Pan Stanislav hurried to Pani Emilia's, fearing that he would not find
Litka living; for the servant told him on the way that the little lady
was in convulsions, and dying. But when he arrived, Pani Emilia ran to
meet him, and from the depth of her breast threw out in one breath the
words, "Better! better!"
"Is the doctor here?"
"He is."
"But the little one?"
"Is sleeping."
On the face of Pani Emilia the remnants of fear were struggling with
hope and joy. Pan Stanislav noticed that her lips were almost white,
her eyes dry and red, her face in blotches; she was mortally wearied,
for she had not slept for twenty-four hours. But the doctor, a young
man, and energetic, looked on the danger as passed for the time.
Pani Emilia was strengthened by what he told her in presence of Pan
Stanislav, especially this: "We should not let it come to a second
attack, and we will not."
There was real consolation in these words, for evidently the doctor
considered that they were able to ward off another attack; still there
was a warning that another attack might be fatal. But Pani Emilia
grasped at every hope, as a man falling over a precipice grasps at the
branches of trees growing out on the edge of it.
"We will not; we will not!" repeated she, pressing the doctor's hand
feverishly.
Pan Stanislav looked into his eyes unobserved, wishing to read in them
whether he said this to pacify the mother, or on the basis of medical
conviction, and asked as a test,--
"You will not leave her to-day?"
"I do not see the least need of staying," answered he. "The child
is exhausted, and is like to sleep long and soundly. I will come
to-morrow, but to-day I can go with perfect safety." Then he turned to
Pani Emilia,--
"You must rest, too. All danger has passed; the patient should not see
on your face any suffering or alarm, for she might be disturbed, and
she is too weak to endure that."
"I could not fall asleep," said Pani Emilia.
The doctor turned his pale blue eyes to her, and, gazing into her face
with a certain intensity, said slowly,--
"In an hour you will lie down, and will fall asleep directly; you will
sleep unbrokenly for six or eight hours,--let us say eight. To-morrow
you will be strong and refreshed. And now good-night."
"But drops to the little one, if she wakes?" asked Pani Emilia.
"Another will give the drops; you will sleep. Good-night." And he took
farewell.
Pan Stanislav wished to follow him to inquire alone about Litka, but he
thought that a longer talk of that kind might alarm Pani Emilia; hence
he preferred to omit it, promising himself that in the morning he would
go to the doctor's house and talk there with him. After a while, when
he was alone with Pani Emilia, he said,--
"Do as the doctor directed; you need rest. I promise to go to Litka's
room now, and I will not leave her the whole night."
But Pani Emilia's thoughts were all with the little girl; so, instead
of an answer, she said to him directly,--
"Do you know, after the attack, she asked several times for you
before she fell asleep. And for Marynia too. She fell asleep with the
question, 'Where is Pan Stas?'"
"My poor beloved child, I should have come anyhow right after dinner. I
flew here barely alive. When did the attack begin?"
"In the forenoon. From the morning she was gloomy, as if foreboding
something. You know that in my presence she says always that she is
well; but she must have felt ill, for before the attack she sat near me
and begged me to hold her hand. Yesterday, I forgot to tell you that
she put such strange questions to me: 'Is it true,' inquired she, 'that
if a sick child asks for a thing it is never refused?' I answered that
it is not refused unless the child asks for something impossible. Some
idea was passing through her head evidently, for in the evening, when
Marynia ran in for a moment, she put like questions to us. She went to
sleep in good humor, but this morning early she complained of stifling.
It is lucky that I sent for the doctor before the attack, and that he
came promptly."
"It is the greatest luck that he went away with such certainty that
the attack would not be repeated. I am perfectly sure that that is his
conviction," answered Pan Stanislav.
Pani Emilia raised her eyes: "The Lord God is so merciful, so good,
that--"
In spite of all her efforts, she began to sob, for repressed alarm and
despair were changed to joy in her, and she found relief in tears.
In that noble and spiritualized nature, innate exaltation disturbed
calm thought; by reason of this, Pani Emilia never gave an account to
herself of the real state of affairs; now, for example, she had not
the least doubt that Litka's illness had ended once for all with this
recent attack, and that thenceforth a time of perfect health would
begin for the child.
Pan Stanislav had neither the wish nor the heart to show her a middle
road between delight and despair; his heart rose with great pity for
her, and there came to him one of those moments in which he felt
more clearly than usually how deeply, though disinterestedly, he was
attached to that enthusiastic and idealistic woman. If she had been his
sister, he would have embraced her and pressed her to his bosom; as it
was, he kissed her delicate, thin hands, and said,--
"Praise be to God; praise be to God! Let the dear lady think now of
herself, and I will go to the little one and not stir till she wakes."
And he went.
In Litka's chamber there was darkness, for the window-blinds were
closed, and the sun was going down. Only through the slats did some
reddish rays force their way; these lighted the chamber imperfectly and
vanished soon, for the sky began to grow cloudy. Litka was sleeping
soundly. Pan Stanislav, sitting near her, looked on her sleeping face,
and at the first moment his heart was oppressed painfully. She was
lying with her face toward the ceiling; her thin little hands were
placed on the coverlid; her eyes were closed, and under them was a
deep shadow from the lashes. Her pallor, which seemed waxen in that
reddish half-gloom, and her open mouth, finally, the deep sleep,--gave,
her face the seeming of such rest as the faces of the dead have. But
the movement of the ruffles on her nightdress showed that she was
living and breathing. Her respiration was even calm and very regular.
Pan Stanislav looked for a long time at that sick face, and felt
again, with full force, what he had felt often, when he thought of
himself,--namely, that nature had made him to be a father; that,
besides the woman of his choice, children might be the immense love of
his life, the chief object and reason of his existence. He understood
this, through the pity and love which he felt at that moment for Litka,
who, a stranger to him by birth, was as dear to him then as would have
been his own child.
"If she had been given to me," thought he; "if she lacked a mother,--I
would take her forever, and consider that I had something to live for."
And he felt also that were it possible to make a bargain with death,
he would have given himself without hesitation to redeem that little
"kitten," over whom death seemed then to be floating like a bird of
prey over a dove. Such tenderness seized him as he had not felt till
that hour; and that man, of a character rather quick and harsh, was
ready to kiss the hands and head of that child, with a tenderness of
which not even every woman's heart is capable.
Meanwhile it had grown dark. Soon Pani Emilia came in, shading with her
hand a blue night-lamp.
"She is sleeping?" asked she, in a low voice, placing the lamp on the
table beyond Litka's head.
"She is," answered Pan Stanislav, in an equally low voice.
Pani Emilia looked long at the sleeping child.
"See," whispered Pan Stanislav, "how regularly and calmly she breathes.
To-morrow she will be healthier and stronger."
"Yes," answered the mother, with a smile.
"Now it is your turn. Sleep, sleep! otherwise I shall begin to command
without pity."
Her eyes continued to smile at him thankfully. In the mild blue light
of the night-lamp she seemed like an apparition. She had a perfectly
angelic face; and Pan Stanislav thought in spite of himself that she
and Litka looked really like forms from beyond the earth, which by pure
chance had wandered into this world.
"Yes," answered she; "I will rest now. Marynia has come, and Professor
Vaskovski. Marynia wishes absolutely to remain."
"So much the better. She manages so well near the little girl.
Good-night."
"Good-night."
Pan Stanislav was alone again, and began to think of Marynia. At the
very intelligence that he would see her soon he could not think of
aught else; and now he put the question to himself: "In what lies
this wonderful secret of nature in virtue of which I, for example,
did not fall in love with Pani Emilia, decidedly more beautiful than
Marynia, likely better, sweeter, more capable of loving,--but with
that girl whom I know incomparably less, and, justly or unjustly,
honor less?" Still with every approach of his to Marynia there rose in
him immediately all those impulses which a man may feel at sight of
a chosen woman, while a real womanly form, like that of Pani Emilia,
made no other impression on him than if she had been a painting or a
carving. Why is this, and why, the more culture a man has, the more
his nerves become subtile, and his sensitiveness keener, the greater
difference does he make between woman and woman? Pan Stanislav had
no answer to this save the one which that doctor in love with Panna
Kraslavski had given him: "I estimate her coolly, but I cannot tear my
soul from her." That was rather the description of a phenomenon than an
answer, for which, moreover, he had not the time, since Marynia came in
at that moment.
They nodded in salutation; he raised a chair then, and put it down
softly at Litka's bed, letting Marynia know by a sign that she was to
sit there. She began to speak first, or rather, to whisper.
"Go to tea now. Professor Vaskovski is here."
"And Pani Emilia?"
"She could not sit up. She said that it was a wonder to her, but she
must sleep."
"I know why: the doctor hypnotized her, and he did well. The little
girl is indeed better."
Marynia gazed into his eyes; but he repeated,--
"She is really better--if the attack will not return, and there is hope
that it will not."
"Ah! praise be to God! But go now and drink tea."
He preferred, however, to whisper to her near by and confidentially, so
he said,--
"I will, I will; but later. Let us arrange meanwhile so that you may
rest. I have heard that your father is ill. Of course you have been
watching over him."
"Father is well now, and I wish to take Emilia's place absolutely. She
told me that the servants had not slept either all last night, for the
child's condition was alarming before the attack. It is needful now
that some one be on the watch always. I should wish, therefore, so to
arrange that we--that is, I, you, and Emilka--should follow in turn."
"Very well; but to-day I will remain. If not here, I shall be at call
in the next chamber. When did you hear of the attack?"
"I did not hear of it. I came as I do usually in the evening to learn
what was to be heard."
"Pani Emilia's servant hurried to me while I was dining. You can
imagine easily how I flew hither. I was not sure of finding her alive.
What wonder, since during dinner I talked almost all the time of Litka
with Bukatski and Vaskovski, till Mashko came with the announcement of
his marriage."
"Is Mashko going to marry?"
"Yes. The news has not gone around yet; but he announced it himself. He
marries Panna Kraslavski; you remember her?"
"She who was at the Bigiels that evening. She is a good match for
Mashko, Panna Kraslavski."
There was silence for a moment. Marynia, who, not loving Mashko, had
rejected his hand, but who more than once had reproached herself for
her conduct with regard to him, thinking that she had exposed him to
deception and suffering, could find only comfort in the news that the
young advocate had borne the blow so easily. Still the news astonished
her for the time, and also wounded her. Women, when they sympathize
with some one, wish first that some one to be really unhappy, and,
secondly, they wish to alleviate the misfortune themselves; when it
turns out that another is able to do that, they undergo a certain
disillusion. Marynia's self-love was wounded also doubly. She had
not thought that it would be so easy to forget her; hence she had to
confess that her idea of Mashko as an exceptional man had no basis.
He had been for her hitherto a kind of ace in the game against Pan
Stanislav; now he had ceased to be that. She felt, therefore, let
matters be as they might, somewhat conquered. This did not prevent her,
it is true, from informing Pan Stanislav, with a certain accent of
truth, that his news caused her sincere and deep joy, but at bottom she
felt in some sort offended by him because he had told her.
For a certain time Pan Stanislav had acted with her very reservedly,
and in nothing had he betrayed what was happening within him. He did
not feign to be too cool, for they had to meet; therefore, in meeting
her he maintained even a certain kindly freedom, but for this very
reason she judged that he had ceased to love her, and such is human
nature, that though the old offence was existing yet, and had even
increased in the soul of the young woman, though her first disillusion
had changed as it were into a spring, giving forth new bitterness
continually, still the thought that her repugnance was indifferent to
him irritated Marynia. Now it seemed to her that Pan Stanislav must
even triumph over her mistake as to Mashko; and at this, that in every
case she, who shortly before had the choice between Mashko and him,
has that choice no longer, and will fall, as it were, into a kind of
neglect somewhat humiliating.
But he was far from such thoughts. He was glad, it is true, that
Marynia should know that, by exalting Mashko above him, she had been
mistaken fundamentally; but he had not dreamed even of taking pleasure
in this or triumphing because of her isolation, for at every moment
and at that time more than any other he was ready to open his arms
to her, press her to his bosom, and love her. He was working, it is
true, continually and even with stubbornness to break in himself those
feelings; but he did this only because he saw no hope before him, and
considered it an offence against his dignity as a man to put all the
powers of his soul and heart into a feeling which was not returned.
To use his own expression, he wished to avoid surrender, and he did
avoid surrender, to the best of his power; but he understood perfectly
that such a struggle exhausts, and that even if it ends with victory
it brings a void, instead of happiness. Besides, he was far yet from
victory. After all his efforts he had arrived at this only,--that his
feeling was mingled with bitterness. Such a ferment dissolves love, it
is true, for the simple reason that it poisons it; and in time this
bitterness might have dissolved love in Pan Stanislav's heart. But
what an empty result! Sitting then near Marynia and looking at her
face and head, shone on by the light of the lamp, he said to himself,
"If only she wished!" That thought made him angry; but since he wanted
to be sincere with himself, he had to confess that if only she wished
he would bend to her feet with the greatest readiness. What an empty
result, then, and what a position without escape! For he felt that
the misunderstanding between them had increased so much that even if
Marynia desired a return of those moments passed in Kremen, self-love
and fear of self-contradiction would close her lips. Their relations
had become so entangled that they might fall in love more easily a
second time than come to an understanding.
After a short conversation there was silence between them, interrupted
only by the breathing of the sick child and the slight, but mournful,
sounds of the window-panes, on which fine rain was striking. Outside,
the night had grown wet; it was autumnal, bringing with it oppression,
gloom, pessimism, and discontent. Equally gloomy seemed that chamber,
in whose dark corners death appeared to be lurking. Hour followed hour
more slowly. All at once forebodings seized Pan Stanislav. He looked
at Litka on a sudden, and it seemed to him madness to suppose that
she could recover. Vain was watching! vain were hopes and illusions!
That child must die! she must all the more surely, the dearer she was.
Pani Emilia will follow her; and then there will be a desert really
hopeless. What a life! See, he, Polanyetski, has those two, the only
beings in the world who love him,--beings for whom he is something;
therefore it is clear that he must lose them. With them there would
be something in life to which he could adhere; without them there
will be only nothingness and a certain kind of future, blind, deaf,
unreasoning, with the face of an idiot.
The most energetic man needs some one to love him. Otherwise he feels
death within, and his energy turns against life. A moment like that had
come now to Pan Stanislav. "I do not know absolutely why I should not
fire into my forehead," thought he, "not from despair at losing them,
but because of the nothing without them. If life must be senseless,
there is no reason to permit this senselessness, unless through
curiosity to learn how far it can go." But this thought did not appear
in him as a plan; it was rather the effort of a man writhing at the
chain of misfortune, a burst of anger in a man seeking some one against
whom to turn. In Pan Stanislav this anger turned suddenly on Marynia.
He did not know himself why; but it seemed to him at once that all the
evil which had happened, had happened through her. She had brought into
their circle a dislike not there before, suffering not there before,
and had thrown, as it were, some stone into their smooth water; and
now the wave, which was spreading more and more widely, covered not
only him, but Pani Emilia and Litka. As a man governing himself by
judgment, not by nerves, he understood how vain were reproaches of this
sort; still he could not put down the remembrance that before Marynia
came it was better in every way, and so much better even, that he might
consider that as a happy period of his life. He loved then only Litka,
with that untroubled, fatherly feeling, which did not and could not
bring bitterness for a moment. Who knows, besides, if in time he might
not have been able to love Pani Emilia? She, it is true, had not for
him other feelings than those of friendship, but perhaps only because
he did not desire other feelings. High-minded women frequently refuse
themselves feelings which go beyond the boundary of friendship, so as
not to render difficult and involved the life of some one who might,
but does not wish to become dear. Meanwhile in the depth of the soul
lies a calm secret melancholy; they find sweetness and consolation in
the tenderness permitted by friendship.
Pan Stanislav, by becoming acquainted with Marynia, gave her at once
the best part of his feelings. Why? for what purpose? Only to give
himself suffering. Now, to complete the misfortune, that Litka, the
one ray of his life, had died, or might die any moment. Pan Stanislav
looked again at her, and said in his soul,--
"Remain even, thou dear child; thou knowst not how needful thou art to
me and to thy mother. God guard thee; what a life there will be without
thee!"
Suddenly he saw that the eyes of the child were looking at him. For a
while he thought himself mistaken, and did not dare to stir; but the
little maiden smiled, and finally she whispered,--
"Pan Stas."
"It is I, Litus. How dost thou feel?"
"Well; but where is mamma?"
"She will come right away. We had a great struggle to make her go to
bed to sleep, and we hardly persuaded her."
Litka turned her head, and, seeing Marynia, said,--
"Ah! is that Aunt Marynia?"
For some time she had called her aunt.
Marynia rose, and, taking the vial which stood on the shelf, poured
drop after drop into a spoon; then she gave them to Litka, who, when
she had finished drinking, pressed her lips to Marynia's forehead.
A moment of silence followed; then the child said, as if to herself,--
"There is no need of waking mamma."
"No; no one will wake her," answered Pan Stanislav. "All will be as
Litus wishes."
And he began to stroke her hand, which was lying on the coverlid. She
looked at him, repeating, as was her wont,--
"Pan Stas, Pan Stas!"
For a while it seemed that she would fall asleep; but evidently the
child was thinking of something with great effort, for her brows rose.
At last, opening widely her eyes, she looked now at Pan Stanislav, and
now at Marynia. In the room nothing was heard save the sound of rain on
the windows.
"What is the matter with the child?" asked Marynia.
But she, clasping her hands, whispered in a voice barely audible, "I
have a great, great prayer to Aunt Marynia, but--I am afraid to say it."
Marynia bent her mild face toward the little girl.
"Speak, my love; I will do everything for thee."
Then the little girl, seizing her hand, and pressing it to her lips,
whispered,--
"I want Aunt Marynia to love Pan Stas."
In the silence which followed after these words was to be heard only
the somewhat increased breathing of the little girl. At last the calm
voice of Marynia was heard,--
"Very well, my love."
A spasm of weeping seized Pan Stanislav suddenly by the throat;
everything, not excluding Marynia, vanished from his eyes before that
child, who, at such a moment, sick, powerless, and in the face of
death, thought only of him.
Litka asked further,--
"And will aunt marry Pan Stas?"
In the light of the blue lamp Marynia's face seemed very pale; her lips
quivered, but she answered without hesitation,--
"I will, Litus."
The little girl raised Marynia's hand to her lips a second time;
her head fell on the pillow, and she lay for a while with closed
lids; after some time, however, two tears flowed down her cheeks.
Then followed a longer silence; the rain was beating against the
window-panes. Pan Stanislav and Marynia were sitting motionless
without looking at each other; both felt, however, that their fates
had been decided that night, but they were as if dazed by what had
happened. In the chaos of thought and feelings neither of them knew
how to note or indicate what was passing within them. In that silence,
which was kept instinctively, lest perchance they might look each other
in the eyes, hour followed hour. The clock struck midnight, then one;
about two Pani Emilia slipped in like a shadow.
"Is she sleeping?" inquired she.
"No, mamma," answered Litka.
"Art thou well?"
"Well, mamma."
And when Pani Emilia sat near her bed, the little one embraced her
neck; and, nestling her yellow head at her breast, she said,--
"I know now, mamma, that when a sick child begs for anything, people
never refuse."
And she nestled up to her mother some time yet; then, drawing out each
word as sleepy children do, or very tired ones, she said,--
"Pan Stas will not be sad any more; and I will tell mamma why--"
But here her head became heavy on her mother's breast, and Pani Emilia
felt the cold sweat coming on the hands of the child, as well as on her
temples.
"Litus!" exclaimed she, with a suppressed, frightened voice.
And the child began,--
"I feel so strange, so weak--"
Her thoughts grew dim; and after a while she continued,--
"Oh, the sea is rolling--such a big sea!--and we are all sailing on it.
Mamma! mamma!"
And a new attack came, dreadful, pitiless. The little girl's body was
drawn in convulsions, and her eyesight turned toward the back of her
head. There was no chance of illusion this time; death was at hand, and
visible in the pale light of the lamp, in the dark corner of the room,
in the sound of the window-panes, stricken by the rain, and in the
noise of the wind, full of terrified voices and cries.
Pan Stanislav sprang up and ran for the doctor. In a quarter of an
hour both appeared before the closed doors of the room, uncertain
whether the child was living yet, and they disappeared through it
immediately,--first Pan Stanislav, then the doctor, who, from the
moment that they had pulled him out of bed, kept repeating one phrase,
"Is it fear or emotion?"
Some of the servants, with sleepy and anxious faces, were gathered at
the door, listening; and in the whole house followed a silence, long
continued, which weighed down like lead.
It was broken at last by Marynia, who was the first to come out of the
closed chamber, her face as pale as linen, and she said hurriedly,--
"Water for the lady! the little lady is living no longer."