For Pan Stanislav began now the period of ante-nuptial cares and
preparations. He had, it is true, a dwelling furnished for more than a
year,--that is, from a period before he knew Marynia. At that time he
made no denial when Bukatski laughed at the lodgings, seeing in them a
proof of how anxious his friend was to marry. "Yes," said he; "I have
property enough to permit this. I think, too, that I am doing something
toward it, and that my plans are growing real."
Bukatski said this was prevision worthy of praise, and wondered that
a man of such foresight did not engage also a nurse and a midwife. At
times conversation of this kind ended in a quarrel, for Pan Stanislav
could not let any one deny him sound judgment in worldly matters.
Bukatski affirmed that it was bird romance, worthy of a bunting, to
start with building a poetic nest. One friend contended that there
could be no wiser method than to build a cage, if you want a bird;
the other retorted that if the bird were not found yet, and the chase
was uncertain, the cage was a joke on one's appetite. It ended with
allusions to the slim legs of Bukatski, which, for him, made the chase
after birds of all kinds impossible, even though they were wingless.
Bukatski, on such occasions, fell into excellent humor.
Now, however, when the cage was ready, and the bird not only caught,
but willing, there remained so much to be done that Pan Stanislav was
seized more than once by surprise that an act so simple by nature as
marriage, should be so complex in civilized societies. It seemed to
him that if no one has the right to look into the moral side of the
connection, since it is the outcome of genuine free-will, the formal
side should be looked at still less.
But he thought so because he was not a law-giver, and was an impulsive
man made impatient by the need of getting "papers." Once he had
resolved on marriage, he ceased to think or to analyze, and hastened,
as a man of action, to execute.
He was even filled more than once with pride, on comparing himself
with such a man, for instance, as Ploshovski, whose history had been
circling from mouth to mouth in society, before people had begun to
learn it from his diary. "But I am of different metal," thought Pan
Stanislav, with a certain satisfaction. At moments, again, when he
recalled Ploshovski's figure, his noble, delicate, and also firmly
defined profile, his refinement, subtlety, and mental suppleness, his
rare gift of winning people, especially women, it occurred to him that
he, Polanyetski, is a less refined type, less noble, and, in general, a
man cut from ruder materials. But to this he answered that evidently,
in the face of conditions in life and the resistance required by it,
too much refinement is simply fatal to mind as well as body. In himself
he saw also far more ability for living. "Finally," said he, "I can be
of some service, while he would have been good only on social shelves
with curiosities. I am able to win bread; he was able only to make
pellets out of bread when baked. I know how, and I know well how, to
color cotton; he only knew how to color women's cheeks. But what a
difference between us with reference to women! That man over-analyzed
his life and the life of the woman whom he loved; he destroyed her and
himself by not being able to escape from the doubt whether he loved
her sufficiently. I, too, have doubts whether my love is perfect; but
I take my little woman, and should be an imbecile, not a man, to fear
the future, and fail to squeeze from it in simple fashion what good and
happiness it will let me squeeze."
Here Pan Stanislav, though he had forsworn analysis, began to analyze,
not himself, it is true, but Marynia. He permitted this, however, only
because he foresaw certainly favorable conclusions; he understood that,
in calculating the future of two people, good-will on one side is not
sufficient, and becomes nothing, if good-will fails on the other.
But he was convinced that in taking Marynia he was not taking a dead
heart. Marynia had brought to the world not only an honest nature, but
from years of childhood she had been in contact with work and with
conditions in which she was forced to forget herself, so as to think
of others. Besides, there was above her the memory of a mother, a kind
of endless blessing from beyond the grave,--a mother whose calmness,
candor, and uprightness, whose life, full of trials, were remembered
to the present with the utmost respect, throughout the whole region
of Kremen. Pan Stanislav knew this, and was persuaded that, building
on the heart and character of Marynia, he was building on a foundation
well-nigh immovable. More than once he recalled the words of a woman,
an acquaintance and friend of his mother's, who, when some one asked
her whether she was more anxious about the future of her sons than her
daughters, answered, "I think only of my sons; for my daughters, in the
worst case, can be only unhappy."
So it is! School and the world rear sons, and both may make them
scoundrels; daughters, in whom the home ingrafts honorableness, can, in
the worst case, be only unhappy. Pan Stanislav understood that this was
true with regard to Marynia. So that if he analyzed her, his analysis
was rather the examination of a jeweller and his admiration for his
gems, than a scientific method intended to reach results unknown and
unexpected.
Still he quarrelled once with Marynia very seriously, because of
a letter from Vaskovski, which Pan Stanislav received from Rome a
few weeks after the professor's departure, and which he read in its
integrity to Marynia. This letter was as follows:--
MY DEAR,--I am lodging at Via Tritone, Pension Française.
Visit my Warsaw lodgings; see if Snopchinski looks after my little
boys properly, and if the birds of Saint Francis have seeds and
water in plenty. When spring comes, it will be needful to open the
windows and cages; whichever bird wishes to stay, let it stay,
and whichever one wishes to go, let it fly. The boys of the genus
_homo sapiens_ should have good food, since I left money therefor,
and besides little moralizing, but much love. Snopchinski is a
worthy man, but a hypochondriac. He says this comes from snows.
When he is attacked by what he calls "chandra," he looks for whole
weeks on his boots, and is silent; but one must talk with little
boys, to give them confidence. This is all that touches Warsaw.
I am printing here in French, in the typography of the journal
"L'Italie," that work of mine which I discussed with thee. They
laugh at my French a little, and at me, but I am used to that.
Bukatski came here. He is a good, beloved fellow! he has grown
strange to the last degree, and says that he drags his feet after
him, though I have not noticed it. He loves both Marynia and thee,
and indeed every one, though he denies it. But when he begins to
talk, one's ears wither. May the Lord God bless thee, dear boy,
and thy honest Marynia! I should like to be at thy wedding, but
I know not whether I shall finish my work before Easter; listen,
therefore, now to what I tell thee, and know that I write this
letter to that end. Do not think that the old man is talking just
to talk. Thou knowest, besides, that I have been a teacher; that
the inheritance from my brother freed me from that occupation;
that I have had experience and have seen things. If ye have
children, do not torture them with knowledge; let them grow up
as God wills. I might stop here; but thou art fond of figures,
hence I will give thee figures. A little child has as many hours
of labor as a grown man in office, with this difference, that
the man talks during office hours with his colleagues, or smokes
cigarettes; the child must strain its attention continually,
or lose the clew of lessons, and cease to understand what is
said to it. The man goes home when his work is done; the child
must prepare for the following day, which takes four hours from
a capable child, from one less capable six. Add to this, that
poorer pupils give lessons frequently, the rich take them, which,
added, gives twelve hours. Twelve hours' labor for a child! Dost
understand that, my dear? Canst thou realize what sickly natures
must grow up in such conditions,--natures out of joint, inclined
to the wildest manias, crooked, wilful? Dost thou understand how
we are filling cemeteries with our children, and why the most
monstrous ideas find supporters? Ah, at present they are limiting
the hours of labor in factories even for grown people, but
touching children at school philanthropy is silent. Oh, but that
is a field! that is a service to be rendered; that is a coming
glory and sainthood. Do not torture thy children with learning,
I beg thee--and I beg Marynia; promise me both of you. I do not
speak just to speak, as Bukatski says sometimes, but I speak from
the heart; and this is the greatest reform for which future ages
are waiting, the greatest after the introduction of Christ into
history. Something wonderful happened to me in Perugia a few days
since, but of that I will tell thee sometime, and now I embrace
both of you.
Marynia listened to this letter, looking at the tips of her shoes,
like that Snopchinski of whom the Professor wrote. But Pan Stanislav
laughed, and said,--
"Have you ever heard anything like this? It is long before our
marriage; but he is lamenting over our children, and takes the field on
their behalf. This is somewhat the history of my nest."
After a while he added, "To tell the truth, the fault is mine; for
I made him various promises." And, inclining so that he could see
Marynia's eyes, he asked, "But what do you say to this letter?"
Pan Stanislav, inquiring thus, had chanced on that unhappy moment when
a man is not himself, and acts not in accordance with his own nature.
He was rather a harsh person generally, but not brutal, and at times
was even capable of delicate acts, really womanlike. But now, in his
look and in the question directed to a young lady so mimosa-like as
Marynia, there was something simply brutal. She knew as well as others
that after marriage come children; but this seemed to her something
indefinite, not to be mentioned, or if mentioned, mentioned in
allusions as delicate as lace, or in a moment of emotion, with beating
heart, with loving lips at the ear, with solemnity,--as touching what
is most sacred in a mutual future. Hence Pan Stanislav's careless tone
outraged and pained her. She thought, "Why does he not understand
this?" and she in turn acted not in accordance with her nature; for,
as happens frequently with timid persons in moments of bitterness and
confusion, they exhibit greater anger than they feel.
"You should not treat me in this way!" cried she, indignantly. "You
should not speak to me in this way!"
Pan Stanislav laughed again with feigned gayety.
"Why are you angry?" inquired he.
"You do not act with me as is proper."
"I do not understand the question."
"So much the worse."
The smile vanished from his lips; his face grew dark, and he spoke
quickly, like a man who has ceased to reckon with his words.
"Perhaps I am stupid; but I know what is right and what is not. In this
way life becomes impossible. Whoever makes great things out of nothing
must not blame others. But, since my presence is disagreeable, I go!"
And, seizing his hat, he bowed, and went out. Marynia did not try to
detain him. For a while offence and anger stifled in her all other
sensations; then there remained to her only an impression, as if from
the blow of a club. Her thoughts scattered like a flock of birds. Above
them towered only one dim idea: "All is over! he will not return!"
Thus fell the structure which had begun to unite in such beautiful
lines. Emptiness, nothingness, a torturing, because objectless life,
and a chilled heart,--that is what remained to her. And happiness had
been so near! But that which had taken place so suddenly was something
so strange that she could not explain immediately. She went to the
writing-desk, and began mechanically to arrange papers in it, with
a certain objectless haste, as if there could be any reason at that
moment for arranging them. Then she looked at Litka's photograph, and
sat down quickly with her hands on her eyes and temples. After a time
it occurred to her that Litka's will must be stronger than the will
of them both, and a ray of hope shone in on her suddenly. She began to
walk in the room, and to think on what had passed; she recalled Pan
Stanislav, not only as he had been just then, but earlier,--two, three
days, a week before. Her regret became greater than her feeling of
offence, and it increased with her affection for Pan Stanislav. After
a time she said in her soul that she was not free to forget herself;
that it was her duty to accept and love Pan Stanislav as he was, and
not strive to fix him to her ideas. "That is, he is a living man, not
a puppet," repeated she, a number of times. And a growing feeling of
fault seized her, and after that compunction. A heart submissive by
nature, and greatly capable of loving, struggled against sound sense,
which she possessed undoubtedly, and which now told her in vain that
reason was not on Pan Stanislav's side, and that, moreover, she had
said nothing which needed pardon. She said to herself, "If he has a
good heart, even to a small extent, he will return;" but she was seized
also with fear in view of the self-love of men in general, and of Pan
Stanislav in particular,--she was too intelligent not to note that
he cared greatly to pass for an unbending person. But considerations
of that kind, which an unfriendly heart would have turned to his
disadvantage, had made her tender only on his behalf.
Half an hour later she was convinced to the depth of her soul that
the fault lay only on her side; that "she had tormented him so much
already" that she ought to yield now,--that is, to be the first to
extend a hand in conciliation. That meant in her mind to write a few
peace-making words. He had suffered so much from that affair of Kremen
that this was due to him. And she was ready even to weep over his fate.
She hoped, withal, that he, the bad, ugly man, would estimate what it
cost her to write to him, and would come that same evening.
It had seemed to her that nothing was easier than to write a few
cordial phrases, which go directly from one heart to another. But how
difficult! A letter has no eyes, which fill with tears; no face, which
smiles both sadly and sweetly; no voice, which trembles; no hands to
stretch forth. You may read and understand a letter as you like; it is
merely black letters on paper as impassive as death.
Marynia had just torn the third sheet, when the face of Pan Plavitski,
as wrinkled as a roast apple, and with mustaches freshly dyed, showed
itself at the door partly open.
"Is Polanyetski not here?" inquired he.
"He is not, papa."
"But will he come this evening?"
"I do not know," answered she, with a sigh.
"If he comes, my child, tell him that I will return not later than an
hour from now; and that I wish to speak with him."
"And I too wish to speak with him," thought Marynia.
And when she had torn the third sheet she took the fourth and was
thinking whether to turn the whole quarrel into a jest, or simply to
beg his pardon. The jest might not please him; in the pardon there was
something warmer, but how difficult it was! If he had not fled, it
would have sufficed to extend her hand; but he flew out as if shot from
a sling, the irritable man, though so much loved.
And, raising her eyes, she began to work intently with her dark head,
when on a sudden the bell sounded in the entrance. Marynia's heart was
beating like a hammer; and through her head flew these questions, like
lightning,--
"Is it he? Is it not he?"
The door opened; it was he.
He came in with the look of a wolf, his head down, his face gloomy.
Evidently he was very uncertain how she would receive him; but she
sprang up, her heart beating like a bird's heart; her eyes radiant,
happy, touched greatly by his return; and, running to him, she laid her
hands on his shoulders.
"But how good! how nice! And do you know, I wanted to write to you."
Pan Stanislav, pressing her hands to his lips, was silent for some
time; at last he said,--
"You ought to give the order to throw me downstairs." In a rapture of
thankfulness he drew her up to him, kissed her lips, eyes, temples, and
hair, which became unbound in the pressure. In such moments it seemed
to him always that he would find everything that goes to make great and
perfect love. At last he released her and continued,--
"You are too good. Though that is better, it subdues me. I came to
beg your forgiveness, nothing more. I regained my senses at once. I
reproached myself for my last words, and I cannot tell you how sorry
I was. I walked along the street, thinking to see you in the window,
perhaps, and note from your face whether I might come in. After that I
could not restrain myself, and returned."
"I beg pardon; it was my fault. You see the torn paper; I wrote and
wrote."
He devoured with his eyes her hair, which she had arranged hastily.
With blushing face, from which joy was beaming, with eyes laughing from
happiness, she seemed to him more beautiful than ever, and desired as
never before.
Marynia noticed, too, that he was looking at her hair; and confusion
struggled with pure womanly coquetry. She had fastened it awkwardly
by design, so that the tresses were falling more and more on her
shoulders; while she said,--
"Do not look, or I'll go to my room."
"But that is my wealth," said Pan Stanislav; "and in my life I have
never seen anything like it."
He stretched his hands to her again, but she evaded.
"Not permitted, not permitted," said she; "as it is; I am ashamed. I
ought to have left you."
Her hair, however, came gradually to order; then both sat down and
conversed quietly, though looking into each other's eyes.
"And you wished really to write?" asked Pan Stanislav.
"You see the torn paper."
"I say that, in truth, you are too good."
She raised her eyes, and, looking at the shelf above the bureau, said,--
"Because the fault was mine. Yes; only mine."
And, judging that she could not be too magnanimous, she added after a
moment, blushing to her ears and dropping her eyes,--
"For, after all, the professor is correct in what he writes about
learning."
Pan Stanislav wanted to kneel down and kiss her feet. Her charm and
goodness not only disarmed him, but conquered him thoroughly.
"That I am annihilated is true," cried he, as if finishing some
unexpressed thought with words. "You conquer me utterly."
She began to shake her head joyously. "Ei! I don't know; I am such a
coward."
"You a coward? I will tell you an anecdote: In Belgium I knew two
young ladies named Wauters, who had a pet cat, a mild creature, mild
enough, it would seem, to be put to a wound. Afterward one of the young
ladies received a tame hare as a gift. What do you think? The cat was
so afraid that from terror he jumped on to every shelf and stove. One
day the ladies went to walk; all at once they remembered that the cat
was alone with the hare. 'But will not Matou hurt the hare?' 'Matou?
Matou is so terrified that he is ready to go out of his skin!' And
they walked on quietly. They came home an hour later. And guess what
had happened? They found only the ears of the hare. That is precisely
the relation of young ladies to us. They are afraid seemingly; but
afterward nothing is left of us but ears."
And Pan Stanislav began to laugh, and Marynia with him; after a while
he added,--
"I know that of me only ears will be left."
He did not tell the truth, however; for he felt that it would be
otherwise. Marynia too, after thinking a while, said,--
"No; I have not such a character."
"That is better too; for I will tell you sincerely what conclusions
I have drawn from my life observations: the greater egotism always
conquers the less."
"Or the greater love yields to the less," answered Marynia.
"That comes out the same. As to me, I confess that I should like to
hold some Herod, see, this way, in my hand" (here Pan Stanislav opened
his fingers and then closed them into a fist); "but with such a dove
as you, it is quite different. With you I think we shall have to fight
to restrain you from too much self-abnegation, too much personal
sacrifice. Such is your nature, and I know whom I take. For that matter
all say so, and even Mashko, who is no Solomon, said: 'She may be
unhappy with thee; thou with her, never.' And he is right. But I am
curious to know how Mashko will be for his wife. He has a firm hand."
"But is he loved much?"
"Not so much as awhile ago, when a certain young lady coquetted with
him."
"Yes; for he wasn't so wicked as a certain 'Pan Stas.'"
"That will be a wonderful marriage. She is not ill-looking, though she
is pale, and has red eyes. But Mashko marries for property. He admits
that she doesn't love him; and when that adventure with Gantovski
took place (he is brave, too), he was certain that those ladies would
choose the opportunity to break with him. Meanwhile it turned out
just the opposite; and imagine, Mashko is now alarmed again, because
everything moves as if on oil. It seems to him suspicious. There are
certain strange things there; there exists also, as it seems, a Pan
Kraslavski--God knows what there is not. The whole affair is stupid.
There will be no happiness in it,--at least, not such as I picture to
myself."
"And what do you picture to yourself?"
"Happiness in this,--to marry a reliable woman, like you, and see the
future clearly."
"But I think it is in this,--to be loved; but that is not enough yet."
"What more?"
"To be worthy of that love, and to--"
Here Marynia was unable for a time to find words, but at last she
said,--
"And to believe in a husband, and work with him."