In fact, Pan Stanislav went a week later to Reichenhall; but before
that he received a letter from Pani Emilia inquiring about his journey
to Kremen. He did not write in return, for he intended to answer the
letter orally. He heard too, but only on the eve of his departure,
that Mashko had gone to Kremen the day before; and that news touched
him more than he thought it would. He said to himself, it is true,
that he would forget the affair when no farther away than Vienna; but
he could not forget it, and he had his head so occupied with thinking
whether Panna Plavitski would marry Mashko or not, that he wrote to
Bigiel from Salzburg, as it were on business, but really asking him to
send news of Mashko. He listened without attention to the discussions
of his travelling companion, Vaskovski, about the mutual relations of
nationalities in Austria, and the mission of modern nations in general.
More than once he was so occupied with thinking about Marynia that he
simply did not answer questions. It astonished him, too, that at times
he saw her as clearly as if she had been standing before him, not
only as an exact image, but as a living person. He saw her pleasant,
mild face, with shapely mouth, and the little ensign on the upper
lip; the calm gaze of her eyes, in which were visible the attention
and concentration with which she listened to his words; he saw her
whole posture, lithe, supple, from which came the warmth of great and
genuine maiden youthfulness. He remembered her bright robe, the tips of
her feet, peeping from under it, her hands, delicate, though slightly
sunburnt, and her dark hair, moved by the breeze in the garden. He
had never thought that there could be a memory almost palpable, and
that the memory of a person seen during such a brief time. But he
understood this to be a proof of how deep an impression she had, in
truth, made on him; and when at moments it passed through his head
that all this, which had fixed itself thus in his memory, might be
possessed by Mashko, he could hardly believe it. In those moments his
first feeling, which was, moreover, in accord with his active nature,
was an irresistible impulse to hinder it. He had to remember then that
the affair was decided already, and that he had resolved to drop Panna
Plavitski.
He and Vaskovski reached Reichenhall early in the morning; and that
very day, before they had learned the address of Pani Emilia, they
met her and Litka in the park. She had not expected to see either,
especially Pan Stanislav, and was sincerely delighted when she met
them; her delight was darkened only by this, that Litka, a child
exceptionally sensitive, and ailing with asthma and heart-disease, was
still more delighted, so much delighted, indeed, that she had a violent
palpitation of the heart, with stifling and almost a swoon.
Such attacks were frequent with her; and, when this one passed,
calmness came back to all faces. On the way to the house, the child
held "Pan Stas" by the hand, and in her eyes, usually pensive, there
shone deep delight. From time to time she pressed his hand, as if to
convince herself that he had come really to Reichenhall and was near
her. Pan Stanislav had simply no time to speak to Pani Emilia, or to
make an inquiry, for Litka was showing him Reichenhall, and chattering
unceasingly; she wanted to show him all the nice places at once. Every
moment she said,--
"This is nothing yet. Thumsee is prettier; but we will go there
to-morrow."
Then turning to her mother, "Mamma will let me go, isn't it true? I can
walk much now. It is not far. Mamma will let me go, will she not?"
At moments again she pushed away from Pan Stanislav, and, without
dropping his hand, looked at him with her great eyes, repeating,--
"Pan Stas, Pan Stas!"
Pan Stanislav showed her the greatest tenderness, or tenderness as
great as an elder brother might show; time after time he chided her
good-naturedly,--
"Let the kitten not run so; she will choke."
And she nestled up to him, pouted, and answered, as if in anger,--
"Hush, Pan Stas!"
Pan Stanislav glanced, however, frequently at the serene face of Pani
Emilia, as if desiring to let her know that he wished to converse with
her. But there was no opportunity, since she did not like to destroy
Litka's joyousness, and preferred to leave their mutual friend in her
possession exclusively. Only after dinner, which they ate in the garden
together, amid foliage and the twittering of sparrows, when Vaskovski
had begun to tell Litka about birds, and the love which Saint Francis
Assisi had felt for them, and the child, with her head on her hand, was
lost completely in listening, did Pan Stanislav turn to Pani Emilia and
ask,--
"Do you not wish to walk to the end of the garden?"
"I do," answered she. "Litka, stay here a minute with Pan Vaskovski; we
will come back in that time."
They walked along, and Pani Emilia asked immediately,--
"Well, what?"
Pan Stanislav began to tell; but whether it was that he wished to
appear better before Pani Emilia, or that he determined to reckon with
that delicate nature, or, finally, that the last thoughts concerning
Marynia had attuned him to a note more sensitive than usual, it is
sufficient that he changed the affair altogether. He confessed, it is
true, to a quarrel with Plavitski, but he was silent touching this,
that before his departure from Kremen he had answered Marynia almost
with harshness; besides, he did not spare praises on her in his story,
and finally he finished,--
"Since that debt became a cause of misunderstanding at once between me
and Plavitski,--a thing which must be reflected on Panna Marynia,--I
chose to sell it; and just before I left Warsaw, I sold it to Mashko."
Pani Emilia, who had not the slightest conception of business, and,
besides, was of a simplicity truly angelic, remarked,--
"You did well. There should be no such thing as money between you."
Ashamed to deceive such a simple soul, he answered,--
"True! Or rather the contrary, I think I did badly. Bigiel, too, is of
the opinion that it was not well. Mashko may press them; he may put
various demands before them; he may offer Kremen for sale. No, that was
not a delicate act, nor one to bring us nearer; and I should not have
committed it, were it not that I came to the conviction that it was
necessary to drive all that out of my head."
"But no; do not say so. I believe that there is predestination in
everything; and I believe, too, that Providence designed you for each
other."
"I do not understand that. If that be true, then I need not do
anything, for in every case I must marry Panna Plavitski."
"I have a woman's head, and say stupid things, perhaps; but it seems
to me that Providence wills and arranges everything for the best, but
leaves people freedom. Frequently they do not wish to follow that which
is predestined, and this is why so many are unhappy."
"Maybe. It is difficult, however, to follow anything but one's own
convictions. Reason is like a lantern, which God puts in our hands. Who
will assure me meanwhile that Panna Marynia will marry me?"
"I ought to have news from her of your visit to Kremen, and I wonder
that so far I have none. I think that a letter will come to-morrow at
latest, for we write every week to each other. Does she know of your
departure for Reichenhall?"
"She does not. I did not know myself when in Kremen where I should go."
"That is well; for she will be outspoken, though she would be so in any
case."
The first day's conversation ended here. In the evening it was decided
at Litka's request to walk to Thumsee, and go in the morning so as
to dine at the lake, return in a carriage, or on foot, if Litka was
not tired and they could return before sunset. The two men presented
themselves at the lady's villa before nine in the morning. Pani Emilia
and Litka were dressed and waiting on the veranda; both were so like
visions that Vaskovski, the old pedagogue, was astonished at sight of
them.
"The Lord God makes perfect flowers of people sometimes," said he,
pointing at mother and daughter from a distance.
Indeed, Pani Emilia and Litka were admired by all Reichenhall. The
first, with her spiritualized, angelic face, appeared the incarnation
of love, motherly tenderness, and exaltation; the other, with her
great pensive eyes, yellow hair, and features that were almost too
delicate, seemed rather the idea of an artist than a living little
girl. Bukatski, the decadent, said that she was formed of mist made
just a trifle rosy by light. Indeed, there was something in the little
maiden, as it were, not of earth, which impression was heightened by
her illness and exceeding sensitiveness. Her mother loved her blindly;
those who surrounded her loved her also; but attention did not spoil
this child, exceptionally sweet by nature.
Pan Stanislav, who visited Pani Emilia in Warsaw a number of times
every week, was sincerely attached to both mother and daughter. In a
city where woman's reputation is less respected than anywhere else in
the world, scandal was created by this, without the least cause, of
course; for Pani Emilia was as pure as an infant, and simply carried
her exalted head in the sky as if she knew not that evil existed. She
was even so pure that she did not understand the necessity of paying
attention to appearances. She received gladly those whom Litka loved;
but she refused a number of good offers of marriage, declaring that
she needed nothing on earth except Litka. Bukatski alone insisted that
Pani Emilia acted on his nerves. Pan Stanislav adapted himself to
those azure heights surrounding that crystal woman, so that he never
approached her with a thought dimmed by temptation.
Now he answered with simplicity Vaskovski's remark,--
"In truth, they both seem marvellous."
And, greeting them, he repeated more or less the same thing to
Pani Emilia, as something that in the given case had attracted his
attention. She smiled with pleasure,--likely because the praise
included Litka,--and, gathering up her skirt for the road, she said,--
"I received a letter to-day, and have brought it to you."
"May I read it right away?"
"You may; I beg you to do so."
They set out by the forest road for Thumsee--Pani Emilia, Vaskovski,
and Litka in advance, Pan Stanislav a little behind them, his head bent
over the letter, which was as follows:--
MY DEAR EMILKA,--To-day I have received thy litany of
questions, and will answer at once, for I am in haste to share my
thoughts with thee. Pan Stanislav Polanyetski went from here on
Monday; hence, two days ago. The first evening I received him as I
receive every one, and nothing whatever came to my head; but the
next day was Sunday. I had time to spare; and almost the entire
afternoon we were not only together, but alone, for papa went
to the Yamishes. What shall I say? Such a sympathetic, sincere,
and, at the same time, honest man! From what he said of Litka
and of thee, I saw at once that he has a good heart. We walked
a long time by the pond in the garden. I bound up his hand, for
he cut himself with the boat. He spoke so wisely that I forgot
myself in listening to his words. Ah, my Emilka, I am ashamed to
confess it, but my poor head was turned a little by that evening.
Thou knowest, moreover, how alone I am and overworked, and how
rarely I see men like him. It seemed to me that a guest had come
from another world, and a better one. He not only pleased, but
captivated me with his heartiness, so that I could not sleep, and
was thinking all the time of him. It is true that in the morning
he quarrelled with papa, and even I received a little; though God
sees how much I would give that there might be no question of
that kind between us. At the first moment it touched me greatly;
and if that ugly man had known how much I cried in my chamber, he
would have pitied me. But, afterward, I thought that he must be
very sensitive; that papa was not right; and I am not angry now.
I will say, also, in thy ear, that a certain voice whispers to
me continually that he will not sell to any one the claim which
he has on Kremen, if only to be able to come here again. That he
parted in such anger with papa is nothing. Papa himself does not
take it to heart; for those are his ways, not his convictions
or feelings. Pan Stanislav has in me a true friend, who, after
the sale of Magyerovka, will do everything to end all causes of
misunderstanding, and in general all those nasty money questions.
He will have to come then, even to take what belongs to him,--is
it not true? It may be also that I please him a little. That a man
as quick as he is should say something bitter gives no cause for
wonder. Speak not of this when thou seest him, and do not scold
him; God keep thee from that. I know not why I feel a certain
confidence that he will do no injustice to me, or papa, or my
beloved Kremen; and I think it would be well in the world if all
were like him.
My dear, I embrace thee and Litka most heartily. Write to me of
her health minutely, and love me as I do thee.
When he had finished reading, Pan Stanislav put the letter in the
side-pocket of his coat, which he buttoned. Then he pushed his hat down
to the back of his head, and felt a certain intense desire to break his
cane into small bits and throw them into the river: he did not do this,
however; he only began to mutter, while gritting his teeth,--
"Yes; very well. Thou knowest Polanyetski! Be confident that he will
not injure thee! Thou wilt come out in safety."
Then he addressed himself as follows,--
"Thou hast thy deserts; for she is an angel, and thou art not worthy of
her." And again a desire seized him to break his cane into bits. Now he
saw clearly that the soul of that maiden had been ready to give itself
with all faith and trust to him; and he prepared for her one of those
painful and wounding disillusions, the memory of which, fixed once and
forever, pains eternally. To sell the claim was nothing; but to sell
it to a man wishing to buy it with the intention which Mashko had,
was to say to the woman, "I do not want thee; marry him, if it please
thee." What a bitter disillusion for her, after all that he had said to
her on that Sunday,--after those words friendly, open, and at the same
time intended to enter her heart! They were chosen for that purpose,
and he felt that she had taken them in that sense. He might repeat as
often as he pleased that they bound him to nothing; that in the first
meeting and in the first conversation which a man has with a woman, he
merely pushes out horns, like a snail, and tries the ground to which he
has come. That would be no consolation to him now. Besides, he was not
merely not in humor for self-justification, but wished rather to give
himself a slap on the face. He saw for the first time so definitely
that he might have received Marynia's heart and hand; and the more real
that possibility was to him, the more the loss seemed irreparable.
Moreover, from the moment of reading that letter, a new change appeared
in him. His own reasoning that now he ought to let Marynia go, seemed
pitiful and paltry. With all his faults, Pan Stanislav had a grateful
heart; and that letter moved him to a high degree, by the kindness and
understanding, by the readiness to love, which were revealed in it.
Hence the remembrance of Marynia became rosy in his heart and mind all
at once,--became rosy even with such power that he thought,--
"As God is in heaven, I shall fall in love with her now!" And such a
tenderness seized him that in presence of it even anger at himself had
to yield. He joined the company after a while, and, pushing forward a
little with Pani Emilia, said,--
"Give me this letter."
"With the greatest pleasure. Such an honest letter, is it not? And you
did not confess to me that she suffered somewhat at parting; but I will
not reprove, since she herself takes you under her protection."
"If it would help, I would beg you to beat me; but there is nothing to
be said, for those are things incurable."
Pani Emilia did not share this opinion; on the contrary, seeing Pan
Stanislav's emotion, she felt sure that an affair in which both
sides had such vivid feelings was in the best state and must end
satisfactorily. At that very thought her sweet face became radiant.
"We shall see after some months," said she.
"You do not even divine what we may see," said Pan Stanislav, thinking
of Mashko.
"Remember," continued Pani Emilia, "that he who once wins Marynia's
heart will never be disappointed."
"I am certain of that," answered he, gloomily; "but also such hearts,
when once wounded, do not return again."
They could not speak further, for Litka and Pan Vaskovski caught up
with them. After a while the little girl took Pan Stanislav, as usual,
for her own exclusive property. The forest, sunk in the mild morning
light of a fair day, occupied her uncommonly; she began to inquire
about various trees; every little while she cried out with pleasure,--
"Mushrooms!"
But he answered mechanically, thinking of something else,--
"Mushrooms, kitten, mushrooms."
At last the road descended, and they beheld Thumsee under their
feet. In the course of half an hour they came down to a beaten path,
stretching along the shore, on which were visible here and there wooden
foot-piers, extending a few yards into the lake. Litka wished to look
from near by at big fish which were visible in the clear water. Pan
Stanislav, taking her by the hand, led her out on to one of the piers.
The fish, accustomed to crumbs thrown by visitors, instead of fleeing,
approached still nearer, and soon a whole circle surrounded Litka's
feet. In the blue water were visible the golden-brown backs of the
carp, and the gray spotted scales of the salmon trout, while the round
eyes of these creatures were fixed on the little girl as if with an
expression of entreaty.
"Coming back, we will bring lots of bread," said Litka. "How strangely
they look at us! What are they thinking of?"
"They are thinking very slowly," said Pan Stanislav; "and only after an
hour or two will they say: 'Ah! here is some little girl with yellow
hair and rosy dress and black stockings.'"
"And what will they think of Pan Stas?"
"They will think that I am some gypsy, for I have not yellow hair."
"No. Gypsies have no houses."
"And I have no house, Litka. I had the chance of one, but I sold it."
He uttered this last phrase in a certain unusual manner, and in
general there was sadness in his voice. The little girl looked at him
carefully; and all at once her sensitive face reflected his sadness,
just as that water reflected her form. When they joined the rest of the
company, from time to time she raised her sad eyes with an inquiring
and disturbed expression. At last, pressing more firmly his hand, which
she held, she asked,--
"What troubles Pan Stas?"
"Nothing, little child; I am looking around at the lake, and that is
why I do not talk."
"I was pleasing myself yesterday, thinking to show Pan Stas Thumsee."
"Though there are no rocks here, it is very beautiful But what house is
that on the other side?"
"We will take dinner there."
Pani Emilia was talking merrily with Vaskovski, who, carrying his hat
in his hand, and seeking in his pockets for a handkerchief to wipe his
bald head, gave his opinions about Bukatski,--
"He is an Aryan," concluded he; "and therefore in continual unrest,
he is seeking peace. He is buying pictures and engravings at present,
thinking that thus he will fill a void. But what do I see? This, those
children of the century bear in their souls an abyss like this lake,
for example; besides, the abyss in them is bottomless, and they think
to fill it with pictures, strong waters, amateurship, dilettantism,
Baudelaire, Ibsen, Maeterlinck, finally dilettante science. Poor birds,
they are beating their heads against the sides of their cages! It is
just I tried to fill this lake by throwing in a pebble."
"And what can fill life?"
"Every sincere idea, all great feelings, but only on condition that
they begin in Christ. Had Bukatski loved art in the Christian way, it
would have given him the peace which he is forced to seek."
"Have you told him that?"
"Yes, that and many other things. I urge him and Pan Stanislav always
to read the Life of Saint Francis of Assisi. They are not willing to do
so, and laugh at me. Yet he was the greatest man and the greatest saint
of the Middle Ages,--a saint who renewed the world. If such a man were
to come now, a renewal in Christ would follow, still more sincerely and
with greater completeness."
Midday approached, and with it heat. The forest began to have the odor
of resin; the lake became perfectly smooth in the calm air full of
glitter, and, while reflecting the spotless blue of the sky, seemed to
slumber.
At last they reached the house and the garden, in which them was a
restaurant, and sat under a beech-tree at a table already laid. Pan
Stanislav called a waiter in a soiled coat, ordered dinner, then
looked about silently at the lake and the mountains around it. A
couple of yards from the table grew a whole bunch of iris, moistened
by a fountain fixed among stones. Pani Emilia, looking at the flowers,
said,--
"When I am at a lake and see irises, I think that I am in Italy."
"For nowhere else are there so many lakes or so many irises," answered
Pan Stanislav.
"Or so much delight for every man," added Vaskovski. "For many years I
go there in the autumn to find a refuge for the last days. I hesitated
long between Perugia and Assisi, but last year Rome gained the day.
Rome seems the anteroom to another life, in which anteroom light from
the next world is visible already. I will go there in October."
"I envy you sincerely," said Pani Emilia.
"Litka is twelve years old," began Vaskovski.
"And three months," interrupted Litka.
"And three months: therefore for her age she is very small and a great
little giddy-head; it is time to show her various things in Rome,"
continued Vaskovski. "Nothing is so remembered as that which is seen in
childhood. And though childhood does not feel many things completely,
nor understand them, that comes later, and comes very agreeably, for it
is as if some one were to illuminate on a sudden impressions sunk in
shadow. Come with me to Italy in October."
"In October I cannot; I have my woman's reasons, which detain me in
Warsaw."
"What are they?"
Pani Emilia began to laugh.
"The first and most important, but purely womanly, reason, is to marry
that gentleman sitting there so gloomy," said she, pointing to Pan
Stanislav, "but really so much in love."
He woke from thoughtfulness, and waved his hand. But Vaskovski inquired
with his usual naïveté of a child,--
"Always with Marynia Plavitski?"
"Yes," replied Pani Emilia. "He has been in Kremen, and it would be
vain for him to deny that she took his heart greatly."
"I cannot deny," answered Pan Stanislav.
But further conversation was interrupted in an unpleasant manner, for
Litka grew weak on a sudden. In a moment she was choking, and had one
of her attacks of palpitation of the heart, which alarmed even doctors.
The mother seized her at once in her arms; Pan Stanislav ran to the
restaurant for ice; Vaskovski began to draw the garden bench with
effort toward the table, so that she might stretch on it and breathe
with more freedom.
"Thou art wearied, my child, art thou not?" asked Pani Emilia, with
pale lips. "See, my love, it was too far--Still the doctor permitted.
So anxious! But this is nothing; it will pass, it will pass! My
treasure, my love!" And she began to kiss the damp face of the little
girl.
Meanwhile Pan Stanislav came with ice, and after him the mistress of
the place hurried out with a pillow in her hand. They laid the little
girl on the bench, and while Pani Emilia was wrapping the ice in a
napkin, Pan Stanislav bent over the child and asked,--
"How art thou, kitten?"
"I was only choking a little; but I am better," answered she, opening
her mouth, like a fish to catch breath.
She was not much better, however, for even through her dress one could
see how violently the little sick heart was beating in her breast. But
under the influence of ice, the attack decreased gradually, and at last
ceased altogether, leaving behind only weariness. Litka began again
to smile at her mother, who also recovered from her alarm somewhat.
It was needful to strengthen the child before they returned home. Pan
Stanislav ordered dinner, which was scarcely touched by any one except
Litka, for all looked at her from moment to moment with secret fear
lest the choking might seize her a second time. An hour passed in this
way. Guests began now to enter the restaurant. Pani Emilia wished to
go home, but she had to wait for the carriage, which Pan Stanislav had
sent for to Reichenhall.
The carriage came at last, but new alarm was in wait for them. On
the road, though they moved at a walk and the road was very smooth,
even light jolting troubled Litka, so that when they were just near
Reichenhall, a choking attacked her again. She begged permission to
get out of the carriage; but it appeared that walking wearied her. Then
Pani Emilia decided to carry the child. But Pan Stanislav, anticipating
that motherly devotion, which moreover was not at all in proportion to
the woman's strength, said,--
"Come, Litus, I will carry thee. If not, mamma will weary herself and
be sick."
And without asking further, he lifted her lightly from the ground,
and carried her with perfect ease on one arm only; to assure both her
and Pani Emilia that it did not trouble him in the least, he said
playfully,--
"When such a kitten is walking on the ground, she seems not at all
heavy; but now, see where those great feet are hanging. Hold on by my
neck; thou wilt be steadier."
And he went on, as firmly as he could, and quickly, for he wished the
doctor to attend her as soon as possible; as he went, he felt her heart
beating against his shoulder, and she, while grasping him with her
thin, meagre arms, repeated,--
"Let me down; I cannot--Let me down!"
But he said,--
"I will not. Thou seest how bad it is to be tired out from walking. In
future we will take a big easy armchair on wheels; and when the child
is wearied, we will seat her in it, and I will push her."
"No, no!" said Litka, with tears in her voice.
He carried her with the tenderness of an elder brother or a father; and
his heart was overflowing: first, because really he loved that little
maid; and second, because this came to his head of which he had never
thought before,--or, at least, had never felt clearly,--that marriage
opens the way to fatherhood and to all its treasures of happiness.
While carrying that little girl, who was dear to him, though a
stranger, he understood that God had created him for a family; not only
to be a husband, but a father; also that the main object and meaning of
life were found specially in the family. And all his thoughts flew to
Marynia. He felt now with redoubled force that of women whom he had met
so far he would have chosen her for a wife before all, and would wish
her to be the mother of his children.