Some mornings later, before Pan Stanislav had gone to his office,
Mashko appeared.
"I come to thee on two affairs," said he, "but I will begin with money,
so as to leave thee freedom of action; shall I, or not?"
"My dear friend, I attend to money questions in my office, so begin
with the other."
"The money matter is not a question of thy house, but a private one;
for this reason I prefer to speak of it privately. I am going to marry,
as thou knowest; I need money. I have to make payments as numerous as
the hairs on my head, and the wherewithal does not correspond. The term
is near to pay the first instalment of my debt to thee for the claim on
Kremen; canst thou extend the time another quarter?"
"I will be frank," replied Pan Stanislav; "I can, but I am unwilling to
do so."
"Well, I will be equally sincere, and ask what thou wilt do in case I
fail to pay."
"The like happens in the world," answered Pan Stanislav; "but this time
thou art looking on me as simpler than I am, for I know that thou wilt
pay."
"Whence is that certainty?"
"Thou art going to marry, and marry a fortune; how expose thyself to
the evil fame of bankruptcy? Thou wilt squeeze money from under the
earth, perhaps, but thou wilt pay."
"Even Solomon could not pour out of the empty."
"Because he did not take lessons from thee. My dear friend, no one is
listening to us, so I may say that all thy life thou hast been doing
nothing else."
"Then thou art sure that I will pay thee?"
"I am."
"Thou art right; I wanted of thee a favor to which I have no claim.
But even I feel wearied at last of all this,--to take something here
and thrust it in there; to live eternally in such a whirl passes human
power in the long run. I am sailing, as it were, into the harbor. In
two months I shall be on a new footing, but meanwhile I am using the
last of my steam; 'tis not in thy way to oblige me; the position is
difficult. There is a small forest in Kremen; I will cut that and pay,
since there is no other way."
"What forests are there in Kremen? Old Plavitski shaved off everything
that could be taken."
"There is a large oak grove behind the house, toward Nedzyalkov."
"True, there is."
"I know that thou and Bigiel take up such affairs. Buy that forest; it
will spare me the search for a purchaser, and he and thou can come out
of the business with profit."
"I will discuss it with Bigiel."
"Then thou wilt not refuse in advance?"
"No; if thou give it cheaply, I may even take the forest myself. But in
such matters I need to calculate the possible profits or losses; I want
also to know thy terms. Make thy own estimates. Send me thy list; how
many trees there are, and what kinds."
"I will send it in an hour."
"In that case I will give thee an answer in the evening."
"I advise thee beforehand of one thing,--thou wilt not have the right
to cut oak for two months."
"Why is that?"
"Because Kremen will lose greatly by losing that ornament; hence I
propose that it be resold to me after the marriage, of course at a good
profit to thee."
"We shall see."
"Besides, I have marl in Kremen; thou hast spoken to me of this.
Plavitski reckoned it at millions,--that, of course, is nonsense; but
in the hands of clever men it might be made a paying business. Think
that over, too, with Bigiel; I would take thee into partnership."
"Should the business seem good, we may take it; our house exists to
gain profit."
"Then we will talk of the marl later on; but now I return to the oak.
Let the general outline of our bargain be this,--that I, instead of the
first payment, give thee the oak grove, or a part of it, according to
estimate. I give it in some sense in pledge, and thou art obliged not
to cut trees before the close of the following quarter."
"I can do that; evidently there will be questions later on as to
removal of the oak, which we shall mention when writing the contract,
if, in general, we write one."
"Then there is at least one burden off my head," said Mashko, rubbing
his forehead with his hand. "Imagine that I have ten or fifteen
such every day, not counting conversations on business with Pani
Kraslavski, which are more wearying than all else, and then waiting on
my betrothed, who"--here Mashko interrupted himself for a moment, but
suddenly waved his hand, and added--"which also is not easy."
Pan Stanislav looked at him with amazement. On the lips of Mashko,
who, in every word, followed society observances so closely, this was
something unheard of. Mashko, however, spoke on,--
"But let that pass; thou knowest how near we were to quarrelling before
Litka's death. I had not in mind thy great love for that little maiden;
I forgot that thou wert disturbed and annoyed. I acted rudely; the
fault was on my side entirely, and I beg thy pardon."
"That is a forgotten affair," said Pan Stanislav.
"I revive it because I have a service to beg of thee. The affair is
of this kind: I have not friends, blood relatives; I haven't them, or
if I have, it is not worth while to exhibit them. Now, I must find
groomsmen, and, in truth, I do not know well where to look for them. I
have managed the business of various young lords, as thou knowest; but
to ask the first young fellow whom I meet, because he has a title, does
not beseem me, and I am unwilling to do so. With me it is a question of
having groomsmen who are people of position, and, I tell thee openly,
with prominent names. Those ladies, too, attach great importance to
this matter. Wilt thou be a groomsman for me?"
"In other circumstances I would not refuse; but I will tell thee how it
is. Look at me: I have no crape on my hat nor white tape on my coat,
therefore I am not in mourning; but I give thee my word that I am in
deeper mourning than if my own child were dead."
"That is true; I had not thought of that," said Mashko. "I beg thy
pardon."
These words impressed Pan Stanislav.
"But if this is very important; if, in truth, thou art unable to find
another,--let it be according to thy wish; but I say sincerely that for
me, after such a funeral, it will be difficult to assist at a wedding."
Pan Stanislav did not say, it is true, at such a wedding, but Mashko
divined his thought. "There is another circumstance, too," continued
he. "Thou must have heard of a certain poor little doctor, who fell in
love to the death with thy betrothed. She was free not to return his
love, no man will reproach her for that; but he, poor fellow, went his
way somewhere to the land where pepper grows, and the deuce took him.
Dost understand? I was in friendship with that doctor; he confided his
misfortune to me, and wept out his secret. Dost understand? In these
conditions to be groomsman for another--say thyself."
"And did that man really die of love for my betrothed?"
"But hast thou not heard of it?"
"Not only have I not heard, but I cannot believe my own ears."
"Knowest thou what, Mashko, marriage changes a man; but I see that
betrothal does also,--I do not recognize thee simply."
"Because, as I have said, I am so weary that breath fails me, and at
such times the mask falls."
"What dost thou mean by that?"
"I mean that there are two kinds of people,--one, of people who never
limit themselves by anything, and arrange their modes of action
according to every circumstance; the other, of people having a certain
system which they hold to with more or less sequence. I belong to the
second. I am accustomed to observe appearances, and, what is more,
accustomed so long that at last it has become a second nature to me.
But, for example, when travelling in time of great heat, a moment may
come on the man who is most _comme il faut_, when he will unbutton not
only his coat, but his shirt; such a moment has come on me, therefore I
unbutton."
"This means?--"
"It means that I am transfixed with astonishment that any man could
fall in love to the death with my betrothed, who is, as thou on a time
didst give me to understand, cold, formal, and as mechanical in words,
thoughts, and movements as if wound up with a key; that is perfectly
true, and I confirm it. I do not wish thee to hold me for a greater
wretch than I am; I do not love her, and my wife will be as formal
as my betrothed. I loved Panna Plavitski, who rejected me. Panna
Kraslavski I take for her property. Call this iniquity, if it suit thee
to do so; I will answer that such iniquity has been committed, or will
be committed, by thousands among those so-called honorable people, to
whom thou art ready to give thy hand. Moreover, life does not flow on
in delight for people thus married, but also not in tragedy; they limp,
but go forward. Later on they are aided by years spent together, which
bring a species of attachment, by children who are born to them; and
they get on in some fashion. Such are most marriages, for the majority
choose to walk on the earth, rather than scale summits. Sometimes
there are even worse marriages: when a woman wishes to fly, and a man
to creep, or _vice versa_, there is no chance for an understanding.
As to me, I have worked like an ox. Coming from a reduced family, I
wished to gain distinction, I confess. If I had consented to remain
an obscure attorney, and acquire merely money, perhaps I should have
unlocked and thrown open to my son the door to light; but I have no
love for my children before they come into the world, hence I wished
not only to have money myself, but to be somebody, to mean something,
to occupy a position, to have such weight as with us it is possible
to have, at least in society. From this it has happened that what the
advocate gained, the great lord expended; position obliges. This is
why I have not money. Struggling of this sort has wearied me. Opening
holes in one place to fill them in another,--for this reason I marry
Panna Kraslavski; who again marries me for the reason that, if I am
not really a great lord, amusing himself in the legal career, I am so
apparently. The match is even; there is no injustice to any one, and
neither has tricked the other, or, if it please thee, we have tricked
each other equally. Here is the whole truth for thee; now despise me if
thou wish."
"As God lives, I have never respected thee more," answered Pan
Stanislav; "for now I admire not thy sincerity merely, but also thy
courage."
"I accept the compliment because thou art candid; but in what dost thou
see courage?"
"In this,--that having so few illusions as to Panna Kraslavski, thou
art going to marry her."
"I marry her because I am more wise than foolish. I looked for money,
it is true; but thinkest thou that for money I would marry the first
woman I met who possessed it? By no means, my dear friend. I take Panna
Kraslavski, and I know what I am doing. She has her great qualities,
indispensable under the circumstances in which I take her, and in
which she marries me. She will be a cold, unagreeable wife, sour, and
even contemptuous, in so far as she does not fear me; but, on the
other hand, Panna Kraslavski, as well as her mother, has a religious
respect for appearances,--for what is fitting, or, speaking generally,
for what is polite. This is one point. Further, there is not even one
germ in her from which love intrigues could grow; and life with her,
be it disagreeable as it may, will never end in scandal. This is the
second. Third, she is pedantic in everything, as well in religion as
in fulfilment of all the duties which she may take on herself. This
is, indeed, a great quality. I shall not be happy with her, but I can
be at peace; and who knows if this is not the maximum possible to ask
of life, and I tell thee, my dear friend, that when a man takes a wife
he should think before all of future peace. In a mistress seek what
pleases thee,--wit, temperament, a poetical form of sensitiveness. But
with a wife one must live years; seek in her that on which one can
rely,--seek principles."
"I have never thought thee a fool," said Pan Stanislav; "but I see that
thou hast more wit than I suspected."
"Our women--take those, for example, of the money world--are formed
really on the French novel; and what comes of that is known to thee."
"More or less; but to-day thou art so eloquent that I listen to thy
description with pleasure."
"Well, a woman becomes her own God and her own measure of right."
"And for her husband?"
"A chameleon and a tragedy."
"This happens a little in the world of much money and no traditions;
there everything is appearance and toilet, beneath which sits not a
soul, but a more or less exquisite wild beast. And this wealthy and
elegant world, amusing itself, and permeated with artistic, literary,
and even religious dilettantism, wields the baton and directs the
orchestra."
"Not yet with us."
"Not yet altogether. For that matter, there are exceptions, even in the
society mentioned; all the more must there be outside it. Yes, there
are women of another kind among us,--for instance, Panna Plavitski. Oh,
what security, and withal what a charm of life, with a woman like her!
Unhappily, she is not for me."
"Mashko, I was ready to recognize in thee cleverness, but I did not
know thee to have enthusiasm."
"What's to be done? I was in love with her, but now I am going to marry
Panna Kraslavski."
Mashko pronounced the last words, as if in anger, then followed a
moment of silence.
"Then thou wilt not be my groomsman?"
"Give me time to consider."
"In three days I am going away."
"To what place?"
"To St. Petersburg. I have business there; I will stay about two weeks."
"I will give my answer on thy return."
"Very well; to-day I will send thee the estimate of my oak in three
sizes. To save the instalment!"
"And the conditions on which I will buy it."
Here Mashko took leave and went out. Pan Stanislav hastened to his
office. After a conversation with Bigiel, he decided, if the affair
should seem practicable and profitable, to buy the oak alone. He could
not account to himself why he felt a certain wonderful desire to be
connected with Kremen. After business hours he thought also of what
Mashko had said of Panna Plavitski. He felt that the man had told the
truth, and that, with a woman of this kind, life might be not only safe
and peaceful, but full of charm; he noticed, however, that in those
meditations he rendered justice rather to the type of which Marynia was
a specimen, than to Marynia in person. He observed also in himself a
thousand inconsistencies; he saw that he felt a certain repugnance, and
even anger, at the thought of loving any one or anything, or letting
his heart go into bonds and knots, usually fastened so firmly that they
were painful. At the very thought of this he was enraged, and repeated
in spirit, "I will not; I have had enough of this! It is an unwholesome
exuberance, which leads people only to errors and suffering." At the
same time he took it ill,--for example, that she did not love him
with a certain exuberant and absolute love, and opened her heart to
him only when duty commanded. Afterward, when he did not want love,
he was astonished that it began to pall on him so easily, and that he
desired Marynia far more when she was opposed, than now, when she was
altogether inclined to him.
"All leads to this at last," thought he: "that man himself does not
know what he wants, or what he must hold to; that is his position.
May a thunderbolt split it! Panna Plavitski has more good qualities
than she herself suspects. She is dutiful, just, calm, attractive; my
thoughts draw me toward her; and still I feel that Panna Plavitski
is not for me what she once was, and that the devils have taken
something that was in me. But what is it? As to the capacity for
loving," continued Pan Stanislav, in his monologue, "I have come to the
conclusion that loving is most frequently folly, and loving too much
folly at all times; hence I should now be content, but I am not."
After a while it came to his mind that this was merely a species of
weakness,--such, for example, as follows an operation in surgery, or
an illness that a man has passed through,--and that positive life will
fill out in time that void which he feels. For him positive life was
his mercantile house. When he went to dine, he found Vaskovski and two
servants, who winked at each other when they saw how the old man at
times held motionless an uplifted fork with a morsel of meat on it, and
fell to thinking of death, or talking to himself. Professor Vaskovski
had for some time been holding these monologues, and spoke to himself
on the street so distinctly that people looked around at him. His blue
eyes were turned on Pan Stanislav for a while vacantly; then he roused
himself, as if from sleep, and finished the thought which had risen in
his head. "She says that this will bring her near the child."
"Who says?" inquired Pan Stanislav.
"Pani Emilia."
"How will she be nearer?"
"She wants to become a Sister of Charity."
Pan Stanislav grew silent under the impression of that news. He was
able to meditate over that which passed through his head, to expel
feeling, to philosophize on the unwholesome excesses of the society in
which he lived; but in his soul he had two sacred images,--Litka and
Pani Emilia. Litka had become simply a cherished memory, but he loved
Pani Emilia with a living, brotherly, and most tender affection, which
he never touched in his meditations. So for a time he could not find
speech; then he looked sternly at Vaskovski, and said,--
"Professor, thou art persuading her to this. I do not enter into thy
mysticism and ideas from beneath a dark star, but know this,--that thou
wilt take her life on thy conscience; for she has not the strength to
be a Sister of Charity, and will die in a year."
"My dear friend," answered Vaskovski, "thou hast condemned me unjustly
without a hearing. Hast thou stopped to consider what the expression
'just man' means?"
"When it is a question of one dear to me, I jeer at expressions."
"She told me yesterday of this, most unexpectedly, and I asked, 'But,
my child, will you have the strength? That is arduous labor.' She
smiled at me, and said: 'Do not refuse me, for this is my refuge,
my happiness. Should it seem that I have not strength enough, they
will not receive me; but if they receive me, and my strength fails
afterward, I shall go sooner to Litka, and I am yearning so much for
her.' What had I to answer to such a choice, and such simplicity? What
art thou able to say, even thou, who art without belief? Wouldst thou
have courage to say: 'Perhaps Litka is not in existence; a life in
labor, in charity, in sacrifice, and death in Christ, may not lead to
Litka at all'? Invent another consolation; but what wilt thou invent?
Give her another hope, heal her with something else; but with what
wilt thou heal her? Besides, thou wilt see her thyself; speak to her
sincerely. Wilt thou have courage to dissuade her?"
"No," answered Pan Stanislav, briefly; and after a while he added,
"Only suffering on all sides."
"One thing might be possible," continued Vaskovski. "To choose instead
of Sisters of Charity, whose work is beyond her strength, some
contemplative order; there are those in whom the poor human atom is so
dissolved in God that it ceases to lead an individual existence, and
ceases to suffer."
Pan Stanislav waved his hand. "I do not understand these things," said
he, dryly, "and I do not look into them."
"I have here somewhere a little Italian book on the Ladies of
Nazareth," said Vaskovski, opening his coat. "Where did I put it? When
going out, I stuck it somewhere."
"What can the Ladies of Nazareth be to me?"
But Vaskovski, after unbuttoning his coat, unbuttoned his shirt in
searching; then he thought a while and said, "What am I looking for?
I know that little Italian book. In a couple of days I am going to
Rome for a long, very long time. Remember what I said, that Rome is
the antechamber to another world. It is time for me to go to God's
antechamber. I would persuade Emilia greatly to go to Rome, but she
will not leave her child; she will remain here as a Sister of Charity.
Maybe, however, the order of Nazareth would please her; it is as simple
and mild as was primitive Christianity. Not with the head, my dear, for
there they know better what to do, but with the heart, childlike but
loving."
"Button thy shirt, professor," said Pan Stanislav.
"Very good; I will button it. I have something at my heart, and I
would tell it thee; thou art as mobile as water, but thou hast a soul.
Seest thou, Christianity not only is not coming to an end, as some
philosophizing, giddy heads imagine, but it has only made half its way."
"Dear professor," said Pan Stanislav, mildly, "I will listen to
what thou hast to tell me willingly and patiently, but not to-day;
for to-day I am thinking only of Pani Emilia, and there is simply a
squeezing at my throat. This is a catastrophe."
"Not for her, since her life will be a success, and her death also."
Pan Stanislav began to mutter, "As God lives, not only every mightier
feeling, but simple friendship, ends in regret; never has any
attachment brought me a thing except suffering. Bukatski is right:
from general attachments there is nothing but suffering, from personal
attachments nothing but suffering; and now live, man, in the world so
surrounded."
The conversation broke off, or rather was turned into the monologue of
Professor Vaskovski, who began a discourse with himself about Rome and
Christianity. After dinner they went out on the street, which was full
of the sound of sleighbells and the gladsome winter movement. Though in
the morning of that day snow had fallen in sufficient abundance, toward
evening the weather had become fair, calm, and frosty.
"But, professor, button thy shirt."
"Very well; I will button it," answered Vaskovski; and he began to draw
the holes of his vest to the buttons of his frockcoat.
"Still I like that Vaskovski," said Pan Stanislav, to himself, when
on the way home. "If I were to grow attached to him for good, the
deuce would take him surely, for such is my fate. Fortunately I
am insensible enough to him so far." And thus he persuaded himself
untruly, for he had a sincere friendship for Vaskovski, and the man's
fate was not indifferent in the least to him. When he reached home,
Litka's face smiled at him from a large photograph as he entered; this
had been sent by Marynia during his absence, and moved Pan Stanislav
to the depth of his soul. He experienced, moreover, this species of
emotion whenever he remembered Litka on a sudden, or saw unexpectedly
one of her portraits. He thought then, that love for the child,
hidden away somewhere in the depth of his heart, rose suddenly with
its previous vividness and power, penetrating his whole being with
indescribable tenderness and sorrow. This revival of sorrow was even so
painful that he avoided it as a man avoids a real suffering usually.
This time, however, there was something sweet in his emotion. Litka
was smiling at him by the light of the lamp, as if she wished to say
"Pan Stas;" around her head on the white margin of the picture were
four green birches. Pan Stanislav stopped and looked for a long time;
at last he thought, "I know in what may be the happiness of life, in
children!" But he said to himself a few moments later, "I never shall
love my own as I loved that poor child." The servant entered now and
gave him a letter from Marynia, which came with the photograph. She
wrote as follows:--
"My father asks me to pray you to spend the evening with us.
Emilia has moved to her own house, and receives no visits to-day.
I send you Litka's photograph, and beg you to come without fail. I
wish to speak with you of Emilia. Papa has invited Pan Bigiel, who
has promised to come; therefore you and I can talk quietly."
Pan Stanislav, after reading the letter, dressed, read a certain time,
then went to the Plavitskis'. Bigiel had been there a quarter of an
hour, and was playing piquet with Plavitski; Marynia was sitting at
some distance, by a small table, occupied in work of some kind. After
he had greeted all, Pan Stanislav sat near her,--
"I thank you most earnestly for the photograph," began he. "I saw it
unexpectedly, and Litka stood before my eyes in such form that I could
not control myself. Moments like that are the measure of sorrow, of
which a man cannot even give account to himself. I thank you most
earnestly, and for the four birches too. Touching Pani Emilia, I
know everything from Vaskovski. Is this merely a project, or a fixed
resolve?"
"Rather a fixed resolve," answered Marynia; "and what do you think?"
Marynia raised her eyes to him as if waiting for some counsel.
"She has not strength for it," said she, finally.
Pan Stanislav was silent a while; then he opened his arms helplessly,
and said,--
"I have talked about this with Vaskovski. I attacked him, since I
thought that the idea was his; but he swore to me that he had nothing
to do with it. He asked then what other consolation I could think out
for her, and I could give him no answer. What in life has remained to
her really?"
"What?" returned Marynia, in a low voice.
"Do I not understand, think you, whence that resolve came? She does
not wish to violate her religious principles in any way, but she wants
to die as soon as possible; she knows that those duties are beyond her
strength, and therefore she assumes them."
"True," answered Marynia; and she inclined her face so closely to her
work that Pan Stanislav saw only the parting of the dark hair on her
small head. Before her stood a box full of pearls, which she was sewing
on to various articles to be used in a lottery for benevolent purposes;
and tears, which were flowing from her eyes, began to drop on those
pearls.
"I see that you are weeping," said Pan Stanislav.
She raised tearful eyes to him, as if to say, "Before thee I shall not
hide tears," and answered, "I know that Emilia is doing well, but such
a pity--"
Pan Stanislav, partly from emotion, and partly because he knew not
himself what to answer, kissed her hand for the first time.
Pearls began then to drop more thickly from Marynia's eyes, so that
she had to rise and go out. Pan Stanislav approached the players, as
Plavitski was saying in a sour, outspoken tone, to his partner,--
"Rubicon after Rubicon. Ha! it is difficult. You represent new times,
and I old traditions. I must be beaten."
"What has that to do with piquet?" asked Bigiel, calmly.
Marynia returned soon, with the announcement that tea was ready;
her eyes were somewhat red, but her face was clear and calm. When,
a little later, Bigiel and Plavitski sat down at cards again, she
conversed with Pan Stanislav in that quiet, confiding tone which
people use who are very near to each other, and who have many mutual
relations. It is true that those mutual relations between them had been
created by the death of Litka and the misfortune of Pani Emilia,--hence
the conversation could not be gladsome; but in spite of that, Marynia's
eyes, if not her lips, smiled at Pan Stanislav, and were at once
thoughtful and clear.
Later in the evening, after his departure, Marynia did not name him in
her mind, when she thought of him, otherwise, than "Pan Stas."
Pan Stanislav, on his part, returned home feeling calmer by far than
he had since Litka's death. While pacing his chamber, he made frequent
halts before the little girl's photograph, and looked, too, at the four
birches painted by Marynia. He thought that the bond fastened between
him and Marynia by Litka was becoming closer each day, as if without
any one's will, and simply by some mysterious force of things. He
thought, too, that if he lacked the former original desire to make that
bond permanent, his courage would almost fail to cut it decisively,
especially so soon after Litka's death. Late in the night he sat down
to the lists sent by Mashko. At times, however, he made mistakes in the
reckoning, for he saw before him Marynia's head inclining forward, and
her tears falling on the box of pearls.
Next morning he bought the oak in Kremen, very profitably, for that
matter.