw clearly that he was struggling with his feelings. For a while, when we were riding, his chin trembled, as if he wished to burst into weeping; but he is a brave soul. He restrained himself at once, and to appearance was calm. He deceived me mainly by his promise to come next day.”
“Do you know what seems to me?” continued he, after a while; “the last drop which overflowed the cup was Pani Bronich’s letter. Ignas gave it to me to read. She wrote that what had happened was the will of God; that the fault was on his side; that he was an egotist; but that they were obeying the voice of conscience and justice; that they forgave him, and begged God to forgive him too, – in a word, unheard of things! I saw that that made a desperate impression on him, and I imagine what must have taken place in a man so injured and of such spirit, when he saw that in addition to everything else injustice was attributed to him; when he understood that it is possible for people to set everything at naught and distort it, to trample on reason, truth, and the simplest principles of justice, and then shield themselves behind the Lord God. For that matter I was not concerned; but when I saw the cynicism, the want of moral understanding, as God lives, I asked myself this question: Am I mad, and are truth and honesty mere illusions on earth?”
Here Pan Stanislav was so indignant at Pani Bronich’s letter that he tugged at his beard feverishly, and Svirski said, —
“I understand that even a believer may spit upon life in such moments.”
Here Vaskovski rubbed his forehead with his hand, and then said to himself, —
“Yes; I have seen that kind, too. For there are people who believe, not through love, but as it were because atheism is bankrupt, as it were from despair, who imagine to themselves that somewhere, off behind phenomena, there is not a merciful Father, who places his hand on every unfortunate head, but some kind of He, unapproachable, inscrutable, indifferent; it is all one, in such case, whether that He is called the Absolute, or Nirvana. He is only a concept, not love. It is impossible to love this He; and when misfortune comes, people spit on life.”
“That is well,” answered Svirski, testily; “but meanwhile Pan Ignas is lying with a broken skull, and they have gone to the seashore, and it is pleasant for them.”
“Whence do you know that it is pleasant for them?” answered Vaskovski.
“The deuce fire them!” said Svirski.
“But I say to you that they are unhappy. No one may trample on truth and go unpunished. They will talk various things into each other, but one thing they will not be able to talk into each other, – that is, self-respect; they will begin to despise themselves in secret, and at last even that attachment which they had for each other will be turned into secret dislike. That is inevitable.”
“The deuce fire them!” repeated Svirski.
“The mercy of God is for them, not for the good,” concluded Vaskovski.
Meanwhile Bigiel talked with Pan Stanislav, admiring the kindness and courage of Panna Helena.
“For there will be a fabulous amount of gossip from this,” said he.
“She does not care for that,” answered Pan Stanislav. “She does not count with society, for she wants nothing of it. She, too, is a resolute soul. She showed Pan Ignas always exceptional attachment, and his act must have shocked her tremendously. Do you know the history of Ploshovski?”
“I knew him personally,” said Svirski. “His father was the first man in Rome to predict success to me. Of Panna Helena they say, I think, that she was betrothed to Ploshovski.”
“No, she was not; but in her secret heart perhaps she loved him greatly. Such was his fortune. It is certain that since his death she has become different altogether. For a woman so religious as she is, his suicide must in truth have been dreadful, for just think, not to be able even to pray for a man whom one has loved. And now again Pan Ignas! If any one, it is she who is doing everything to save him. Yesterday I was there; she came out to me barely alive, pale, weary, without having slept. And there is some one else to watch with her. Panna Ratkovski told me of her, that for four days she hadn’t slept one hour, perhaps.”
“Panna Ratkovski?” inquired Svirski, quickly; and he began mechanically to seek with his hand in the coat pocket where he had her letter.
He remembered then her words: “I have chosen otherwise, and if I shall never be happy, I do not wish at least to reproach myself afterwards with insincerity.” “Now for the first time I understand the meaning and real tragedy of those words. Now, in spite of all social appearances, without regard to the tongues of people, this young girl has gone to watch over that suicide. What could this mean? The case is clear as the sun. It is true that Kopovski went abroad with another; but she had expressed always openly what she thought of Kopovski, and if she had cared nothing for Pan Ignas, she would not have gone this time to watch at his bedside. It seems to me that I am an ass,” muttered Svirski.
But that was not the only conclusion to which he came after mature consideration. All at once a yearning for Panna Ratkovski took hold of him, and sorrow that that had not happened which might have happened, as well as immense pity for her. “Thou hast become a poodle again, old fellow,” said he to himself, “and it serves thee right! A good man would have felt sorrow, but thou didst begin to be angry and condemn her for loving a fool and pretending to aspiration, and for having a low nature; thou didst talk ill of her before Pani Polanyetski and before him; didst do injustice to a kind and unfortunate person, not because her refusal pained thee too greatly, but through thy own self-love. Served thee right, right! thou art an ass; thou art not worthy of her; and thou wilt be knocking around alone till death, like a mandrill, behind a menagerie grating.”
In these reproaches there was a portion of truth. Svirski had not fallen in love decidedly with Panna Ratkovski; but her refusal pained him more deeply than he acknowledged, and, not being able to master his vexation, he gave way to general conclusions about women, citing Panna Ratkovski as an example, and to her disadvantage.
Now he saw the whole vanity of such conclusions. “These stupid syntheses have ruined me always,” thought he. “Women are individuals like all people; and the general concept woman explains nothing whatever. There is a Panna Castelli, there is a Pani Osnovski, in whom I admit various rascalities, without, however, having proof of them; but on the other hand there is a Pani Polanyetski, a Pani Bigiel, a Sister Aniela, a Panna Helena, and a Panna Stefania. Poor child! and so it serves me right. She was there suffering in silence, and I was gnashing my teeth. If that girl isn’t worth ten times more than I, then that sun isn’t worth my pipe. She had a sacred reason in giving a refusal to such a buffalo. I will go to the Orient, and that is the end of the matter. Such light as there is in Egypt, there is nowhere else on earth. And what an honest woman! Moreover, she has done me good, even with her refusal, for through her I have convinced myself that my theory about women should be broken on the back of a dog. But if Panna Helena puts a whole regiment of dragoons before her door, I must see that poor girl and say what I think to her.”
In fact, he went on the following morning to Panna Helena’s. They did not wish to admit him, but he insisted so much that at last he was admitted. Panna Helena, judging that friendship and anxiety alone had brought him, conducted him even to the chamber in which the wounded man was lying. There, in the gloom of fastened blinds, he saw Pan Ignas, from whom came the odor of iodine, his head bound, his jaw protruding; and with him those two wearied out women, the fever of sleeplessness on their faces, and really like two shadows. The wounded man lay with open lips; he was changed, and resembled himself in nothing. He was as if incomparably older; his eyelids were swollen, and protruding from under the bandage. Svirski had liked him greatly, and with his sensitiveness had not less sympathy for him than had Pan Stanislav and Osnovski; he was struck, however, this time by his deformity. “He has fixed himself,” thought he; then, turning to Panna Helena, he asked in an undertone, —
“Has he not regained consciousness?”
“No,” answered she, in a whisper.
“What does the doctor say?”
Panna Helena moved her thin hand in sign that all was uncertain yet.
“This is the fifth day,” whispered she again.
“And the fever decreases,” said Panna Ratkovski.
Svirski wished to offer his services in watching the sick man; but Panna Helena indicated with her eyes a young doctor, whom he was not able to distinguish at once in the darkness, but who, sitting in an armchair near the table, with a basin and pile of iodine wadding, was dozing from weariness, waiting till another should relieve him.
“We have two,” said Panna Ratkovski, “and besides people from the hospital, who know how to nurse the sick.”
“But you ladies are wonderfully wearied.”
“It is a question here of the sick man,” answered she, looking toward the bed.
Svirski followed her glance. His eyes were better accustomed now to the gloom, and saw distinctly the face, motionless, with lips almost black. The long body was motionless also, only the fingers of his emaciated hand, lying on the coverlet, stirred with a monotonous movement, as if scratching.
“They will take him out in a couple of days, as God is in Heaven!” thought he, remembering his colleague, that “Slav” with whom Bukatski had disputed in his time, and who, when he had shot himself in the head, died only after two weeks of torture.
Wishing, however, to give comfort to the women, he said, in spite of that of which he was certain, —
“Wounds of this kind are either mortal at once, or are cured.”
Panna Helena made no answer, but her face contracted nervously, and her lips grew pale. Evidently there was a terrible thought in her soul, that he also might die, and she did not wish to admit that she had had enough with that other suicide, and at the same time it was for her a question of something more than saving his life for Pan Ignas.
Svirski began to take farewell. He entered with a speech prepared for Panna Ratkovski, to whom he had resolved to acknowledge that he had judged her unjustly, and to express all the homage which he felt for her, and to beg for her friendship; but in presence of the real tragedy of those two women, and of the danger of death, and of that half corpse, he saw at once that everything which he intended to say would be poor and petty, and that it was not the time for such empty and personal matters.
