But Pan Stanislav was in permanent disfavor with Pani Osnovski. Meeting
him at Svirski's, between one sitting and another, she spoke to him
only in so far as good breeding and politeness demanded. He saw this
perfectly, and asked himself sometimes, "What does that woman want of
me?" but troubled himself little. He would have troubled himself still
less if "that woman," instead of being eight and twenty, had been eight
and fifty years of age; if she had been without those violet eyes and
those cherry lips. And such is human nature that, in spite of the fact
that he wanted nothing of her, and expected nothing, he could not
refrain from thinking what might happen should he strive really for her
favor, and how far would she be capable of going.
They had another trip of four to the catacombs of St. Calixtus, for
Pan Stanislav wished to repay politeness with politeness,--that is, a
carriage with a carriage. But this trip did not bring reconciliation;
they only conversed so far as not to call attention to themselves.
At last this began to anger Pan Stanislav. In fact, Pani Osnovski's
bearing developed a special relation between them, unpleasant in a way,
but known only to them, hence something between them exclusively,--a
kind of secret, to which no one else was admitted. Pan Stanislav
considered that all this would end with the work on her portrait;
but though the face had been finished some time, there remained many
little details, for which the presence of the charming model was
indispensable. Even for the simple reason that Svirski did not wish
to lose time, it happened that when Pan Stanislav and his wife came,
the Osnovskis were in the studio. Sometimes they stopped a little for
greeting and a short talk touching yesterday's impressions; sometimes
Osnovski was sent by his wife on an errand, or for some news. In that
event he went out first, leaving the carriage for her before the studio.
And it happened once that when Marynia had taken her place for a
sitting, Pani Osnovski had not gone yet; after a while, learning that
Marynia had been at the theatre the evening before, she, while putting
on her hat and gloves before the mirror, inquired about singers and the
opera, then, turning to Pan Stanislav, she said,--
"And now, I pray you, conduct me to the carriage."
She threw on her wrap, and began to look for the ribbons sewn behind
to the lining, so as to fasten it around her waist, but she stopped
suddenly at the entrance,--
"I cannot find the ribbons because I have my gloves on; take pity on
me."
Pan Stanislav had to look for the ribbons, but in doing so he was
forced to put his arm almost around her; after a moment the brewing of
desire poured about him, all the more since she bent toward him, and
the warmth of her face and body struck him.
"But why are you angry with me?" inquired she, in an undertone; "that
is bad. I am in such need of friendly souls. What have I done to you?"
He found the ribbons, recovered himself, and with that somewhat
coarse satisfaction of a rude man, who desires to use his triumph,
and to signify that he has not yielded, answered simply, with an
impertinence,--
"You have done nothing to me, and you can do nothing."
But she repulsed the impoliteness, as if it were a ball at tennis.
"Because sometimes I notice persons so little that I hardly see them."
They went in silence to the carriage.
"But is it that way?" thought Pan Stanislav, returning to the studio;
"a man might advance there as far as he pleased;" and a quiver passed
through him. "As far as he pleased," repeated he.
Herewith he was not conscious that he had made such a mistake as is
made daily by dozens of men who are lovers of hunting in other men's
grounds. Pani Osnovski was a coquette: she had a dry heart, and her
thought was dishonorable already; but she was hundreds of miles yet
from complete physical fall.
Meanwhile Pan Stanislav returned to the studio feeling that he had made
an immense sacrifice for Marynia, and with a certain regret in his
heart, first, because she would not know what had happened, and second,
if she should know, she would consider his action as perfectly simple.
This feeling angered him; and when he looked at her, at her clear eyes,
her calm face, and her fair, honest beauty, a comparison of those two
women urged itself into his mind in spite of him, and in his soul he
said,--
"Ah, Marynia! such as she would rather sink through the earth; of her
it is possible to be certain."
And--singular thing--there was in this an undoubted recognition, but
there was also a shade of regret, and as it were, of irritation, that
that was a woman so greatly his own that he did not feel bound to a
continual admiration of her worthiness.
And for the rest of the sitting he turned his thought to Pani Osnovski.
He supposed that in future she would simply cease to give her hand to
him, and it turned out that he was mistaken again. On the contrary,
wishing to show that she attached no importance to him or to his words,
she was more polite to him than hitherto. Pan Osnovski, however, had an
offended look, and became more and more icy every day toward him. This
was caused, undoubtedly, by conversations with "Anetka."
A few days later, however, impressions of another sort effaced that
adventure from Pan Stanislav's mind. Bukatski had long been ill; he
complained more and more of a pain in the back of his head, and a
strange feeling of separating from his own muscles. His humor revived
still at moments, but it shot up and went out like fireworks. He came
to the _table d'hôte_ more rarely. At last Pan Stanislav received his
card one morning; on it these words were written with a very uncertain
hand,--
MY DEAR,--After to-night it seems that I am about to get
on horseback. If thou wish to see my departure, come, especially
in lack of anything better to do.
Pan Stanislav hid the card from Marynia, but went straightway. He found
Bukatski in bed, and a doctor with him, whom Bukatski sent away that
moment.
"Thou hast frightened me terribly," said Pan Stanislav. "What ails
thee?"
"Nothing great,--a little paralysis of the lower part of the body."
"Have the fear of God!"
"Thou speakest wisely, if there were time for it; but now I have no
power in my left arm, in my left leg, and I cannot rise. Thus did I
wake this morning. I thought that I had lost speech, too, and began to
declaim to myself, 'Per me si va;' but, as thou seest, I have not lost
speech. My tongue remained, and now I am trying to find calmness of
thought."
"But art thou sure that it is paralysis? It may be a temporary
numbness."
"What is life?--Ah, only a moment," Bukatski began to declaim; "I
cannot move, and that is the end, or, if thou prefer, the beginning."
"That would be a terrible thing, but I do not believe it; any one may
be benumbed for a time."
"There are moments in life which are somewhat bitter, as the carp said
when the cook was scraping his scales off with a knife. I confess that
at first terror took hold of me. Hast thou ever felt the hair rising
on thy head? It is not to be reckoned altogether among feelings of
delight. But I have recovered my balance, and now, at the end of three
hours, it seems to me that I have lived ten years with my paralysis. It
is a question of habit! as the mushroom said when in the frying-pan.
I am chatting much, for I haven't much time. Dost thou know, my dear
friend, that I shall die in a couple of days?"
"Indeed, thou art chatting! Paralyzed people live thirty years."
"Even forty," answered Bukatski. "Paralysis in that case is a luxury
which some may permit themselves, but not men like me. For a strong
man, who has a good neck, good shoulders, good breast, and proper
legs, it may be even a species of rest, a kind of vacation after a
frolicsome youth, and an opportunity for meditation; but for me! Dost
remember how thou wert laughing at my legs? Well, I tell thee that they
were elephantine at that time if compared with what they are to-day.
It is not true that every man is a clod; I am only a line,--I am not
joking,--and, moreover, a line vanishing _in infinity_."
Pan Stanislav began to shrug his shoulders, to contradict, and to quote
known examples; but Bukatski resisted.
"Stop! I feel and know that in a couple of days paralysis of the brain
will set in. I have been expecting this a whole year, but told no one,
and for a year have been reading books on medicine. A second attack
will come, and that will be final."
Here he was silent, but after a time continued,--
"And, believe me, I do not like this. Think of it: I am as much alone
as a finger cut off from its hand; I have no one. Here, and even
in Warsaw, only people who are paid would take care of me. Life is
terribly wretched when a man is without power of movement, and without
a living soul who is related. When I lose speech, as I have lost power
of motion, any woman in attendance, or any man, may strike me on the
face as much as she or he pleases. But thou must know one thing. I
feared paralysis at the first moment; but in my weak body there is a
brave spirit. Remember what I said to thee,--that I fear not death; and
I do not fear it."
Here there gleamed in Bukatski's eyes a certain pale reflection of
daring and energy, hidden somewhere in the bottom of that disjointed
and softened soul.
But Pan Stanislav, who had a good heart, put his hand on the palm
already paralyzed, and said, with great feeling,--
"My Adzia! But do not suppose that we will leave thee thus, desert thee
as thou art; and do not say that thou hast no one. Thou hast me, and
besides me, my wife, and Svirski, Vaskovski, and the Bigiels. For us
thou art not a stranger. I will take thee to Warsaw, I will put thee in
the hospital, and we will care for thee, and no attendant will strike
thee on the face,--first, because I should break the bones of such a
person; secondly, we have Sisters of Charity, and among them is Pani
Emilia."
Bukatski was silent, and grew pale a little; he was more moved than he
wished to show. A shadow passed over his eyes.
"Thou art a good fellow," said he, after a prolonged silence. "Thou
knowest not what a miracle thou hast worked, for thou hast brought it
about that I wish something yet. Yes; I should like wonderfully to go
to Warsaw, to be among you all. I should be immensely pleased there."
"Here thou must go at once to some hospital, and be under constant
care. Svirski must know where the best one is. Yield thyself to me,
wilt thou? Let me arrange for thee."
"Do what may please thee," answered Bukatski, whom consolation began to
enter now, in view of the new plans and the energy of his friend.
Pan Stanislav wrote to Svirski and to Vaskovski, and sent out
messengers immediately. Half an hour later both appeared, Svirski with
a famous local physician. Before mid-day Bukatski found himself in a
hospital, in a well-lighted and cheerful chamber.
"What a pleasant and warm tone!" said he, looking at the golden color,
and the walls and ceiling. "This is nice." Then, turning to Pan
Stanislav, he said, "Come to me in the evening, but go now to thy wife."
Pan Stanislav took farewell of him, and went out. When he reached
home he told Marynia the whole story cautiously, for he did not wish
to frighten her with sudden news, giving the idea that he was in a
dangerous condition. Marynia begged him to take her to Bukatski, if not
in the evening, in the morning early, which he promised to do. They
went immediately after lunch, for that day there was no sitting in the
studio.
But before they arrived, Vaskovski was there, and he did not leave
Bukatski for a moment. When the patient had settled himself well in the
new bed, the old man told him how once he had thought himself dying,
but after confession and receiving the sacraments, he grew better, as
if by a miracle.
"A well-known method, dear professor," said Bukatski, with a smile; "I
divine what thy object is."
The professor was as confused as if caught in some evil deed, and
crossed his hands.
"I will lay a wager that it would help thee," said he.
Bukatski answered with a gleam of his former humor, "Very well. In a
couple of days I shall convince myself, on the other side of the river,
how much it will help me."
The arrival of Marynia pleased him, all the more that it was
unexpected. He said that he had not thought to see any woman on this
side of the river, and, moreover, one of his own. Therewith he began to
scold them all a little, but with evident emotion.
"What sentimentalists they are!" said he. "It is simply a judgment to
be occupied with such a skeleton grandfather as I am. Ye will never
have reason. What is this for? What good in it? See, even before
death, I am forced to be grateful; and I am sincerely, very sincerely
grateful."
But Marynia did not let him talk about death; on the contrary, she
said with great firmness that he must go to Warsaw, and be among his
friends. She spoke of this as a thing the execution of which was not
subject to the least doubt, and she succeeded gradually in convincing
Bukatski of it. She told him how to prepare, and at last he listened
to her eagerly. His thoughts passed into a certain condition of
yielding, in which they let themselves be led. He felt like a child,
and, besides, a poor child.
That same day Osnovski visited him, and also showed as much interest
and feeling as if he had been his own brother. Bukatski had out and
out not expected all this, and had not counted on anything similar.
Therefore, when later in the evening Pan Stanislav came a second time,
and no others were present, he said to him,--
"I tell thee sincerely that never have I felt with such clearness that
I made life a stupid farce, that I have wasted it like a dog." And soon
after he added, "And if I had found a real pleasure in that method by
which I was living; but I had not even that satisfaction. How stupid
is our epoch! A man makes two of himself; all that is best in him he
hides away, shuts in somewhere in corners, and becomes a kind of ape.
He rather persuades himself of the uselessness of life than feels it.
How wonderful this is! One thing consoles me,--that in truth death is
the only thing real in life, though, on the other hand, this again is
not a reason why, before it comes, we should say of it as a fool says
of wine, that it is vinegar."
"My dear friend," answered Pan Stanislav, "thou hast always tortured
thyself with this endless winding of thought around some bobbin. Do not
do that at present."
"Thou art right. But I am unable not to think that while I was walking
around and was well in a fashion, I jeered at life; and now--I tell
thee as a secret--I want to live longer."
"Thou wilt live longer."
"Give use peace. Thy wife was persuading me of that, but now again
I do not believe it. And it is painful to me,--I have thrown myself
away. But hear why I wanted to speak with thee. I know not whether any
account is waiting for me; I say sincerely that I know not, but still I
feel a kind of strange alarm, as if I were afraid. And I will tell thee
something: during life I did nothing for my fellows, and I was able! I
was able! In presence of this thought fear seizes me; I give thee my
word! That is an unworthy thing. I did nothing; I ate bread without
paying for it, and now--death. If there are any whips beyond, and if
they are waiting for me, it is to punish that; and listen, Stas, it is
painful to me."
Here, although he spoke with the careless tone usual to him, his face
expressed real dread, his lips grew pale somewhat, and on his forehead
drops of sweat appeared.
"But stop!" said Pan Stanislav; "see what comes to his head. Thou art
injuring thyself."
But Bukatski spoke on: "Listen! wait! I have property which is rather
considerable; let even that do something for me. I will leave thee a
part of it, and do thou use the remainder for something useful. Thou
art practical, so is Bigiel. Think of something, thou and he, for I do
not believe that I shall have time. Wilt thou do this?"
"That, and thy every wish."
"I thank thee. How wonderful are fears and reproaches of this kind!
And still I cannot escape a feeling of guilt. The conditions are such
that I am not right! One should do something honorable even just before
death. But it is no joke,--death. If that were something visible, but
it is so dark. And one must decay, corrupt, and rot _in the dark_. Art
thou a believer?"
"Yes."
"But I, neither yes nor no. I amused myself with Nirvana, as with other
things. Dost thou know, were it not for the feeling of guilt, I should
be more at rest? I had no idea that this would pain me so; I have the
impression that I am a bee which has robbed its hive, and that is a low
thing. But at least my property will remain after me. This is true,
is it not? I have spent a little, but very little, on pictures, which
will remain, too; isn't this true? But now, how I should like to live
longer, even a year, even long enough not to die here!"
He meditated a while, and then said,--
"I understand one thing now: life may be bad, for a man may order it
foolishly; but existence is good."
Pan Stanislav went away late in the night. Through the following
week the health of the patient was wavering. The doctors were unable
to foresee anything; they judged, however, that a journey was not
dangerous in any case. Svirski and Vaskovski volunteered to go to
Warsaw with the sick man, who was yearning for home more and more, and
who mentioned Pani Emilia, the Sister of Charity, almost daily. But on
the eve of the day on which he was to go he lost speech suddenly. Pan
Stanislav's heart was bleeding when he looked at his eyes, in which at
moments a terrible alarm was depicted, and at moments a kind of great,
silent prayer. He tried to write, but could not. In the evening came
paralysis of the brain, and he died.
They buried him in the Campo Santo temporarily. Pan Stanislav thought
that his looks uttered a prayer to be carried to his own country, and
Svirski confirmed that thought.
Thus vanished that bubble which gleamed sometimes with the colors of
the rainbow, but was as empty and evanescent as any bubble.
Pan Stanislav was sincerely afflicted by his death, and meditated
afterward for whole hours on that strange life. He did not share these
thoughts with Marynia, for somehow it had not become a custom with him
yet to confide to her anything that took place in his mind. Finally, as
happens often with people who are thinking of the dead, he drew from
these thoughts various conclusions to his own advantage.
"Bukatski," said he to himself, "was never able to come to harmony with
his own mind: he lacked the understanding of life; he could not fix his
position in that forest, and he travelled always according to the fancy
of the moment. But if he had felt contented with that system, if he had
squeezed something out of life, I should own that he had sense. But it
was unpleasant for him. It is really a foolish thing to persuade one's
self, before death comes, that wine is vinegar. But I look at matters
more clearly, and, besides, I have been far more sincere with myself.
Happen what may, I am almost perfectly in order with God and with life."
There was truth in this, but there was also illusion. Pan Stanislav
was not in order with his own wife. He judged that if he gave her
protection, bread, good treatment, and put kisses on her lips from
time to time, he was discharging all possible duties assumed with
regard to her. Meanwhile their relations began to be more definitely
of this sort,--that he only deigned to love and receive love. In
the course of his observations of life this strange phenomenon had
struck him more than once,--that when, for example, a man well-known
for honor does some noble deed, people wave their hands as if with a
certain indifference, saying, "Oh, that is Pan X----; from him this is
perfectly natural!" When, however, some rogue chanced to do something
honorable, these same people said with great recognition, "But there is
something in the man." A hundred times Pan Stanislav observed that a
copper from a miser made more impression than a ducat from a generous
giver. He did not notice, however, that with Marynia he followed the
same method of judgment and recognition. She gave him all her being,
all her soul. "Ah, Marynia! that is natural!" and he waved his hand
too. Had her love not been so generous, had it come to him with supreme
difficulty, with the conviction that it was a treasure, and given as
such, with the conviction that she was a divinity demanding a bowed
head and honor, Pan Stanislav would have received it with a bowed head,
and would have rendered the honor. Such is the general human heart; and
only the choicest natures, woven from rays, have power to rise above
this level. Marynia had given Pan Stanislav her love as his right.
She considered his love as happiness, and he gave it as happiness; he
felt himself the idol on the altar. One ray of his fell on the heart
of the woman and illumined it: the divinity kept the rest of the rays
for itself; taking all, it gave only a part. In his love there was not
that fear which flows from honor, and there was not that which in every
fondling says to the woman beloved, "at thy feet."
But they did not understand this yet, either of them.