Two weeks later, in Venice, the doorkeeper of the Hotel Bauer gave Pan
Stanislav a letter with the postmark of Warsaw. It was at the moment
when he and his wife were entering a gondola to go to the church of
Santa Maria della Salute, where on that day, the anniversary of her
death, a Mass was to be offered for the soul of Marynia's mother. Pan
Stanislav, who expected nothing important from Warsaw, put the letter
in his pocket, and asked his wife,--
"But is it not a little too early for Mass?"
"It is; a whole half hour."
"Then perhaps it would please thee to go first to the Rialto?"
Marynia was always ready to go. Never having been abroad before, she
simply lived in continual rapture, and it seemed to her that all which
surrounded her was a dream. More than once, in the excess of her
delight, she threw herself on her husband's neck, as if he had built
Venice, as if she ought to thank him alone for its beauty. More than
once she repeated,--
"I look and I see, but cannot believe that this is real."
So they went to the Rialto. There was little movement yet, because of
the early hour; the water was as if sleeping, the day calm, clear, but
not very bright,--one of those days in which the Grand Canal with all
its beauty has the repose of a cemetery; the palaces seem deserted
and forgotten, and in their motionless reflection in the water is
that peculiar deep sadness of dead things. One looks at them then in
silence, and as if in fear, lest by words the general repose may be
broken.
Thus did Marynia look. But Pan Stanislav, less sensitive, remembered
that he had a letter in his pocket, hence he drew it forth, and began
to read. After a time he exclaimed,--
"Ah! Mashko is married; their wedding was three days after ours."
But Marynia, as if roused from a dream, inquired, while blinking, "What
dost thou say?"
"I say, dreaming head, that Mashko's wedding is over."
She rested her head on his shoulder, and, looking into his eyes,
inquired,--
"What is Mashko to me? I have my Stas."
Pan Stanislav smiled like a man who kindly permits himself to be loved,
but does not wonder that he is loved; then he kissed his wife on the
forehead, with a certain distraction, for the letter had begun to
occupy him, and read on. All at once he sprang up, as if something had
pricked him, and cried,--
"Oh, that is a real catastrophe!"
"What has happened?"
"Panna Kraslavski has a life annuity of nine thousand rubles, which her
uncle left her; beyond that, not a copper."
"But that is a good deal."
"A good deal? Hear what Mashko writes:--
"'In view of this, my bankruptcy is an accomplished fact, and the
declaration of my insolvency a question of time.'
"They deceived each other; dost understand? He counted on her property,
and she on his."
"At least they have something to live on."
"They have something to live on; but Mashko has nothing with which
to pay his debts, and that concerns us a little,--me, thee, and thy
father. All may be lost."
Here Marynia was alarmed in earnest. "My Stas," said she, "perhaps thy
presence is needed there; let us return, then. What a blow this will be
to papa!"
"I will write Bigiel immediately to take my place, and save what is
possible. Do not take this business to heart too much, my child. I have
enough to buy a bit of bread for us both, and for thy father."
Marynia put her arms around his neck. "Thou, my good--With such a man
one may be at rest."
"Besides, something will be saved. If Mashko finds credit, he will
pay us; he may find a purchaser, too, for Kremen. He writes me to ask
Bukatski to buy Kremen, and to persuade him to do so. Bukatski is going
to Rome this evening, and I have invited him to lunch. I will ask him.
He has a considerable fortune, and would have something to do. I am
curious to know how Mashko's life will develop. He writes at the end of
the letter:
"'I discovered the condition of affairs to my wife; she bore
herself passively, but her mother is wild with indignation.' #/
"Finally he adds that at last he has fallen in love with his wife, and
that if they should separate, it would be the greatest unhappiness in
life for him. That lyric tale gives me little concern; but I am curious
as to how all this will end."
"She will not desert him," said Marynia.
"I do not know; I thought myself once that she would not, but I like to
contradict. Wilt thou bet?"
"No; for I do not wish to win. Thou ugly man, thou hast no knowledge of
women."
"On the contrary, I know them; and I know them because all are not like
this little one who is sailing now in a gondola."
"In a gondola in Venice, with her Stas," answered Marynia.
They were now at the church. When they went from Mass to the hotel,
they found Bukatski, dressed for the road, in a cross-barred gray
suit,--which, on his frail body, seemed too large,--in yellow shoes and
a fantastic cravat, tied as fancifully as carelessly.
"I am going to-day," said he, after he had greeted Marynia. "Do you
command me to prepare a dwelling in Florence for you? I can engage some
palace."
"Then you will halt on the road to Rome?"
"Yes. First, to give notice in the gallery of your coming, and to put
a sofa on the stairs for you; second, I halt for black coffee, which
is bad throughout Italy in general, but in Florence, at Giacosa's, Via
Tornabuoni, it is exceptionally excellent. That, however, is the one
thing of value in Florence."
"What pleasure is there for you in always saying something different
from what you think?"
"But I am thinking seriously of engaging nice lodgings on Lung-Arno for
you."
"We shall stop at Verona."
"For Romeo and Juliet? Of course; of course! Go now; later you would
shrug your shoulders if you thought of them. In a month it would be too
late for you to go, perhaps."
Marynia started up at him like a cat; then, turning to her husband,
said,--
"Stas, don't let this gentleman annoy me so!"
"Well," answered Pan Stanislav, "I will cut his head off, but after
lunch."
Bukatski began to declaim:--
"It is not yet near day:
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear."
Then, turning to Marynia, he inquired, "Has Pan Stanislav written a
sonnet for you?"
"No."
"Oh, that is a bad sign. You have a balcony on the street; has it never
come once to his head to stand under your balcony with a guitar?"
"No."
"Oh, very bad!"
"But there is no place to stand here, for there is water."
"He might go in a gondola. With us it is different, you see; but here
in Italy the air is such that if a man is in love really, he either
writes sonnets, or stands under a balcony with a guitar. It is a thing
perfectly certain, resulting from the geographical position, the
currents of the sea, the chemical make-up of the air and the water:
if a man does not write sonnets, or stand out of doors with a guitar,
surely he is not in love. I can bring you very famous books on this
subject."
"It seems that I shall be driven to cut his head off before lunch,"
said Pan Stanislav.
The execution, however, did not come, for the reason that it was just
time for lunch. They sat down at a separate table, but in the same hall
was a general one, which for Marynia, whom everything interested, was a
source of pleasure, too, for she saw _real_ English people. This made
on her such an impression as if she had gone to some land of exotics;
for since Kremen is Kremen, not one of its inhabitants had undertaken a
similar journey. For Bukatski, and even Pan Stanislav, her delight was
a source of endless jokes, but also of genuine pleasure. The first said
that she reminded him of his youth; the second called his wife a "field
daisy," and said that one was not sorry to show the world to a woman
like her. Bukatski noticed, however, that the "field daisy" had much
feeling for art and much honesty. Many things were known to her from
books or pictures; not knowing others, she acknowledged this openly,
but in her expressions there was nothing artificial or affected. When a
thing touched her heart, her delight had no bounds, so that her eyes
became moist. At one time Bukatski jested with her unmercifully; at
another he persuaded her that all the connoisseurs, so called, have a
nail in the head, and that she, as a sensitive and refined nature, and
so far unspoiled, was for him of the greatest importance in questions
of art; she would be still more important if she were ten years of age.
At lunch they did not talk of art, because Pan Stanislav remembered his
news from Warsaw, and said,--
"I had a letter from Mashko."
"And I, too," answered Bukatski.
"And thou? They must be hurried there; Mashko must be pressed in real
earnest. Is the question known to thee?"
"He persuades me, or rather, he implores me, to buy--dost thou know
what?"
Bukatski avoided Kremen, knowing well what trouble it had caused, and
was silent through delicacy toward Marynia.
But Pan Stanislav, understanding his intention, said,--
"Oh, my God! Once we avoided that name as a sore spot, but now, before
my wife, it is something different. It is hard to be tied up a whole
lifetime."
Bukatski looked at him quickly; Marynia blushed a little, and said,--
"Stas is perfectly right. Besides, I know that it is a question of
Kremen."
"Yes, it is of Kremen."
"Well, and what?" asked Pan Stanislav.
"I should not buy it even because of this,--that the lady might have
the impression that people are tossing it about like a ball."
"If I do not think at all of Kremen?" said Marynia, blushing still
more. She looked at her husband; and he nodded in sign of praise and
satisfaction.
"That is a proof," answered he, "that thou art a child of good
judgment."
"At the same time," continued Marynia, "if Pan Mashko does not hold
out, Kremen will either be divided, or go into usurers' hands, and that
to me would be disagreeable."
"Ah, ha!" said Bukatski, "but if you do not think at all of Kremen?"
Marynia looked again at her husband, and this time with alarm; he began
to laugh, however.
"Marynia is caught," said he.
Then he turned to Bukatski. "Evidently Mashko looks on thee as the one
plank of salvation."
"But I am not a plank; look at me! I am a straw, rather. The man who
wishes to save himself by such a straw will drown. Mashko has said
himself more than once to me, 'Thou hast blunted nerves.' Perhaps I
have; but I need strong impressions for that very reason. If I were
to help Mashko, he would work himself free, stand on his feet, give
himself out as a lord still further; his wife would personate a great
lady, they would be terribly _comme il faut_, and I should have the
stupid comedy, which I have seen already, and which I have yawned at.
If, on the other hand, I do not help him, he will be ruined, he will
perish, something interesting will happen, unexpected events will come
to pass, something tragic may result, which will occupy me more. Now,
think, both of you, I must pay for a wretched comedy, and dearly; the
tragedy I can have for nothing. How is a man to hesitate in this case?"
"Fi! how can you say such things?" exclaimed Marynia.
"Not only can I say them, but I shall write them to Mashko; besides, he
has deceived me in the most unworthy manner."
"In what?"
"In what? In this, that I thought: 'Oh, that is a regular snob! that
is material for a dark personage; that is a man really without heart
or scruples!' Meanwhile, what comes out? That at bottom of his soul he
has a certain honesty; that he wants to pay his creditors; that he is
sorry for that puppet with red eyes; that he loves her; that for him
separation from her would be a terrible catastrophe. He writes this to
me himself most shamelessly. I give my word that in our society one can
count on nothing. I will settle abroad, for I cannot endure this."
Now Marynia was angry in earnest.
"If you say such things, I shall beg to break relations with you."
But Pan Stanislav shrugged his shoulders, and added: "In fact, thy talk
is ever on some conceit to amuse thyself and others, and never wilt
thou think with judgment and in human fashion. Dost understand, I do
not persuade thee to buy Kremen, and all the more because I might have
a certain interest to do so; but there would be some occupation for
thee there, something to do."
Here Bukatski began to laugh, and said after a while,--
"I told thee once that I like, above all, to do what pleases me, and
that it pleases me most to do nothing; hence it is that doing nothing
I do what pleases me most. If thou art wise, prove that I have uttered
nonsense. Take the second case: Suppose me a buckwheat sower; that,
however, simply passes imagination. I, for whom rain or fine weather is
merely the question of choosing a cane or an umbrella, would have, in
my old age, to stand on one leg, like a stork, and look to see whether
it pleases the sun to shine, or the clouds to drop rain. I should have
to tremble as to whether my wheat is likely to grow, or my rape-seed
shed, or rot fall on the potatoes; whether I shall be able to stake my
peas, or furnish his Worship of Dogweevil as many bushels as I have
promised; whether my plough-horses have the glanders, and my sheep the
foot-rot. I should, in my old age, come to this,--that from blunting of
faculties I would interject after every three words: 'Pan Benefactor,'
or 'What is it that I wanted to say?' _Voyons! pas si bête!_ I, a free
man, should become a _glebæ adscriptus_, a 'Neighbor,' a 'Brother
Lata,' a 'Pan Matsyei,' a 'Lechit.'"[5]
Here, roused a little by the wine, he began to quote in an undertone
the words of Slaz in "Lilla Weneda":--
"Am I a Lechit? What does this mean? Are boorishness,
Drunkenness, gluttony, gazing from my eyes
With the seven deadly sins, a passion for uproar,
Pickled cucumbers, and escutcheons?"
"Argue with him," said Pan Stanislav, "especially when at the root of
the matter he is partly right."
But Marynia, who as soon as Bukatski had begun to speak of work in the
country, grew somewhat thoughtful, shook thoughtfulness now from her
forehead, and said,--
"When papa was not well,--and never in Kremen has he been so well as
recently,--I saved him a little in management, and later that work
became for me a habit. Though God knows there was no lack of troubles,
it gave me a pleasure that I cannot describe. But I did not understand
the cause of this till Pan Yamish explained it. 'That,' said he, 'is
the real work on which the world stands, and every other is either the
continuation of it, or something artificial.' Later I understood even
things which he did not explain. More than once, when I went out to
the fields in spring, and saw that all things were growing, I felt that
my heart, too, was growing with them. And now I know why that is: In
all other relations that a man holds there may be deceit, but the land
is truth. It is impossible to deceive the land; it either gives, or
gives not, but it does not deceive. Therefore land is loved, as truth;
and because one loves it, it teaches one to love. And the dew falls not
only on grain, and on meadows, but on the soul, as it were; and a man
becomes better, for he has to deal with truth, and he loves,--that is,
he is nearer God. Therefore I loved my Kremen so much."
Here Marynia became frightened at her own speech, and at this, what
would "Stas" think; at the same time reminiscences had roused her. All
this was reflected in her eyes as the dawn, and on her young face; and
she was herself like the dawn.
Bukatski looked at her as he would at some unknown newly discovered
master-piece of the Venetian school; then he closed his eyes, and
hid half of his small face in his enormous fantastic cravat, and
whispered,--
"_Délicieuse!_"
Then, thrusting forth his chin from his cravat, he said,--
"You are perfectly right."
But the logical woman would not let herself be set aside by a
compliment.
"If I am right, you are not."
"That is another matter. You are right because it becomes you; a woman
in that case is always right."
"Stas!" said Marynia, turning to her husband. But there was so much
charm in the woman at that moment, that he also looked on her with
delight, his eyes smiled, his nostrils moved with a quick motion; for a
moment he covered her hand with his, and said,--
"Oh, child, child!"
Then he inclined to her, and whispered,--
"If we were not in this hall, I would kiss those dear eyes and that
mouth."
And, speaking thus, Pan Stanislav made a great mistake, for at that
moment it was not enough to feel the physical charm of Marynia, to be
roused at the color of her face, her eyes, or her mouth, but it was
necessary to feel the soul in her; to what an extent he did not feel it
was shown by his fondling words, "O child, child!" She was for him at
that moment only a charming child-woman, and he thought of nothing else.
Just then coffee was brought. To end the conversation, Pan Stanislav
said,--
"So Mashko has come out a lover, and that after marriage."
Bukatski swallowed a cup of boiling coffee, and answered, "In this is
the stupidity, that Mashko is the man, not in this,--that the love
was after marriage. I have not said anything sensible. If I have, I
beg pardon most earnestly, and promise not to do so a second time. I
have burned my tongue evidently with the hot coffee! I drink it so hot
because they tell me that it is good for headache; and my head aches,
aches."
Here Bukatski placed his palm on his neck and the back of his head, and
blinked, remaining motionless for a few seconds.
"I am talking and talking," said he, then, "but my head aches. I should
have gone to my lodgings, but Svirski, the artist, is to come to me
here. We are going to Florence together; he is a famous painter in
water-colors, really famous. No one has brought greater force out of
water-colors. But see, he is just coming!"
In fact, Svirski, as if summoned by a spell, appeared in the hall, and
began to look around for Bukatski. Espying him at last, he approached
the table.
He was a robust, short man, with hair as black as if he were an
Italian. He had an ordinary face, but a wise, deep glance, and also
mild. While walking, he swayed a little because of his wide hips.
Bukatski presented him to Marynia in the following words,--
"I present to you Pan Svirski, a painter, of the genus genius, who
not only received his talent, but had the most happy idea of not
burying it, which he might have done as well, and with equal benefit
to mankind, as any other man. But he preferred to fill the world with
water-colors and with fame."
Svirski smiled, showing two rows of teeth, wonderfully small, but white
as ivory, and said,--
"I wish that were true."
"And I will tell you why he did not bury his talent," continued
Bukatski; "his reasons were so parochial that it would be a shame for
any decent artist to avow them. He loves Pognembin, which is somewhere
in Poznan, or thereabouts, and he loves it because he was born there.
If he had been born in Guadeloupe he would have loved Guadeloupe, and
love for Guadeloupe would have saved him in life also. This man makes
me indignant; and will the lady tell me if I am not right?"
To this Marynia answered, raising her blue eyes to Svirski, "Pan
Bukatski is not so bad as he seems, for he has said everything that is
good of you."
"I shall die with my qualities known," whispered Bukatski.
Svirski was looking meanwhile at Marynia, as only an artist can permit
himself to look at a woman, and not offend. Interest was evident in his
eyes, and at last he muttered,--
"To see such a head all at once, here in Venice, is a genuine surprise."
"What?" asked Bukatski.
"I say, that the lady is of a wonderfully well-defined type. Oh, this,
for example" (here he drew a line with his thumb along his nose, mouth,
and chin). "And also what purity of outline!"
"Well, isn't it true?" asked Pan Stanislav, with excitement. "I have
always thought the same."
"I will lay a wager that thou hast never thought of it," retorted
Bukatski.
But Pan Stanislav was glad and proud of that interest which Marynia
roused in the famous artist; hence he said,--
"If it would give you any pleasure to paint her portrait, it would give
me much more to have it."
"From the soul of my heart," answered Svirski, with simplicity; "but
I am going to Rome to-day. There I have begun the portrait of Pani
Osnovski."
"And we shall be in Rome no later than ten days from now."
"Then we are agreed."
Marynia returned thanks, blushing to her ears. But Bukatski began to
take farewell, and drew Svirski after him. When they had gone out, he
said,--
"We have time yet. Come to Floriani's for a glass of cognac."
Bukatski did not know how to drink, and didn't like spirits; but since
he had begun to take morphine, he drank more than he could endure,
because some one had told him that one neutralized the other.
"What a delightful couple those Polanyetskis are!" said Svirski.
"They are not long married."
"It is evident that he loves her immensely. When I praised her, his
eyes were smiling, and he rose as if on yeast."
"She loves him a hundred times more."
"What knowledge hast thou in such matters?"
Bukatski did not answer; he only raised his pointed nose, and said, as
if to himself,--
"Oh, marriage and love have disgusted me; for it is always profit on
one side, and sacrifice on the other. Polanyetski is a good man, but
what of that? She has just as much sense, just as much character,
but she loves more; therefore life will fix itself for them in this
way,--he will be the sun, he will be gracious enough to shine, to warm,
will consider her as his property, as a planet made to circle around
him. All this is indicated to-day. She has entered his sphere. There
is in him a certain self-confidence which angers me. He will have her
with an income, but she will have him alone without an income. He will
permit himself to love, considering his love as virtue, kindness, and
favor; she will love, considering her love as a happiness and a duty.
Look, if you please, at him, the divine, the resplendent! I want to go
back and tell them this, in the hope that they will be less happy."
Meanwhile the two men had taken seats in front of Floriani's, and
soon cognac was brought to them. Svirski thought some time over the
Polanyetskis, and then inquired,--
"But if the position is pleasant for her?"
"I know that she has short sight; she might be pleased quite as well to
wear glasses."
"Go to the deuce! glasses on a face like hers--"
"This makes thee indignant; but the other makes me--"
"Yes, for thou hast a kind of coffee-mill in thy head, which grinds,
and grinds everything till it grinds it into fine dust. What dost thou
want of love in general?"
"I, of love? I want nothing of love! Let the devil take him who wants
anything of love! I have sharp pains in my shoulder-blades from it. But
if I were other than I am, if I had to describe what love ought to be,
if I wanted anything of it, then I should wish--"
"What? hop! jump over!"
"That it were composed in equal parts of desire and reverence."
Then he drank a glass of cognac, and added after a while,--
"It seems to me that I have said something which may be wise, if it is
not foolish. But it is all one to me."
"No! it is not foolish."
"As God lives, it is all one to me."
FOOTNOTES:
[5] Polish noble.