Pani Kraslavski received Pan Stanislav with great astonishment,
because of the early hour; but still she received him, thinking that
he had come for some uncommon reason. He, on his part, without long
introductions, told her what had happened, disguising at the same
time only what was necessary for shielding Mashko from suspicion of
bankruptcy or unfavorable business.
He noticed that the old lady, while he was talking, kept her green
eyes--made, as it were, of stone, and devoid of glitter--fixed on him,
and that no muscle of her face moved. Only when he had ended did she
say,--
"There is one thing in all this which I do not understand. Why did Pan
Mashko sell the oak? That is no small ornament to any residence."
"Those oaks stand far from the house," answered Pan Stanislav, "and
injure the land,--for nothing will grow in the shade of them; and Pan
Mashko is a practical man. Besides, to tell the truth, we are old
friends, and he did that through friendship for me. I am a merchant; I
needed the oak, and Pan Mashko let me have all he could spare."
"In such an event, I do not understand why that young man--"
"If you are acquainted with Pan Yamish," interrupted Pan Stanislav,
"he, because he lives near both Kremen and Yalbrykov, will explain to
you that that young man is not of perfect mind, and is known as such in
the whole neighborhood."
"In that case Pan Mashko was not obliged to fight a duel with him."
"In such matters," answered Pan Stanislav, with a shade of impatience,
"we have different ideas from ladies."
"You will permit me to say a couple of words to my daughter."
Pan Stanislav thought it time to rise and take farewell; but since he
had come, as it were, on a reconnaissance, and wished to take some
information to Mashko, he said,--
"If the ladies have any message to Pan Mashko, I am going to him
directly."
"In a moment," answered Pani Kraslavski.
Pan Stanislav remained alone and waited rather long, so long indeed
that he began to be impatient. At last both ladies appeared. Though
her hair had not been dressed with sufficient care, the young lady,
in a white chemisette and a sailor's tie, seemed to Pan Stanislav
quite beautiful, in spite of a slight inflammation of the eyes, and
a few pimples on her forehead, which were powdered. There was about
her a certain attractive languor, from which, having risen very late
apparently, she had not been able yet to rouse herself, and a certain
equally charming morning carelessness. For the rest, there was no
emotion on her bloodless face.
After salutations were exchanged with Pan Stanislav, she said, with a
cool, calm voice,--
"Be so kind as to tell Pan Mashko that I was greatly pained and
alarmed. Is the wound really slight?"
"Beyond a doubt."
"I have begged mamma to visit Pan Mashko; I will take her, and wait in
the carriage for news. Then I will go again for mamma, and so every day
till Pan Mashko has recovered. Mamma is so kind that she consents to
this."
Here a slight, barely evident blush passed over her pale face. To Pan
Stanislav, for whom her words were an utter surprise, and whom they
pierced with astonishment, she seemed then perfectly comely; and a
moment later, when going to Mashko, he said to himself,--
"Well, the women are better than they seem. But they are two decanters
of chilled water; still the daughter has some heart. Mashko did not
know her, and he will have an agreeable surprise. The old woman will go
to him, will see all those bishops and castellans with crooked noses
over which Bukatski amused himself so much; but she will believe in
Mashko's greatness."
Meditating in this way, he found himself in Mashko's house, and had to
wait, for he came at the moment of dressing the wound. But barely had
the doctor gone, when Mashko gave command to ask him to enter, and,
without even a greeting, inquired,--
"Well, hast thou been there?"
"How art thou; how hast thou slept?"
"Well. But never mind--hast thou been there?"
"I have. I will tell thee briefly. In a quarter of an hour Pani
Kraslavski will be here. The young lady told me to say that she would
bring her mother, and would wait to hear how thou art; and to tell thee
that she is greatly alarmed, that she is very unhappy, but thanks God
that there is nothing worse. Thou seest, Mashko! I add, besides, that
she is good-looking, and has attracted me. Now I am going, for I have
no time to wait."
"Have mercy; wait a moment. Wait, my dear; I have not a fever, and if
thou speak through fear--"
"Thou art annoying," said Pan Stanislav; "I give thee my word that
I tell the truth, and that thou hast spoken ill of thy betrothed
prematurely."
Mashko dropped his head on the pillow, and was silent for a time; then
he said, as if to himself,--
"I shall be ready to fall in love with her really."
"That is well. Be in health; I am going to take farewell of Vaskovski."
But instead of going to Vaskovski, he went to the Plavitskis', whom
he did not find at home, however. Plavitski was never at home, and of
Marynia they said that she had gone out an hour before. Usually when
a man is going to a woman who rouses vivid interest in him, and makes
up his mind on the way what to say to her, he has rather a stupid face
if he finds that she is not at home. Pan Stanislav felt this, and was
vexed. He went to a greenhouse, however, bought a multitude of flowers,
and had them sent to Marynia. When he thought of the delight with
which she would receive them, and with what a beating heart she would
wait for evening, he was so pleased that after dinner he dropped into
Vaskovski's in the very best humor.
"I have come to take farewell, Professor; when dost thou start on the
journey?"
"How art thou, my dear?" answered Vaskovski. "I had to delay for a
couple of days; for, as thou seest, I am wintering various small boys
here."
"Young Aryans, I suppose, who in hours of freedom draw purses out of
pockets?"
"No, they are good souls; but I cannot leave them without care. I must
seek out a successor who will live in my place."
"But who would roast himself here? How dost thou live in such heat?"
"Because I sit without a coat; and wilt thou permit me not to put it
on? It is a little warm here; but perspiration is wholesome, and these
little feathered creatures crave heat."
Pan Stanislav looked around. In the room there were at least a dozen
and a half of buntings, titmice, finches. Sparrows, accustomed
evidently to be fed, looked in in flocks through the window. The
professor kept in his room only birds purchased of dealers; sparrows
he did not admit, saying that if he did there would be no end to their
numbers, and that it would be unjust to receive some and reject others.
The chamber birds had cages fastened to the walls and the inner sash of
the window, but went into them only at night; during daylight they flew
through the chamber freely, filling it with twitter, and leaving traces
on books and manuscripts, with which all the corners and the tables
were filled.
Some of the birds which had become very tame sat on Vaskovski's head
even. On the floor husks of hemp-seed cracked under one's feet. Pan
Stanislav, who knew that chamber thoroughly, still shrugged his
shoulders, and said,--
"All this is very good, but that the professor lets them light and sing
on his head; that, God knows, is too much. Besides, it is stifling
here."
"That is the fault of Saint Francis of Assisi," answered Vaskovski,
"for I learned from him to love these little birds. I have even a pair
of doves, but they are home-stayers."
"Thou wilt see Bukatski, of course; I received a letter from him,--here
it is."
"May I read it?"
"I give it to thee for that very purpose."
Vaskovski read the letter, and said when he had finished, "I have
always liked this Bukatski; he is a good soul, but--he has a little
something here!" Vaskovski began, to tap his forehead with his fingers.
"This is beginning to amuse me," exclaimed Pan Stanislav. "Imagine to
thyself, Professor, for a certain number of days some one taps himself
on the forehead and says of some one of our acquaintance, 'He has
something here!' A charming society!"
"If it is a little so, it is a little so!" answered Vaskovski, with a
smile. "And knowest thou what this is? It is the usual Aryan trouble
of soul; and in us, as Slavs, there is more of that than in the west,
for we are the youngest Aryans, and therefore neither reason nor
heart have settled yet into a balance. We are the youngest Aryans: we
feel with more vividness; we take everything to heart more feverishly;
and we arrange ourselves to the practice of life with more passion. I
have seen much; I have noticed this for a long time. What wonderful
natures! Just look, for example, the German students can carouse,--that
doesn't hinder them from either working or fashioning themselves into
practical people; but let a Slav take this habit, and he is lost, he
will do himself to death! And so with everything. A German will become
a pessimist and write volumes on this,--that life is despair; but he
will drink beer meanwhile, rear children, make money, cultivate his
garden, and sleep under a feather tick. A Slav will hang himself,
or ruin himself with mad life, with excess, smother himself in a
swamp into which he will wade purposely. My dear, I remember men who
Byronized themselves to death. I have seen much; I have seen men who,
for example, took a fancy to peasants, and ended with drinking vodka
in peasant dramshops. There is no measure with us, and there cannot
be, for in us, to the excessive acceptance of every idea, are joined
frivolousness and knowest what vanity. O my God, how vain we are! how
we wish to push ourselves forward always, so that we may be admired
and gazed at! Take this Bukatski: he has sunk in scepticism up to his
ears in fact; in pessimism, Buddhism, decadency, and in what else
besides--do I know?--and in these too there is a chaos at present.
He has sunk so deeply that those miasmas are really poisoning him;
but dost thou think that with this he is not posing? What wonderful
natures! those who are most sincere, who have the most vivid feelings,
taking all things to heart most powerfully,--are at the same time
comedians. When a man thinks of this, he loves them, but he wants to
laugh and to weep."
Pan Stanislav recalled how during his first visit to Kremen he had told
Marynia of his Belgian times, when, living with some young Belgians,
occupying himself with pessimism, he noticed finally that he took all
these theories far more to heart than the Belgians, and that, through
this, these theories spoiled his life more. Hence he said now,--
"Professor, thy speech is truthful. I have seen such things too, and
the devils will take us all."
Vaskovski fixed his mystic eyes on the frosty window-panes, and said,--
"No; some one else will take us all. That hotness of blood, that
capacity for accepting an idea, are the great basis of the mission
which Christ has designed for the Slavs." Here Vaskovski pointed to a
manuscript stained by the birds, and said mysteriously,--
"I am going with that; that is the labor of my life. Dost wish I will
read from it?"
"As God lives, I haven't time; it is late already."
"True. It is growing dark. Then I will tell thee in brief words. Not
only do I think, but I believe most profoundly, that the Slavs have a
great mission."
Here Vaskovski halted, began to rub his forehead, and said,--
"What a wonderful number,--'three.' There is some mystery in it."
"Thou wert going to speak of a mission," said Pan Stanislav, disquieted.
"Never fear; the one has connection with the other. There are three
worlds in Europe: the Roman, the German, and the Slav. The first and
second accomplished what they had to do. The future is for that third."
"And what has that third to do?"
"Social conditions, justice, the relations of man to man, the life of
individuals, and that which is called private life, are founded on
Christian science, no matter what comes. The incoherence of men has
deformed this science, but still everything stands on it. Only the
first half of the problem is solved,--the first epoch. There are people
who think that Christianity is nearing its end. No; the second epoch
is about to begin. Christ is in the life of individuals, but not in
history. Dost understand? To bring Him into history, to found on Him
the relations of peoples, to create the love of our neighbor in the
historical sense,--that is the mission which the Slav world has to
accomplish. But the Slavs are deficient in knowledge yet; and the need
is to open their eyes to this mission."
Pan Stanislav was silent, for he had nothing to answer.
Vaskovski continued: "This is what I have been pondering over a
lifetime, and have explained in this work." Here he pointed to a
manuscript. "This is the labor of my life. Here _this_ mission is
outlined."
"On which meanwhile the buntings are--" thought Pan Stanislav. "And
surely it will be that way a long time." But aloud he said, "And it is
thy hope, Professor, that when such a work is printed--"
"No; I hope nothing. I have a little love, but I am a man too
insignificant, too weak in mind. This will vanish, as if some one had
thrown a stone into water; but there will be a circle. Let some chosen
one come later on; for I know that what is predestined will not fail.
He will not refuse the mission even if he wishes. There is no use in
bending men from their predestination, nor in changing them by force.
What is good in a different place may be bad in this, for God made
us for another use. The labor is vain. Vainly too wilt thou persuade
thyself that thy only wish is to gain money; thou, like others, must
follow the voice of predestination and nature."
"I am following it indeed, for I am going to marry; that is, if I be
accepted."
Vaskovski embraced him.
"I wish thee happiness! This is perfect! May God bless thee! I know
that the little maid indicated it to thee. But remember how I told
thee that she had something to do, and that she would not die till she
had done it. May God give her light, and a blessing to both of you!
Besides, Marynia is golden."
"And to thee, beloved Professor, a happy journey and a successful
mission!"
"And to thee, thy wish for thyself."
"What do I wish?" asked Pan Stanislav, joyfully. "Well, so, half a
dozen little missionaries."
"Ah rogue! thou wert always a rogue!" answered Vaskovski. "But fly off,
fly off; I will visit thee once more."
Pan Stanislav flew out, sat on a droshky, and gave command to take
him to the Plavitskis'. On the road he was arranging what to say to
Marynia; and he prepared a little speech, partly sentimental, and
partly sober, as befits a positive man who has found really that which
he was seeking, but who also is marrying through reason. Evidently
Marynia looked for him much later; for there was no light in the
chamber, though the last gleam of twilight was quenched. Pan Stanislav,
for a greeting, began to kiss both her hands, and, forgetting
completely his wise introduction, asked in a voice somewhat uncertain
and excited,--
"Have you received the flowers and the letter?"
"I have."
"And did you guess why I sent them?"
Marynia's heart beat with such force that she could not answer.
Pan Stanislav inquired further, with a still more broken voice,--
"Do you agree to Litka's wish,--do you want me?"
"I do," answered Marynia.
Then he, in the feeling that it was proper to thank her, sought words
in vain; but he pressed her hands more firmly to his lips, and, holding
them both, drew her gently nearer and nearer. Suddenly a flame seized
him; he put his arms around her, and began to seek her lips with his
own. But Marynia turned away her head so that he could kiss only the
hair on her temples. For a while only their hurried breathing was heard
in the darkness; at last Marynia wrested herself from his arms.
A few moments later the servant brought a light. Pan Stanislav,
recovering himself, was alarmed at his own boldness, and looked into
Marynia's eyes with disquiet. He was sure that he had offended her, and
was ready to beg her forgiveness. But he saw with wonder that there
were no traces of anger in her face. Her eyes were downcast, her cheeks
flushed, her hair disarranged somewhat; it was evident that she was
disturbed and, as it were, dazed, but withal only penetrated with the
perfect sweetness of that fear which comes to a woman who is loved,
and who, in passing over the new threshold, feels that she must yield
something there, but who passes over and yields because she wishes.
She loves, and she is obliged to yield in view of the rights which she
accords to the man.
But a vivid feeling of gratitude passed through Pan Stanislav at sight
of her. It seemed to him then that he loved her as he had loved of old,
before Litka's death. He felt also that in that moment he could not
be too delicate nor too magnanimous; hence, taking her hand again, he
raised it to his lips with great respect, and said,--
"I know that I am not worthy of you; there is no discussion on that
point. God knows that I shall always do for you what is in my power."
Marynia looked at him with moist eyes and said, "If only you are happy."
"Is it possible not to be happy with you? I saw that from the first
moment at Kremen. But afterward, you know, everything was spoiled. I
thought you would marry Mashko, and how I worried--"
"I was angry, and I beg forgiveness--my dear--Pan Stas."
"This very day the professor said, 'Marynia is gold,'" exclaimed Pan
Stanislav, with great ardor. "This is true! all say the same--not only
gold, but a treasure--a very precious one."
Her kindly eyes began to smile at him: "Maybe a heavy one."
"Let not your head ache over that. I have strength enough; I shall be
able to bear it. Now at least I have something to live for."
"And I," answered Marynia.
"Do you know that I have been here already to-day? I sent
chrysanthemums later. After yesterday's letter to you, I said to
myself, 'That is simply an angel, and I should lack, not only heart,
but common-sense to delay any longer.'"
"I was so alarmed about that duel, and so unhappy. But is it all over
now?"
"I give you my word, most thoroughly."
Marynia wanted to make further inquiries, but at that moment Plavitski
came. They heard him cough a little, put away his cane, and remove his
overcoat; he opened the door then, and, seeing them alone, said,--
"So you are sitting all by yourselves?"
But Marynia ran up to him, and placing her hands on his shoulders, and
putting forth her forehead for a kiss, said,--
"As betrothed, papa."
Plavitski stepped back a little and inquired, "What dost thou say?"
"I say," answered she, looking quietly into his eyes, "that Pan
Stanislav wishes to take me, and that I am very happy."
Pan Stanislav approached, embraced Plavitski heartily, and said, "I do
with uncle's consent and permission."
But Plavitski exclaimed, "Oh, my child!" and, advancing with tottering
step to a sofa, he sat on it heavily. "Wait a moment," said he, with
emotion. "It will pass--do not mind me--my children! If that is needed,
I bless you with my whole heart."
And he blessed them; wherewith still greater emotion mastered him,
for, after all, he loved Marynia really. The voice stuck in his throat
repeatedly; and the two young people heard only such broken expressions
as, for example, "Some corner near you--for the old man, who worked all
his life--an only child--an orphan."
They pacified him together, and pacified him so well that half an hour
later Plavitski struck Pan Stanislav on the shoulder suddenly, and
said,--
"Oh robber! Thou wert thinking of Marynia, and I was thinking thee a
little--" He finished the rest in Pan Stanislav's ear, who grew red
with indignation, and answered,--
"How could uncle suppose such a thing? If any one else had dared to say
that?"
"Well, well, well!" answered Plavitski, smiling; "there is no smoke
without fire."
That evening Marynia, taking farewell of Pan Stanislav, asked,--
"You will not refuse me one thing?"
"Nothing that you command."
"I have said long to myself that if a moment like the present should
come, we would go to Litka together."
"Ah, my dear lady," answered Pan Stanislav; and she continued,--
"I know not what people will say; but what do we care for the
world--what indeed?"
"Nothing. I am thankful to you from my heart and soul for the
thought--My dear lady--my Marynia!"
"I believe that she looks at us and prays for us."
"Then she is our little patroness."
"Good-night."
"Good-night."
"Till to-morrow."
"Till to-morrow," said he, kissing her hands,--"till after to-morrow,
daily;" and here he added in a low voice, "Until our marriage."
"Yes," answered Marynia.
Pan Stanislav went out. In his head and in his heart he felt a great
whirl of feelings, thoughts, impressions, above which towered one
great feeling,--that something unheard of in its decisiveness had
happened; that his fate had been settled; that the time of reckoning,
of wavering and changing, had passed; that he must begin a new life.
And that feeling was not unpleasant to him,--nay, it verged on a kind
of delight, especially when he remembered how he had kissed Marynia's
hair and temples. That which was lacking in his feelings shrank and
vanished almost utterly in this remembrance; and it seemed to Pan
Stanislav that he had found everything requisite to perfect happiness.
"I shall never grow sated with this," thought he; and it seemed to him
simply impossible that he should. He remembered then the goodness of
Marynia, and how reliable she was; how on such a heart and character
he might build; how in living with her nothing could ever threaten
him; how she would not trample on any quality of his, nor make it of
no avail; how she would receive as gold that which in him was gold;
how she would live for him, not for herself. And, meditating in this
way, he asked what better could he find? and he wondered indeed at his
recent hesitation. Still he felt that what was coming was a change so
gigantic, so immensely decisive, that somewhere at the bottom, in the
deepest corner of his soul, there was roused a kind of alarm before
this unknown happiness. But he did not hesitate. "I am neither a coward
nor an imbecile," thought he. "It is necessary to go ahead, and I will
go."
Returning home, he looked at Litka; and immediately there opened before
him, as it were, a new, clear horizon. He thought that he might have
children, have such a bright dear head as this--and with Marynia. At
the very thought his heart began to beat with greater life, and to the
impulse of thoughts was joined such a solace of life as he had not
known previously. He felt almost perfectly happy. Looking by chance at
Bukatski's letter, which he took from his pocket before undressing, he
laughed so heartily that the servant looked in with astonishment. Pan
Stanislav wished to tell him that he was going to marry. He fell asleep
only toward morning, but rose sprightly and fresh; after dressing, he
flew to his office to announce the news to Bigiel at the earliest.
Bigiel embraced him, then, with his usual deliberation, proceeded to
consider the affair, and said finally,--
"Reasoning the matter over, this is the wisest thing that thou hast
done in life;" then, pointing to a box of papers, he added, "Those
contracts ought to be profitable, but thine is still better."
"Isn't it?" exclaimed Pan Stanislav, boastfully.
"I will fly to tell my wife," said Bigiel, "for I cannot contain
myself; but go thou home, and go for good. I will take thy place till
the wedding, and during the honeymoon."
"Very well; I will hurry to see Mashko, and then Marynia and I will go
to Litka."
"That is due from you both to her."
Pan Stanislav bought more flowers on the way, added a note to them
that he would come soon, and dropped in to see Mashko. Mashko was
notably better, under the care of Pani Kraslavski, and was looking for
her arrival every moment. When he had heard the news, he pressed Pan
Stanislav's hand with emotion, and said,--
"I will tell thee only one thing,--I do not know whether she will be
happy with thee, but certainly thou wilt be happy with her."
"Because women are better than men," answered Pan Stanislav. "After
what has happened to thee, I hope that thou art of this opinion."
"I confess that to this moment I cannot recover from astonishment. They
are both better, and more mysterious. Imagine to thyself--" Here Mashko
halted, as if hesitating whether to continue.
"What?" inquired Pan Stanislav.
"Well, thou art a discreet man, and hast given me, besides, such proofs
of friendship that there may not be secrets between us. Imagine, then,
that yesterday, after thy departure, I received an anonymous letter.
Here, as thou art aware, the noble custom of writing such letters
prevails. In the letter were tidings that Papa Kraslavski exists, is
alive, and in good health."
"Which, again, may be gossip."
"But also may not be. He lives, probably, in America. I received the
letter while Pani Kraslavski was here. I said nothing; but after a
time, when she had examined those portraits, and began to inquire of my
more distant family relations, I asked her, in turn, how long she had
been a widow. She answered,--
"'My daughter and I have been alone in the world nine years; and those
are sad events, of which I do not wish to speak to-day.'
"Observe that she did not say directly when her husband died."
"And what dost thou think?"
"I think that if papa is alive, he must be that kind of figure of which
people do not speak, and that in truth those may be 'sad events.'"
"The secret would have come out long ago."
"Those ladies lived abroad some years. Who knows? That, however, will
not change my plans in any way. If Pan Kraslavski is living in America,
and does not return, he must have reasons; it is as if he were not in
the world, then. In fact, I am gaining the hope now that my marriage
will come to pass, for I understand that when people have something to
hide, they exact less."
"Pardon my curiosity," said Pan Stanislav, taking his hat; "but with me
it is a question of my money, and now touching the Kraslavskis. Dost
thou know surely that these ladies have money?"
"It seems that they have much; still, I am playing against a card
somewhat hidden. It is likely that they have much ready money. The
mother told me repeatedly that her daughter would not need to look to
her husband's property. I saw their safe; they keep a big house. I know
nearly all the money-lenders--Jews and non-Jews--in Warsaw, and I know
surely that these ladies are not in debt a copper to any one; as thou
knowest thyself, they have a nice villa not far from the Bigiels. They
do not live on their capital, for they are too prudent."
"Thou hast no positive figures, however?"
"I tried to get them, but in roundabout fashion. Not being too certain
of my connection with the ladies, I could not insist overmuch. It was
given me to understand that there would be two hundred thousand rubles,
and perhaps more."
Pan Stanislav took leave, and on the way to the Plavitskis' thought,
"All this is a kind of mystery, a kind of darkness, a kind of risk. I
prefer Marynia."
Half an hour later he was driving with Marynia to the cemetery, to
Litka. The day was warm, as in spring, but gray; the city seemed sullen
and dirty. In the cemetery the melting snow had slipped in patches to
the ground from the graves, and covered the yellow, half-decayed grass.
From the arms of crosses and leafless tree-branches large drops were
falling, which, borne from time to time by gusts of warm wind, struck
the faces of Pan Stanislav and Marynia. These gusts pulled Marynia's
dress, so that she had to hold it. They stopped at last before Litka's
grave.
And here all was wet, sloppy, gloomy, half-stripped of the melting
snow. The thought that that child, once so cared for, so loved, and so
petted, was lying in that damp dungeon darkness, could hardly find a
place in Pan Stanislav's head.
"All this may be natural," thought he; "but it is not possible to
be reconciled with death." And, in truth, whenever he visited Litka,
he returned from the cemetery in a kind of irrepressible rebellion,
with a species of passionate protest in his soul. These thoughts began
to rend him in that moment also. It seemed to him simply terrible to
love Litka, and to reconcile his love with the knowledge that a few
steps lower down she is lying there, black and decaying. "I ought not
to come," said he to himself, "for I grow mad, lose my head here, and
lose every basis of life." But, above all, he suffered, for, if it is
impossible not to think of death, it is equally impossible to explain
it; hence everything touching it, which comes to the head, is, in so
far as a man does not stretch forth his hand toward simple faith, at
once despairing and shallow, trivial and common. "For me there is a
greater question here than that of existence itself, but I am only able
to answer with a commonplace. A perfectly vicious circle!"
And it was true; for if he considered, for example, that at the
first thought of death everything becomes smoke, and he felt that
unfortunately it does, he felt at the same time that thousands of
people had come to that thought before he had, and that no one had
found in it either solace or even such satisfaction as the discovery
of a truth gives. Everything that he could say to himself was at once
terrifying and petty. It was easy for him to understand that the whole
life of man, general history, all philosophies, are at bottom merely
a struggle with incessant death,--a struggle despairing, a struggle
utterly senseless, and at the same time infinitely foolish and devoid
of object, for it is lost in advance. But such reasoning could not
bring him any comfort, since it was merely the confirmation of a new
vicious circle.
For if the one object of all human efforts is life, and the only result
death, the nonsense passes measure, and simply could not be accepted,
were it not for that loathsome and pitiless reality, which turns beings
beloved and living into rotten matter.
Pan Stanislav, during every visit to the cemetery, poisoned himself
with such thoughts. To-day, while going, he thought that the presence
of Marynia would liberate him from them; meanwhile, rather the opposite
happened. Litka's death, which had broken in him trust in the sense
and moral object of life, undermined in him also that first, former
love for Marynia, which was so naïve and free of doubt; now, when with
Marynia, he was standing at Litka's grave, when that death, which had
begun to be only a memory, had become again a thing almost tangible,
its poisoning effect was increasing anew. Again it seemed to him that
all life, consequently love, too, is merely an error, and the processes
of life utterly useless and vain. If above life there is neither reason
nor mercy, why toil, why love and marry? Is it to have children, become
attached to them with every drop of one's blood, and then look on
helplessly, while that blind, stupid, insulting, brutal force chokes
them, as a wolf chokes a lamb, and come to their graves, and think that
they are mouldering in damp and darkness? See, Litka is down there.
A day wonderfully gloomy only strengthened the bitterness of these
feelings. At times, during his previous visits, the cemetery had seemed
to Pan Stanislav a kind of great void in which life was dissolving, but
in which every misfortune, too, was dissolving,--something enormously
dreamy, soothing. To-day there was no rest in it. Pieces of snow fell
from the trees and gravestones; ravens pushed about among the wet trees
with their croaking. Sudden and strong blasts of wind hurled drops of
moisture from the branches, and, driving them about, produced a certain
desperate struggle around the stone crosses, which stood firm and
indifferent.
Just then Marynia ceased praying, and said, with that slightly
suppressed voice with which people speak in cemeteries,--
"Now her soul must be near us."
Pan Stanislav made no answer; but he thought first that he and Marynia
were beings as if from two distinct worlds, and then that if there were
even a particle of truth in what she said, all his mental struggles
would be less important than that melting snow. "In such case," said
he to himself, "there is dying and there are cemeteries, but there is
simply no death."
Marynia began to place on the grave immortelles, which she had
bought at the gate, and he to think hurriedly, rather by the aid of
his impressions than his ideas, "In my world there is no answer to
anything; there are only vicious circles, which lead to the precipice."
And this struck him,--that if such ideas of death as Marynia had,
did not come from faith, or if they had been unknown altogether, and
if all at once some philosopher had formulated them as a hypothesis,
the hypothesis would be recognized as the most genial of the genial,
because it explains everything, gives an answer to questions, gives
light, not only to life, but to death, which is darkness. Mankind would
kneel with admiration before such a philosopher and such a scientific
theory.
On the other hand, he felt that still something of Litka was there with
them. She herself was falling into dust, but something had survived
her; there remained, as it were, currents of her thought, of her will,
of her feeling. This,--that she had brought him to Marynia; that
they were betrothed; that they were then standing at her grave; that
they were to be united; that their lives would go on together; that
they would have children, who in their turn would live and love and
increase,--what was that, if not such a current, which, coming forth
from that child, might go on and on through eternity, renewing itself
in an endless chain of phenomena? How then understand that from a
mortal being should issue an immortal and ceaseless energy? Marynia, in
the simplicity of her faith, had found an answer; Pan Stanislav had not.
And still Marynia was right. Litka was with them. Through Pan
Stanislav's head there flew at that moment a certain hypothesis, dim,
and not fixed in close thought yet,--a hypothesis, that, perhaps, all
which man thinks during life, all that he wishes, all that he loves,
is a hundred times more intangible, a hundred times more subtile, than
ether, from which rises an astral existence, conscious of itself,
either eternal or successively born into beings more and more perfect,
more subtile, on to infinity. And it seemed to him that atoms of
thought and feeling might collect into a separate individuality,
specially because they came forth from one brain or one heart; that
they are related,--hence tend to one another with the same mysterious
principle by which physical elements combine to form physical
individualities.
At present he had not time to meditate over this, but it seemed to him
that he had caught something, that in the veil before his eyes, he saw,
as it were, an opening that might turn out to be a deception; but at
the moment, when he felt that still Litka was with them, he thought
that her presence could be understood only in that manner.
Just then some funeral came, for, in the tower, which stood in the
middle of the cemetery, the bell began to sound. Pan Stanislav gave
Marynia his arm, and they went towards the gate. On the way Marynia,
thinking evidently more about Litka, said,--
"Now I am certain that we shall be happy."
And she leaned more on Pan Stanislav's arm, for the gusts of wind had
become so violent that it was difficult for her to resist them. One
of these carried her veil around his neck. Reality began to call to
him. He pressed the arm of the living woman to his side, and felt that
loving, if it cannot ward away death, can at least harmonize life.
When they were seated in the carriage, he took Marynia's hand, and did
not let it go during the whole way. At moments solace returned to him
almost perfectly, for he thought that that maiden, true and kind to
the core of her nature, would be able to make good what was lacking in
his feeling, and revivify in him that which was palsied. "My wife! my
wife!" repeated he, in mind, looking at her; and her honest, clear eyes
answered, "Thine."
When they arrived at the house, Plavitski had not returned from his
walk before dinner; they were all by themselves then. Pan Stanislav sat
down by her side, and under the influence of those thoughts which had
passed through his head on the way, he said,--
"You declared that Litka was with us; that is true. I have always
returned from the cemetery as if cut down; but it is well that we were
there."
"It is; for we went as if for a blessing," said Marynia.
"I have that same impression; and, besides, it seems to me as if we
were united already, or, at least, were nearer than before."
"True; and this will be both a sad and a pleasant remembrance."
He took her hand again, and said,--
"If you believe that we shall be happy, why defer happiness? My kind,
my best, I, too, trust that it will be well with us; let us not defer
the day. We have to begin a new life; let us begin it promptly."
"Make the decision. I am yours with all my soul."
Then he drew her toward him, as he had the day before, and began to
seek her lips with his lips; and she, whether under the influence of
the thought that his rights were greater on that day, or under the
influence of awakening thoughts, did not turn her head away any more,
but, half closing her eyes, she herself gave him her lips, as if they
had been thirsty a long time.