He was roused by the servant, who brought coffee and took his clothes
to be brushed. When the servant brought them back, Pan Stanislav asked
if it were not the custom of the house to meet in the dining-room for
coffee.
"No," answered the servant; "because the young lady rises early, and
the old gentleman sleeps late."
"And has the young lady risen?"
"The young lady is at church."
"True, to-day is Sunday. But does not the young lady go to church with
the old gentleman?"
"No; the old gentleman goes to high Mass, and then goes to visit the
canon, so the young lady prefers early Mass."
"What do they do here on Sunday?"
"They sit at home; Pan Gantovski comes to dinner."
Pan Stanislav knew this Gantovski as a small boy. In those times they
nicknamed him "Little Bear," for he was a thick little fellow, awkward
and surly. The servant explained that Pan Gantovski's father had died
about five years before, and that the young man was managing his estate
in the neighboring Yalbrykov.
"And does he come here every Sunday?"
"Sometimes he comes on a week day in the evening."
"A rival!" thought Pan Stanislav. After a while he inquired,--
"Has the old gentleman risen?"
"It must be that he has rung the bell, for Yozef has gone to him."
"Who is Yozef?"
"The valet."
"And who art thou?"
"I am his assistant."
"Go and inquire when it will be possible to see the old gentleman."
The servant went out and returned soon.
"The old gentleman sends to say that when he dresses he will beg you to
come."
"Very well."
The servant went out; Pan Stanislav remained alone and waited, or
rather was bored, a good while. Patience began to fail him at last;
and he was about to stroll to the garden, when Yozef came with the
announcement that the old gentleman begged him to come.
Yozef conducted him then to a chamber at the other end of the house.
Pan Stanislav entered, and at the first moment did not recognize Pan
Plavitski. He remembered him as a person in the bloom of life and very
good-looking; now an old man stood before him, with a face as wrinkled
as a baked apple,--a face to which small blackened mustaches strove in
vain to lend the appearance of youth. Hair as black as the mustaches,
and parted low at the side of the head, indicated also pretensions as
yet unextinguished.
But Plavitski opened his arms: "Stas! how art thou, dear boy? Come
hither!" And, pointing to his white shirt, he embraced the head of
Pan Stanislav, and pressed it to his bosom, which moved with quick
breathing.
The embrace continued a long time, and for Pan Stanislav, much too
long. Plavitski said at last,--
"Let me look at thee, Anna, drop for drop! My poor beloved Anna!" and
Plavitski sobbed; then he wiped with his heart finger[1] his right
eyelid, on which, however, there was not a tear, and repeated,--
"As like Anna as one drop is like another! Thy mother was always for me
the best and the most loving relative."
Pan Stanislav stood before him confused, also somewhat stunned by a
reception such as he had not expected, and by the odor of wax, powder,
and various perfumes, which came from the face, mustaches, and shirt of
the old man.
"How is my dear uncle?" asked he at last, judging that this title,
which moreover he had given in years of childhood to Plavitski, would
answer best to the solemn manner of his reception.
"How am I?" repeated Plavitski. "Not long for me now, not long!
But just for this reason I greet thee in my house with the greater
affection,--I greet thee as a father. And if the blessing of a man
standing over the grave, and who at the same time is the eldest member
of the family, has in thy eyes any value, I give it thee."
And seizing Pan Stanislav's head a second time, he kissed it and
blessed him. The young man changed still more, and constraint was
expressed on his face. His mother was a relative and friend of
Plavitski's first wife: to Plavitski himself no affectionate feelings
had ever attracted her, so far as he could remember; hence the
solemnity of the reception, to which he was forced to yield, was
immensely disagreeable to him. Pan Stanislav had not the least family
feeling for Plavitski. "This monkey," thought he, "is blessing me
instead of talking money;" and he was seized by a certain indignation,
which might help him to explain matters clearly.
"Now sit down, dear boy," said Plavitski, "and be as if in thy own
house."
Pan Stanislav took a seat, and began, "Dear uncle, for me it is very
pleasant to visit uncle. I should have done so surely, even without
business; but uncle knows that I have come also on that affair which my
mother--"
Here the old man laid his hand on Pan Stanislav's knee suddenly. "But
hast thou drunk coffee?" asked he.
"I have," answered Pan Stanislav, driven from his track.
"Marynia goes to church early. I beg pardon, too, that I have not given
thee my room; but I am old, I am accustomed to sleep here. This is my
nest." Then, with a circular sweep of the hand, he directed attention to
the chamber.
Unconsciously Pan Stanislav let his eyes follow the motion of the hand.
On a time this chamber had been to him a ceaseless temptation, for
in it had hung the arms of Plavitski. The only change in it was the
wall, which in the old time was rose-colored, and represented, on an
endless number of squares, young shepherdesses, dressed _à la Watteau_,
and catching fish with hooks. At the window stood a toilet-table with
a white cover, and a mirror in a silver frame. On the table was a
multitude of little pots, vials, boxes, brushes, combs, nail files,
etc. At one side, in the corner, was a table with pipes and pipe-stems
with amber mouth-pieces; on the wall, above the sofa, was the head of
a wild boar, and under it two double-barrelled guns, a hunting-bag,
horns, and, in general, the weapons of hunting; in the depth was
a table with papers, open shelves with a certain number of books.
Everywhere the place was full of old furniture more or less needed and
ornamental, but indicating that the occupant of the chamber was the
centre around which everything turned in that house, and that he cared
greatly for himself. In one word, it was the chamber of an old single
man,--an egotist full of petty anxiety for his personal comfort, and
full of pretensions. Pan Stanislav did not need long reflection to
divine that Plavitski would not give up his chamber for anything, nor
to any man.
But the hospitable host inquired further, "Was it comfortable enough
for thee? How didst thou spend the night?"
"Perfectly; I rose late."
"But thou wilt stay a week or so with me?"
Pan Stanislav, who was very impulsive, sprang up from his chair.
"Doesn't uncle know that I have business in Warsaw, and a partner, who
at present is doing all our work alone? I must go at the earliest; and
to-day I should like to finish the business on which I have come."
To this Plavitski answered with a certain cordial dignity, "No, my
boy. To-day is Sunday; and besides, family feeling should go before
business. To-day I greet thee, and receive thee as a blood relative;
to-morrow, if thou wish, appear as a creditor. That is it. To-day
my Stas has come to me, the son of my Anna. Thus will it be till
to-morrow; thus should it be, Stas. This is said to thee by thy eldest
relative, who loves thee, and for whom thou shouldst do this."
Pan Stanislav frowned a little, but after a while he answered, "Let it
be so till to-morrow."
"Anna spoke through thee then. Dost smoke a pipe?"
"No, only cigarettes."
"Believe me, thou doest ill. But I have cigarettes for guests."
Further conversation was interrupted by the rattle of an equipage at
the entrance.
"That is Marynia, who has come from early Mass," said Plavitski.
Pan Stanislav looked out through the window, and saw a young lady in a
straw hat stepping out of the equipage.
"Hast made the acquaintance of Marynia?" asked Plavitski.
"I had the pleasure yesterday."
"She is a dear child. I need not tell thee that I live only for her--"
At that moment the door opened, and a youthful voice asked, "May I come
in?"
"Come in, come in; Stas is here!" answered Plavitski.
Marynia entered the chamber quickly, with her hat hanging by ribbons
over her shoulder; and when she had embraced her father, she gave
her hand to Pan Stanislav. In her rose-colored muslin, she looked
exceedingly graceful and pretty. There was about her something of the
character of Sunday, and with it the freshness of that morning, which
was bright and calm. Her hair had been ruffled a little by her hat; her
cheeks were blooming; and youth was breathing from her person. To Pan
Stanislav, she seemed more joyous and more shapely than the previous
evening.
"High Mass will be a little later to-day," said she to her father;
"for immediately after Mass the canon went to the mill to prepare Pani
Siatkovski; she is very ill. Papa will have half an hour yet."
"That is well," said Plavitski; "during that time thou wilt become more
nearly acquainted with Stas. I tell thee, drop for drop like Anna! But
thou hast never seen her. Remember, too, Marynia, that he will be our
creditor to-morrow, if he wishes; but to-day he is only our relative
and guest."
"Very well," answered the young lady; "we shall have a pleasant Sunday."
"You went to sleep so late yesterday," said Pan Stanislav, "and to-day
you were at early Mass."
She answered merrily, "The cook and I go to early Mass that we may have
time afterward to think of dinner."
"I forgot to mention," said Pan Stanislav, "that I bring you
salutations from Pani Emilia Hvastovski."
"I have not seen Emilia for a year and a half, but we write to each
other often. She is about to visit Reichenhall, for the sake of her
little daughter."
"She was ready to start when I saw her."
"But how is the little girl?"
"She is in her twelfth year; she has grown beyond measure, and is pale.
It does not seem that she is very healthy."
"Do you visit Emilia often?"
"Rather often. She is almost my only acquaintance in Warsaw. Besides, I
like Pani Emilia very much."
"Tell me, my boy," inquired Plavitski, taking a pair of fresh gloves
from the table, and putting them into a breast-pocket, "what is thy
particular occupation in Warsaw?"
"I am what is called an 'affairist;' I have a commission house
in company with a certain Bigiel. I speculate in wheat and sugar,
sometimes in timber; in anything that gives profit."
"I have heard that thou art an engineer?"
"I have my specialty. But on my return I could not find occupation
at any factory, and I began at mercantile transactions, all the more
readily that I had some idea of them. But my specialty is dyeing."
"How dost thou say?" inquired Plavitski.
"Dyeing."
"The times are such now that one must take up anything," said
Plavitski, with dignity. "I am not the man to take that ill of thee. If
thou wilt only retain the honorable old traditions of the family, no
occupation brings shame to a man."
Pan Stanislav, to whom the appearance of the young lady had brought
back his good nature, and who was amused by the sudden "grandezza" of
the old man, showed his sound teeth in a smile, and answered,--
"Praise God for that!"
Panna Plavitski smiled in like manner, and said, "Emilia, who likes you
very much, wrote to me once that you conduct your business perfectly."
"The only difficulty in this country is with Jews; still competition
is easy. And with Jews it is possible to get on by abstaining from
anti-Semitic manifestoes. As to Pani Emilia, however, she knows as much
about business as does her little Litka."
"Yes; she has never been practical. Had it not been for her husband's
brother, Pan Teofil Hvastovski, she would have lost all she has. But
Pan Teofil loves Litka greatly."
"Who doesn't love Litka? I, to begin with, am dying about her. She is
such a marvellous child, and such a favorite; I tell you that I have a
real weakness for her."
Panna Marynia looked attentively at his honest, vivacious face, and
thought, "He must be a little whimsical, but he has a good heart."
Plavitski remarked, meanwhile, that it was time for Mass, and he began
to take farewell of Marynia in such fashion as if he were going on
a journey of some months; then he made the sign of the cross on her
head, and took his hat. The young lady pressed Pan Stanislav's hand
with more life than at the morning greeting; he, when sitting in the
little equipage, repeated in his mind, "Oh, she is very nice, very
sympathetic."
Beyond the alley, by which Pan Stanislav had come the night before, the
equipage rolled over a road which was beset here and there with old and
decayed birches standing at unequal distances from one another. On one
side stretched a potato-field, on the other an enormous plain of wheat,
with heavy bent heads, which seemed to sleep in the still air and in
the full light of the sun. Before the carriage, magpies and hoopoes
flew among the birches. Moving along paths through the yellow sea of
wheat, and hidden in it to their shoulders, went village maidens with
red kerchiefs on their heads, which resembled blooming poppies.
"Good wheat," said Pan Stanislav.
"Not bad. What is in man's power is done, and what God gives He gives.
Thou art young, my dear, so I give thee a precept, which in future will
be of service to thee more than once, 'Do always that which pertains to
thee, and leave the rest to the Lord God.' He knows best what we need.
The harvest will be good this year; I know that beforehand, for when
God is going to touch me with anything, He sends a sign."
"What is it?" asked Pan Stanislav, with astonishment.
"Behind my pipe-table--I do not know whether thou hast noted where it
stands--a mouse shows himself to me a number of days in succession when
any evil is coming."
"There must be a hole in the floor."
"There is no hole," said Plavitski, closing his eyes, and shaking his
head mysteriously.
"One might bring in a cat."
"I will not bring in a cat, for if it is the will of God that that
mouse should be a sign to me, or forewarning, I shall not go against
that will. Nothing has appeared to me this year. I mentioned this to
Marynia; maybe God desires in some way to show that He is watching
over our family. Listen, my dear; people will say, I know, that we are
ruined, or at least in a very bad state. Here it is; judge for thyself:
Kremen and Skoki, Magyerovka and Suhotsin, contain about two hundred
and fifty vlokas of land; on that there is a debt of thirty thousand
rubles to the society, not more, and about a hundred thousand mortgage,
including thy sum. Therefore we have about a hundred and thirty
thousand. Let us estimate only three thousand rubles a vloka; that
will make seven hundred and fifty thousand,--altogether eight hundred
and eighty thousand--"
"How is that?" asked Pan Stanislav, with astonishment; "uncle is
including the debt with the property."
"If the property were worth nothing, no one would give me a copper for
it, so I add the debt to the value of the property."
Pan Stanislav thought, "He is a lunatic, with whom it is useless to
talk;" and he listened further in silence.
"I intend to parcel out Magyerovka. The mill I will sell; but in Skoki
and Suhotsin I have marl, and knowest thou at how much I have estimated
it? At two million rubles."
"Has uncle a purchaser?"
"Two years ago a certain Shaum came and looked at the fields. He went
away, it is true, without speaking of the business; but I am sure that
he will come again, otherwise the mouse would have appeared behind the
pipe-table."
"Ha! let him come again."
"Knowest thou another thing that comes to my head? Since thou art an
'affairist,' take up this business. Find thyself partners, that is all."
"The business is too large for me."
"Then find me a purchaser; I will give ten per cent of the proceeds."
"What does Panna Marynia think of this marl?"
"Marynia, how Marynia? She is a golden child, but still a child! She
believes that Providence watches over our family."
"I heard that from her yesterday."
Meanwhile they had drawn near Vantory and the church, on a hill among
linden-trees. Under the hill stood at number of peasant-wagons with
ladder-like boxes, some brichkas and carriages. Pan Plavitski made the
sign of the cross, and said, "This is our little church, which thou
must remember. All the Plavitskis lie here, and I, too, shall be lying
here soon. I never pray better than in this place."
"There will be many people, I see," said Pan Stanislav.
"Gantovski's brichka, Zazimski's coach, Yamish's carriage, and a
number of others are there. Thou must remember the Yamishes. She is
an uncommon woman; he pretends to be a great agriculturist and a
councillor, but he is an old dotard, who never did understand her."
At that moment the bell began to sound in the church tower.
"They have seen us, and are ringing the bell," said Plavitski; "Mass
will begin this moment. I will take thee, after Mass, to the grave of
my first wife; pray for her, since she was thy aunt. She was an honest
woman; the Lord light her."
Here Plavitski raised his finger again to rub his right eye. Pan
Stanislav therefore asked, wishing to change the conversation,--
"But was not Pani Yamish once very beautiful? or is this the same one?"
Plavitski's face gleamed suddenly. He thrust out for one moment the
end of his tongue from his blackened little mustaches, and patting Pan
Stanislav on the thigh, said,--
"She is worth a sin yet,--she is, she is."
Meanwhile they drove in, and after walking around the church, entered
the sacristy at the side; not wishing to push through the crowd, they
sat on side seats near the altar. Plavitski occupied the collator's
place, in which were also the Yamishes. Yamish was a man very old in
appearance, with an intelligent face, but weighed down; she was a woman
well toward sixty, dressed almost like Panna Marynia,--that is, in a
muslin robe and a straw hat. The bows, full of politeness, which Pan
Plavitski made to her, and the kind smiles with which she returned
them, showed that between those two reigned intimate relations founded
on mutual adoration. After a while the lady, raising her glasses to
her eyes, began to observe Pan Stanislav, not understanding apparently
who could have come with Pan Plavitski. In the seat behind them one of
the neighbors, taking advantage of the fact that Mass had not begun
yet, was finishing some narrative about hunting, and repeated a number
of times to another neighbor, "My dogs, well--" then both stopped
their conversation, and began to speak to Plavitski and Pani Yamish so
audibly that every word reached the ears of Pan Stanislav. The priest
came out to the altar then.
At sight of the Mass and that little church, Pan Stanislav's memory
went back to the years of his childhood, when he was there with his
mother. Wonder rose in him involuntarily when he thought how little
anything changes in the country, except people. Some are placed away in
consecrated earth; others are born. But the new life puts itself into
the old forms; and to him who comes from afar, after a long absence,
all that he saw long ago seems of yesterday. The church was the same;
the nave was filled, as of old, with flaxen-colored heads of peasants,
gray coats, red and yellow kerchiefs with flowers on the heads of the
maidens; it had precisely the same kind of odor of incense, of sweet
flag, and the exhalations of people. Outside one of the windows grew
the same birch-tree, whose slender branches, thrown against the panes
by the wind as it rose, cast shade which gave a green tinge to light in
the church. But the people were not the same: some of the former ones
were crumbling quietly into dust, or had made their way from beneath
the earth in the form of grass; those who were left yet were somehow
bent, as if going under ground gradually. Pan Stanislav, who plumed
himself on avoiding all generalizing theories, but who in reality had
a Slav head, which, as it were, had not emerged yet from universal
existence, occupied himself with them involuntarily; and all the time
he was thinking that there is still a terrible precipice between that
passion for life innate in people and the absoluteness of death. He
thought, also, that perhaps for this reason all systems of philosophy
vanish, like shadows; but Mass is celebrated, as of old, because it
alone promises further and unbroken continuity.
Reared abroad, he did not believe in it greatly; at least, he was not
certain of it. He felt in himself, as do all people of to-day, the
very newest people, an irrestrainable repugnance to materialism; but
from it he had not found an escape yet, and, what is more, it seemed
to him that he was not seeking it. He was an unconscious pessimist,
like those who are looking for something which they cannot find. He
stunned himself with occupations to which he was habituated; and only
in moments of great excess in that pessimism did he ask himself, What
is this all for? Of what use is it to gain property, labor, marry,
beget children, if everything ends in an abyss? But that was at times,
and did not become a fixed principle. Youth saved him from this, not
the first youth, but also not a youth nearing its end, a certain mental
and physical strength, the instinct of self-preservation, the habit of
work, vivacity of character, and finally that elemental force, which
pushes a man into the arms of a woman. And now from the recollections
of childhood, from thoughts of death, from doubts as to the fitness of
marriage, he came to this special thought, that he had no one to whom
he could give what was best in him; and then he came to Panna Marynia
Plavitski, whose muslin robe, covering a young and shapely body, did
not leave his eyes. He remembered that when he was leaving Warsaw,
Pani Emilia, a great friend of his and of Panna Marynia's, had said
laughingly,--
"If you, after being in Kremen, do not fall in love with Marynia, I
shall close my doors against you." He answered her with great courage
that he was going only to squeeze out money, not to fall in love, but
that was not true. If Panna Plavitski had not been in Kremen, he would
surely have throttled Plavitski by letter, or by legal methods. On the
way he had been thinking of Panna Marynia and of how she would look,
and he was angry because he was going for money, too. Having talked
into himself great decision in such matters, he determined above all
to obtain what belonged to him, and was ready rather to go beyond the
mark than not to reach it. He promised this to himself, especially the
first evening, when Marynia, though she had pleased him well enough,
had not produced such a great impression as he had expected, or rather
had produced a different one; but that morning she had taken his eye
greatly. "She is like the morning herself," thought he; "she is nice
and knows that she is nice,--women always know that."
This last discovery made him somewhat impatient, for he wished to
return as soon as possible to Kremen, to observe the young woman
further. In fact, Mass was over soon. Plavitski went out immediately
after the blessing, for he had two duties before him,--the first, to
pray on the graves of his two wives who were lying under the church;
the second, to conduct Pani Yamish to her carriage. Since he wished
to neglect neither of these, he had to count with time. Pan Stanislav
went with him; and soon they found themselves before the stone slabs,
erected side by side in the church wall. Plavitski kneeled and prayed
awhile with attention; then he rose, and wiping away a tear, which was
hanging really on his lids, took Pan Stanislav by the arm, and said,
"Yes, I lost both; still I must live."
Meanwhile Pani Yamish appeared before the church door in the company
of her husband, of those two neighbors who had spoken to her before
Mass, and of young Gantovski. At sight of her Pan Plavitski bent to Pan
Stanislav's ear and said,--
"When she enters the carriage, take notice what a foot she has yet."
After a while both joined the company; bows and greetings began. Pan
Plavitski presented Pan Polanyetski; then, turning to Pani Yamish, he
added, with the smile of a man convinced that he says something which
no common person could have hit upon,--
"My relative, who has come to embrace his uncle, and squeeze him."
"We will permit only the first; otherwise he will have an affair with
us," said the lady.
"But Kremen[2] is hard," continued Plavitski; "he will break his teeth
on it, though he is young."
Pani Yamish half closed her eyes. "That ease," said she, "with which
you scatter sparks, _c'est inoui!_ How is your health to-day?"
"At this moment I feel healthy and young."
"And Marynia?"
"She was at early Mass. We wait for you both at five. My little
housekeeper is breaking her head over supper. A beautiful day."
"We shall come if neuralgia lets me, and my lord husband is willing."
"How is it, neighbor?" asked Plavitski.
"I am always glad to go," answered the neighbor, with the voice of a
crushed man.
"Then, _au revoir_."
"_Au revoir_," answered the lady; and turning to Pan Stanislav, she
reached her hand to him. "It was a pleasure for me to make your
acquaintance."
Plavitski gave his arm to the lady, and conducted her to the carriage.
The two neighbors went away also. Pan Stanislav remained a while with
Gantovski, who looked at him without much good-will. Pan Stanislav
remembered him as an awkward boy; from the "Little Bear," he had grown
to be a stalwart man, somewhat heavy perhaps in his movements, but
rather presentable, with a very shapely, light-colored mustache. Pan
Stanislav did not begin conversation, waiting till the other should
speak first; but he thrust his hands into his pockets, and maintained a
stubborn silence.
"His former manners have remained with him," thought Pan Stanislav, who
felt now an aversion to that surly fellow.
Meanwhile Plavitski returned from Yamish's carriage.
"Hast taken notice?" asked he of Pan Stanislav, first of all. "Well,
Gantos," said he then, "thou wilt go in thy brichka, for in the
carriage there are only two places."
"I will go in the brichka, for I am taking a dog to Panna Marynia,"
answered the young man, who bowed and walked off.
After a while Pan Plavitski and Pan Stanislav found themselves on the
road to Kremen.
"This Gantovski is uncle's relative, I suppose?" asked Pan Stanislav.
"The tenth water after a jelly. They are very much fallen. This Adolph
has one little farm and emptiness in his pocket."
"But in his heart there is surely no emptiness?"
Pan Plavitski pouted. "So much the worse for him, if he imagines
anything. He may be good, but he is simple. No breeding, no education,
no property. Marynia likes him, or rather she endures him."
"Ah, does she endure him?"
"See thou how it is: I sacrifice myself for her and stay in the
country; she sacrifices herself for me and stays in the country. There
is no one here; Pani Yamish is considerably older than Marynia; in
general, there are no young people; life here is tedious: but what's to
be done? Remember, my boy, that life is a series of sacrifices. There
is need for thee to carry that principle in thy heart and thy head.
Those especially who belong to honorable and more prominent families
should not forget this. But Gantovski is with us always on Sunday for
dinner; and to-day, as thou hast heard, he is bringing a dog."
They dropped into silence, and drove along the sand slowly. The magpies
flew before them from birch to birch, this time in the direction of
Kremen. Behind Plavitski's little carriage rode in his brichka Pan
Gantovski, who, thinking of Pan Stanislav, said to himself,--
"If he comes as a creditor to squeeze them, I'll break his neck; if he
comes as a rival, I'll break it too."
From childhood, he had cherished hostile feelings toward Polanyetski.
In those days they met once in a while. Polanyetski used to laugh at
him; and, being a couple of years older, he even beat him.
Plavitski and his guest arrived at last, and, half an hour later, all
found themselves at table in the dining-room, with Panna Marynia. The
young dog, brought by Gantovski, taking advantage of his privilege of
guest, moved about under the table, and sometimes got on the knees of
those present with great confidence and with delight, expressed by
wagging his tail.
"That is a Gordon setter," said Gantovski. "He is simple yet; but those
dogs are clever, and become wonderfully attached."
"He is beautiful, and I am very grateful to you," answered Marynia,
looking at the shining black hair and the yellow spots over the eyes of
the dog.
"Too friendly," added Plavitski, covering his knees with a napkin.
"In the field, too, they are better than common setters."
"Do you hunt?" asked Pan Stanislav of the young lady.
"No; I have never had any desire to do so. And you?"
"Sometimes. But I live in the city."
"Art thou much in society?" inquired Plavitski.
"Almost never. My visits are to Pani Emilia, my partner Bigiel, and
Vaskovski, my former professor, an oddity now,--those are all. Of
course I go sometimes to people with whom I have business."
"That is not well, my boy. A young man should have and preserve good
social relations, especially when he has a right to them. If a man
has to force his way, the question is different; but as Polanyetski,
thou hast the right to go anywhere. I have the same story, too, with
Marynia. The winter before last, when she had finished her eighteenth
year, I took her to Warsaw. Thou'lt understand that the trip was not
without cost, and that for me it required certain sacrifices. Well, and
what came of it? She sat for whole days with Pani Emilia, and they read
books. She is born a recluse, and will remain one. Thou and she might
join hands."
"Let us join hands!" cried Pan Stanislav, joyously.
"I cannot, with a clear conscience," answered Marynia; "for it was not
altogether as papa describes. I read books with Emilia, it is true; but
I was much in society with papa, and I danced enough for a lifetime."
"You have no fault to find?"
"No; but I am not yearning."
"Then you did not bring away memories, it seems?"
"Evidently there remained with me only recollections, which are
something different."
"I do not understand the difference."
"Memory is a magazine, in which the past lies stored away, and
recollection appears when we go to the magazine to take something."
Here Panna Marynia was alarmed somewhat at that special daring with
which she had allowed herself this philosophical deduction as to the
difference between memory and recollection; therefore she blushed
rather deeply.
"Not stupid, and pretty," thought Pan Stanislav; aloud he said, "That
would not have come to my head, and it is so appropriate."
He surveyed her with eyes full of sympathy. She was in fact very
pretty; for she was laughing, somewhat confused by the praise, and also
delighted sincerely with it. She blushed still more when the daring
young man said,--
"To-morrow, before parting, I shall beg for a place,--even in the
magazine."
But he said this with such joyousness that it was impossible to be
angry with him; and Marynia answered, not without a certain coquetry,--
"Very well; and I ask reciprocity."
"In such case, I should have to go so often to the magazine that I
might prefer straightway to live in it."
This seemed to Marynia somewhat too bold on such short acquaintance;
but Plavitski broke in now and said,--
"This Stanislav pleases me. I prefer him to Gantos, who sits like a
misanthrope."
"Because I can talk only of what may be taken in hand," answered the
young man, with a certain sadness.
"Then take your fork, and eat."
Pan Stanislav laughed. Marynia did not laugh: she was sorry for
Gantovski; therefore she turned the conversation to things which were
tangible.
"She is either a coquette, or has a good heart," thought Pan Stanislav
again.
But Pan Plavitski, who recalled evidently his last winter visit in
Warsaw, continued, "Tell me, Stas, dost thou know Bukatski?"
"Of course. By the way, he is a nearer relative to me than to uncle."
"We are related to the whole world,--to the whole world literally.
Bukatski was Marynia's most devoted dancer. He danced with her at all
the parties."
Pan Stanislav began to laugh again; "And for all his reward he went
to the magazine, to the dust-bin. But at least it is not necessary to
dust him, for he is as careful of his person as uncle, for instance.
He is the greatest dandy in Warsaw. What does he do? He is manager of
fresh air, which means that when there is fair weather he walks out or
rides. Besides, he is an original, who has peculiar little closets in
his brain. He observes various things of such kind as no other would
notice. Once, after his return from Venice, I met him and asked what
he had seen there. 'I saw,' said he, 'while on the Riva dei Schiavoni,
half an egg-shell and half a lemon-rind floating: they met, they
struck, they were driven apart, they came together; at last, paf! the
half lemon fell into the half egg-shell, and away they went sailing
together. In this see the meaning of harmony.' Such is Bukatski's
occupation, though he knows much, and in art, for instance, he is an
authority."
"But they say that he is very capable."
"Perhaps he is, but capable of nothing. He eats bread, and that is
the end of his service. If at least he were joyous, but at bottom he
is melancholy. I forgot to say that besides he is in love with Pani
Emilia."
"Does Emilia receive many people?" inquired Marynia.
"No. Vaskovski, Bukatski, and Mashko, an advocate, the man who buys and
sells estates, are her only visitors.
"Of course she cannot receive many people; she has to give much time to
Litka."
"Dear little girl," said Pan Stanislav, "may God grant at least that
Reichenhall may help her."
And his joyous countenance was covered in one moment with genuine
sadness. Marynia looked at him with eyes full of sympathy, and in her
turn thought a second time, "Still he must be kind really."
But Plavitski began to talk as if to himself. "Mashko, Mashko--he too
was circling about Marynia. But she did not like him. As to estates,
the price now is such that God pity us."
"Mashko is the man who declares that under such conditions it is well
to buy them."
Dinner came to an end, and they passed into the drawing-room for
coffee; while at coffee Pan Plavitski, as his wont was in moments of
good-humor, began to make a butt of Gantovski. The young man endured
patiently, out of regard for Marynia, but with a mien that seemed to
say, "Ei! but for her, I would shake all the bones out of thee." After
coffee Marynia sat down at the piano, while her father was occupied
with patience. She played not particularly well, but her clear and
calm face was outlined pleasantly over the music-board. About five Pan
Plavitski looked at the clock and said,--
"The Yamishes are not coming."
"They will come yet," answered Marynia.
But from that moment on he looked continually at the clock, and
announced every moment that the Yamishes would not come. At last, about
six, he said with a sepulchral voice,--
"Some misfortune must have happened."
Pan Stanislav at that moment was near Marynia, who in an undertone
said,--
"Here is a trouble! Nothing has happened, of course; but papa will be
in bad humor till supper."
At first Pan Stanislav wished to answer that to make up he would be in
good-humor to-morrow after sleeping; but, seeing genuine anxiety on the
young lady's face, he answered,--
"As I remember, it is not very far; send some one to inquire what has
happened."
"Why not send some one over there, papa?"
But he answered with vexation, "Too much kindness; I will go myself;"
and ringing for a servant, he ordered the horses, then stopping for a
moment he said,--
"_Enfin_, anything may happen in the country; some person might come
and find my daughter alone. This is not a city. Besides, you are
relatives. Thou, Gantovski, may be necessary for me, so have the
kindness to come with me."
An expression of the greatest unwillingness and dissatisfaction was
evident on the young man's face. He stretched his hand to his yellow
hair and said,--
"Drawn up at the pond is a boat, which the gardener could not launch. I
promised Panna Marynia to launch it; but last Sunday she would not let
me, for rain was pouring, as if from a bucket."
"Then run and try. It is thirty yards to the pond; thou wilt be back in
two minutes."
Gantovski went to the garden in spite of himself. Plavitski, without
noticing his daughter or Pan Stanislav, repeated as he walked through
the room,--
"Neuralgia in the head; I would bet that it is neuralgia in the head;
Gantovski in case of need could gallop for the doctor. That old mope,
that councillor without a council, would not send for him surely." And
needing evidently to pour out his ill humor on some one, he added,
turning to Pan Stanislav, "Thou'lt not believe what a booby that man
is."
"Who?"
"Yamish."
"But, papa!" interrupted Marynia.
Plavitski did not let her finish, however, and said with increasing ill
humor, "It does not please thee, I know, that she shows me a little
friendship and attention. Read Pan Yamish's articles on agriculture, do
him homage, raise statues to him; but let me have my sympathies."
Here Pan Stanislav might admire the real sweetness of Marynia, who,
instead of being impatient, ran to her father, and putting her forehead
under his blackened mustaches, said,--
"They will bring the horses right away, right away, right away! Maybe
I ought to go; but let ugly father not be angry, for he will hurt
himself."
Plavitski, who was really much attached to his daughter, kissed her
on the forehead and said, "I know thou hast a good heart. But what is
Gantovski doing?"
And he called through the open gate of the garden to the young man, who
returned soon, wearied out, and said,--
"There is water in the boat, and it is drawn up too far; I have tried,
and I cannot--"
"Then take thy cap and let's be off, for I hear the horses have come."
A moment later the young people were alone.
"Papa is accustomed to society a little more elegant than that in the
country," said Marynia; "therefore he likes Pani Yamish, but Pan
Yamish is a very honorable and sensible man."
"I saw him in the church; to me he seemed as if crushed."
"Yes; for he is sickly, and besides has much care."
"Like you."
"No, Pan Yamish manages his work perfectly; besides, he writes much on
agriculture. He is really the light of these parts. Such a worthy man!
She too is a good woman, only to me she seems rather pretentious."
"An ex-beauty."
"Yes. And this unbroken country life, through which she has become
rather rusty, increases her oddness. I think that in cities oddities
of character and their ridiculous sides efface one another; but in the
country, people turn into originals more easily, they grow disused
to society gradually, a certain old-fashioned way is preserved in
intercourse, and it goes to excess. We must all seem rusty to people
from great cities, and somewhat ridiculous."
"Not all," answered Pan Stanislav; "you, for example."
"It will come to me in time," answered Marynia, with a smile.
"Time may bring changes too."
"With us there is so little change, and that most frequently for the
worse."
"But in the lives of young ladies in general changes are expected."
"I should wish first that papa and I might come to an agreement about
Kremen."
"Then your father and Kremen are the main, the only objects in life for
you?"
"True. But I can help little, since I know little of anything."
"Your father, Kremen, and nothing more," repeated Pan Stanislav.
A moment of silence came, after which Marynia asked Pan Stanislav if
he would go to the garden. They went, and soon found themselves at the
edge of the pond. Pan Stanislav, who, while abroad, had been a member
of various sporting clubs, pushed to the water's edge the boat, which
Gantovski could not manage; but it turned out that the boat was leaky,
and that they could not row in it.
"This is a case of my management," said Marynia, laughing; "there is a
leak everywhere. And I know not how to find an excuse, since the pond
and the garden belong to me only. But before it is launched I will have
the boat mended."
"As I live, it is the same boat in which I was forbidden to sail when a
boy."
"Quite possibly. Have you not noticed that things change less by far,
and last longer than people? At times it is sad to think of this."
"Let us hope to last longer than this moss-covered boat, which is as
water-soaked as a sponge. If this is the boat of my childhood, I have
no luck with it. In old times I was not permitted to sail in it, and
now I have hurt my hand with some rusty nail."
Saying this, he drew out his handkerchief and began to wind it around
a finger of his right hand, with his left hand, but so awkwardly that
Marynia said,--
"You cannot manage it; you need help;" and she began to bind up his
hand, which he twisted a little so as to increase the difficulty of
her task, since it was pleasant for him to feel her delicate fingers
touching his. She saw that he was hindering her, and glanced at
him; but the moment their eyes met, she understood the reason, and,
blushing, bent down as if tying more carefully. Pan Stanislav felt her
near him, he felt the warmth coming from her, and his heart beat more
quickly.
"I have wonderfully pleasant memories," said he, "of my former
vacations here; but this time I shall take away still pleasanter ones.
You are very kind, and besides exactly like some flower in this Kremen.
On my word, I do not exaggerate."
Marynia understood that the young man said that sincerely, a little
too daringly perhaps, but more through innate vivacity than because
they were alone; she was not offended, therefore, but she began to make
playful threats with her pleasant low voice,--
"I beg you not to say pretty things to me; if you do, I shall bind your
hand badly, and then run away."
"You may bind the hand badly, but stay. The evening is so beautiful."
Marynia finished her work with the handkerchief, and they walked
farther. The evening was really beautiful. The sun was setting; the
pond, not wrinkled with a breath of wind, shone like fire and gold. In
the distance, beyond the water, the alders were dozing quietly; the
nearer trees were outlined with wonderful distinctness in the ruddy
air. In the yard beyond the house, storks were chattering.
"Kremen is charming, very charming!" said Pan Stanislav.
"Very," answered Marynia.
"I understand your attachment to this place. Besides, when one puts
labor into anything, one is attached to it still more. I understand too
that in the country it is possible to have pleasant moments like this;
but, besides, it is agreeable here. In the city weariness seizes men
sometimes, especially those who, like me, are plunged to their ears in
accounts, and who, besides, are alone. Pan Bigiel, my partner, has a
wife, he has children,--that is pleasant. But how is it with me? I say
to myself often: I am at work, but what do I get for it? Grant that
I shall have a little money, but what then?--nothing. To-morrow ever
the same as to-day: Work and work. You know, Panna Plavitski, when a
man devotes himself to something, when he moves with the impetus of
making money, for example, money seems to him an object. But moments
come in which I think that Vaskovski, my original, is right, and that
no one whose name ends in _ski_ or _vich_ can ever put his whole soul
into such an object and rest in it exclusively. He declares that there
is in us yet the fresh memory of a previous existence, and that in
general the Slavs have a separate mission. He is a great original, a
philosopher, and a mystic. I argue with him, and make money as I can;
but now, for example, when I am walking with you in this garden, it
seems to me in truth that he is right."
For a time they walked on without speaking. The light became ruddier
every instant, and their faces were sunk, as it were, in that gleam.
Friendly, reciprocal feelings rose in them each moment. They felt
pleasant and calm in each other's society. Of this Pan Stanislav was
sensible seemingly, for, after a while, he remarked,--
"That is true, too, which Pani Emilia told me. She said that one has
more confidence, and feels nearer to you in an hour than to another in
a month. I have verified this. It seems to me that I have known you for
a long time. I think that only persons unusually kind can produce this
impression."
"Emilia loves me much," answered Marynia, with simplicity; "that is why
she praises me. Even if what she says were true, I will add that I
have not the power to be such with all persons."
"You made on me, yesterday, another impression, indeed; but you were
tired then and drowsy."
"I was, in some degree."
"And why did you not go to bed? The servants might have made tea for
me, or I might have done without it."
"No; we are not so inhospitable as that. Papa said that one of us
should receive you. I was afraid that he would wait himself for you,
and that would have injured him; so I preferred to take his place."
"In that regard thou mightst have been at ease," thought Pan Stanislav;
"but thou art an honest maiden to defend the old egotist." Then he
said, "I beg your pardon for having begun to speak of business at once.
That is a mercantile habit. But I reproached myself afterward. 'Thou
art this and that kind of man,' thought I; and with shame do I beg your
pardon."
"There is no cause for pardon, since there is no fault. They told you
that I occupy myself with everything; hence you turned to me."
Twilight spread more deeply by degrees. After a certain time they
returned to the house, and, as the evening was beautiful, they sat down
on the garden veranda. Pan Stanislav entered the drawing-room for a
moment, returned with a footstool, and, bending down, pushed it under
Marynia's feet.
"I thank you, I thank you much," said she, inclining, and taking her
skirt with her hand; "how kind of you! I thank you much."
"I am inattentive by nature," said he; "but do you know who taught me
a little carefulness? Litka. There is need of care with her; and Pani
Emilia has to remember this."
"She remembers it," answered Marynia, "and we will all help her. If she
had not gone to Reichenhall, I should have invited her here."
"And I should have followed Litka without invitation."
"Then I beg you in papa's name, once and for all."
"Do not say that lightly, for I am ready to abuse your kindness. For
me it is very pleasant here; and as often as I feel out of sorts in
Warsaw, I'll take refuge in Kremen."
Pan Stanislav knew this time that his words were intended to bring
them nearer, to establish sympathy between them; and he spoke with
design, and sincerely. While speaking, he looked on that mild young
face, which, in the light of the setting sun, seemed calmer than usual.
Marynia raised to him her blue eyes, in which was the question, "Art
speaking by chance, or of purpose?" and she answered in a somewhat
lower voice,--
"Do so."
And both were silent, feeling that really a connection between them was
beginning.
"I am astonished that papa is not returning," said she, at last.
The sun had gone down; in the ruddy gloaming, an owl had begun to
circle about in slow flight, and frogs were croaking in the pond.
Pan Stanislav made no answer to the young lady's remark, but said, as
if sunk in his own thoughts: "I do not analyze life; I have no time.
When I enjoy myself,--as at this moment, for instance,--I feel that
I enjoy myself; when I suffer, I suffer,--that is all. But five or
six years ago it was different. A whole party of us used to meet for
discussions on the meaning of life,--a number of scholars, and one
writer, rather well known in Belgium at present. We put to ourselves
these questions: Whither are we going? What sense has everything,
what value, what end? We read the pessimists, and lost ourselves in
various baseless inquiries, like one of my acquaintances, an assistant
in the chair of astronomy, who, when he began to lose himself in
interplanetary spaces, lost his reason; and, after that, it seemed to
him that his head was moving in a parabola through infinity. Afterward
he recovered, and became a priest. We, in like manner, could come to
nothing, rest on nothing,--just like birds flying over the sea without
a place to light on. But at last I saw two things: first, that my
Belgians were taking all this to heart less than I,--we are more naïve;
second, that my desire for labor would be injured, and that I should
become an incompetent. I seized myself, then, by the ears, and began to
color cottons with all my might. After that, I said in my mind: Life
is among the rights of nature; whether wise or foolish, never mind, it
is a right. We must live, then; hence it is necessary to get from life
what is possible. And I wish to get something. Vaskovski says, it is
true, that we Slavs are not able to stop there; but that is mere talk.
That we cannot be satisfied with money alone, we will admit. But I
said to myself, besides money there are two things: peace and--do you
know what, Panna Plavitski?--woman. For a man should have some one with
whom to share what he has. Later, there must be death. Granted. But
where death begins, man's wit ends. 'That is not my business,' as the
English say. Meanwhile, it is needful to have some one to whom a man
can give that which he has or acquires, whether money or service or
fame. If they are diamonds on the moon, it is all the same, for there
is no one to learn what their value is. So a man must have some one to
know him. And I think to myself, who will know me, if not a woman, if
she is only wonderfully good and wonderfully reliable, greatly mine and
greatly beloved? This is all that it is possible to desire; for from
this comes repose, and repose is the one thing that has sense. I say
this, not as a poet, but as a practical man and a merchant. To have
near me a dear one, that is an object. And let come then what may. Here
you have my philosophy."
Pan Stanislav insisted that he was speaking like a merchant; but he
spoke like a dreamer, for that summer evening had acted on him, as
had also the presence of that youthful woman, who in so many regards
answered to the views announced a moment earlier. This must have come
to Pan Stanislav's head, for, turning directly to her, he said,--
"This is my thought, but I do not talk of it before people usually.
I was brought to this somehow to-day; for I repeat that Pani Emilia
is right. She says that one becomes more intimate with you in a day
than with others in a year. You must be fabulously kind. I should have
committed a folly if I had not come to Kremen; and I shall come as
often as you permit me."
"Come,--often."
"I thank you." He extended his hand, and Marynia gave him hers, as if
in sign of agreement.
Oh, how he pleased her with his sincere, manly face, with his dark
hair, and a certain vigor in his whole bearing and in his animated
eyes! He brought, besides, so many of those inspirations which were
lacking in Kremen,--certain new horizons, running out far beyond the
pond and the alders which hemmed in the horizon at Kremen. They had
opened in one day as many roads as it was possible to open. They sat
again a certain time in silence, and their minds wandered on farther in
silence as hastily as they had during speech. Marynia pointed at last
to the light, which was increasing behind the alders, and said, "The
moon."
"Aha! the moon," repeated Pan Stanislav.
The moon was, in fact, rising slowly from behind the alders, ruddy, and
as large as a wheel. Now the dogs began to bark; a carriage rattled on
the other side of the house; and, after a while, Plavitski appeared in
the drawing-room, into which lamps had been brought. Marynia went in,
Pan Stanislav following.
"Nothing was the matter," said Plavitski. "Pani Hrometski called.
Thinking that she would go soon, they did not let us know. Yamish is a
trifle ill, but is going to Warsaw in the morning. She promised to come
to-morrow."
"Then is all well?" asked Marynia.
"Well; but what have you been doing here?"
"Listening to the frogs," answered Pan Stanislav; "and it was pleasant."
"The Lord God knows why He made frogs. Though they don't let me sleep
at night, I make no complaint. But, Marynia, let the tea be brought."
Tea was waiting already in another room. While they were drinking it,
Plavitski described his visit at the Yamishes. The young people were
silent; but from time to time they looked at each other with eyes full
of light, and at parting they pressed each other's hands very warmly.
Marynia felt a certain heaviness seizing her, as if that day had
wearied her; but it was a wonderful and pleasant kind of weariness.
Afterward, when her head was resting on the pillow, she did not think
that the day following would be Monday, that a new week of common toil
would begin; she thought only of Pan Stanislav, and his words were
sounding in her ears: "Who will know me, if not a woman, if she is only
wonderfully good and wonderfully reliable, greatly mine and greatly
beloved?"
Pan Stanislav, on his part, was saying to himself, while lighting a
cigarette in bed, "She is kind and shapely, charming; where is there
such another?"
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Third, or ring finger.
[2] Kremen means flint in Polish.