Svirski had come indeed from Italy with Bukatski's body; and he went
at once on the following day to Pan Stanislav's. He met only Marynia,
however, for her husband had gone outside the city to look at some
residence which had been offered for sale. The artist found Marynia so
changed that he recognized her with difficulty; but since he had liked
her greatly in Rome, he was all the more moved at sight of her now. At
times, besides, she seemed to him so touching and so beautiful in her
way, with the aureole of future maternity, and besides she had brought
to him so many artistic comparisons, with so many "types of various
Italian schools," that, following his habit, he began to confess his
enthusiasm audibly. She laughed at his originality; but still it gave
her comfort in her trouble, and she was glad that he came,--first,
because she felt a sincere sympathy with that robust and wholesome
nature; and second, she was certain that he would be enthusiastic
about her in presence of "Stas," and thus raise her in the eyes of her
husband.
He sat rather long, wishing to await the return of Pan Stanislav; he,
however, returned only late in the evening. Meanwhile there was a visit
from Pan Ignas, who, needing some one now before whom to pour out his
overflowing happiness, visited her rather often. For a while he and
Svirski looked at each other with a certain caution, as happens usually
with men of distinction, who fear each other's large pretensions, but
who come together the more readily when each sees that the other is
simple. So did it happen with these men. Marynia, too, helped to break
the ice by presenting Pan Ignas as the betrothed of Panna Castelli, who
was known to Svirski.
"Indeed," said Svirski, "I know her perfectly; she is my pupil!"
Then, pressing the hand of Pan Ignas, he said,--
"Your betrothed has Titian hair; she is a little tall, but you are
tall, too. Such a pose of head as she has one might look for with a
candle. You must have noticed that there is something swan-like in her
movements; I have even called her 'The Swan.'"
Pan Ignas laughed as sincerely and joyously as a man does when people
praise that which he loves most in life, and said with a shade of
boastfulness,--
"'La Perla,' do you remember?"
Svirski looked at him with a certain surprise.
"There is such a picture by Raphael in Madrid, in the Museum del
Prado," answered he. "Why do you mention 'La Perla'?"
"It seems to me that I heard of it from those ladies," said Pan Ignas,
beaten from the track somewhat.
"It may be, for I have a copy of my own making in my studio Via
Margutta."
Pan Ignas said in spirit that there was need to be more guarded in
repeating words from Pani Bronich; and after a time he rose to depart,
for he was going to his betrothed for the evening. Svirski soon
followed, leaving with Marynia the address of his Warsaw studio, and
begging that Pan Stanislav would meet him in the matter of the funeral
as soon as possible.
In fact, Pan Stanislav went to him next morning. Svirski's studio was a
kind of glass hall, attached, like the nest of a swallow, to the roof
of one in a number of many storied houses, and visitors had to reach
him by separate stairs winding like those in a tower. But the artist
had perfect freedom there, and did not close his door evidently, for
Pan Stanislav, in ascending, heard a dull sound of iron, and a bass
voice singing,--
"Spring blows on the world warmly;
Hawthorns and cresses are blooming.
I am singing and not sobbing,
For I have ceased to love thee too!
Hu-ha-hu!"
"Well," thought Pan Stanislav, stopping to catch breath, "he has a
bass, a real, a true bass; but what is he making such a noise with?"
When he had passed the rest of the steps, however, and then the narrow
corridor, he understood the reason, for he saw through the open doors
Svirski, dressed to his waist in a single knitted shirt, through which
was seen his Herculean torso; and in his hands were dumb-bells.
"Oh, how are you?" he called out, putting down the dumb-bells in
presence of his guest. "I beg pardon that I am not dressed, but I was
working a little with the dumb-bells. Yesterday I was at your house,
but found only Pani Polanyetski. Well, I brought our poor Bukatski. Is
the little house ready for him?"
Pan Stanislav pressed his hand. "The grave is ready these two weeks,
and the cross is set up. We greet you cordially in Warsaw. My wife told
me that the body is in Povanzki already."
"It is now in the crypt of the church. To-morrow we'll put it away."
"Well, to-day I will speak to the priest and notify acquaintances. What
is Professor Vaskovski doing?"
"He was to write you. The heat drove him out of Rome; and do you know
where he went? Among the youngest of the Aryans. He said that the
journey would occupy two months. He wishes to convince himself as to
how far they are ready for his historical mission; he has gone through
Ancona to Fiume, and then farther and farther."
"The poor professor! I fear that new disillusions are waiting for him."
"That may be. People laugh at him. I do not know how far the youngest
of the Aryans are fitted to carry out his idea; but the idea itself, as
God lives, is so uncommon, so Christian, and honest, that the man had
to be a Vaskovski to come to it. Permit me to dress. The heat here is
almost as in Italy, and it is better to exercise in a single shirt."
"But best not to exercise at all in such heat."
Here Pan Stanislav looked at Svirski's arms and said,--
"But you might show those for money."
"Well; not bad biceps! But look at these deltoids. That is my vanity.
Bukatski insisted that any one might say that I paint like an idiot;
but that it was not permitted any one to say that I could not raise a
hundred kilograms with one hand, or that I couldn't hit ten flies with
ten shots."
"And such a man will not leave his biceps nor his deltoids to
posterity."
"Ha! what's to be done? I fear an ungrateful heart; as I love God, I
fear it so much. Find me a woman like Pani Polanyetski, and I will not
hesitate a day. But what should I wish you,--a son or a daughter?"
"A daughter, a daughter! Let there be sons; but the first must be a
daughter!"
"And when do you expect her?"
"In December, it would seem."
"God grant happily! The lady, however, is healthy, so there is no fear."
"She has changed greatly, has she not?"
"She is different from what she was, but God grant the most beautiful
to look so. What an expression! A pure Botticelli. I give my word! Do
you remember that portrait of his in the Villa Borghese? Madonna col
Bambino e angeli. There is one head of an angel, a little inclined,
dressed in a lily, just like the lady, the very same expression.
Yesterday that struck me so much that I was moved by it."
Then he went behind the screen to put on his shirt, and from behind the
screen he said,--
"You ask why I don't marry. Do you know why? I remember sometimes that
Bukatski said the same thing. I have a sharp tongue and strong biceps,
but a soft heart; so stupid is it that if I had such a wife as you
have, and she were in that condition, as God lives, I shouldn't know
whether to walk on my knees before her, or to beat the floor with my
forehead, or to put her on a table, in a corner somewhere, and adore
her with upraised hands."
"Ai!" said Pan Stanislav, laughing, "that only seems so before
marriage; but afterward habituation itself destroys excess of feeling."
"I don't know. Maybe I'm so stupid--"
"Do you know what? When my Marynia is free, she must find for thee just
such a wife as she herself is."
"Agreed!" thundered Svirski, from behind the screen. "Verbum! I give
myself into her hands; and when she says 'marry,' I will marry with
closed eyes."
And appearing, still without a coat, he began to repeat, "Agreed,
agreed! without joking. If the lady wishes."
"Women always like that," answered Pan Stanislav. "Have you seen, for
instance, what that Pani Osnovski did to marry our Pan Ignas to Panna
Castelli? And Marynia helped her as much as I permitted; she kept her
ears open. For women that is play."
"I made the acquaintance of that Pan Ignas at your house yesterday. He
is an immensely nice fellow; simply a genial head. It is enough to look
at him. What a profile, and what a woman-like forehead! and with that
insolent jaw! His shanks are too long, and his knees must be badly cut,
but his head is splendid."
"He is the Benjamin of our counting-house. Indeed, we love him
surpassingly; his is an honest nature."
"Ah! he is your employee? But I thought he was of those rich
Zavilovskis; I have seen abroad often enough a certain old original, a
rich man."
"That is a relative of his," said Pan Stanislav; "but our Zavilovski
hasn't a smashed copper."
"Well," said Svirski, beginning to laugh, "old Zavilovski with his
daughter, the only heiress of millions, a splendid figure! In Florence
and Rome half a dozen ruined Italian princes were dangling around this
young lady; but the old man declared that he wouldn't give his daughter
to a foreigner, 'for,' said he, 'they are a race of jesters.' Imagine
to yourself, he considers us the first race on earth, and among us,
of course, the Zavilovskis; and once he showed that in this way: 'Let
them say what they like,' said he; 'I have travelled enough through the
world, and how many Germans, Italians, Englishmen, and Frenchmen have
cleaned boots for me? but I,' said he, 'have never cleaned boots for
any man, and I will not.'"
"Good!" answered Pan Stanislav, laughing; "he thinks boot-cleaning not
a question of position in the world, but of nationality."
"Yes, it seems to him that the Lord God created other 'nations'
exclusively so that a nobleman from Kutno may have some one to clean
his boots whenever he chooses to go abroad. But doesn't he turn up his
nose at the marriage of the young man? for I know that he thinks the
Broniches of small account."
"Maybe he turns up his nose; but he has become acquainted with our Pan
Ignas not long since. They had not met before, for ours is a proud
soul, and would not seek the old man first."
"I like him for that. I hope he has chosen well, for--"
"What! do you know Panna Castelli? What kind of a person is she?"
"I know Panna Castelli; but, you see, I am no judge of young ladies.
Ba! if I knew them, I would not have waited for the fortieth year
as a single man. They are all good, and all please me; but since I
have seen, as married women, a few of those who pleased me, I do not
believe in any. And that makes me angry; for if I had no wish to
marry--well, I should say, leave the matter! but I have the wish. What
can I know? I know that each woman has a corset; but what sort of a
heart is inside it? The deuce knows! I was in love with Panna Castelli;
but for that matter I was in love with all whom I met. With her,
perhaps, even more than with others."
"And how is it that a wife did not come to your head?"
"Ah, the devil didn't come to my head! But at that time I hadn't
the money that I have to-day, nor the reputation. I was working for
something then; and believe me that no people are so shy of workers as
the children of workers. I was afraid that Pan Bronich or Pani Bronich
might object, and I was not sure of the lady; therefore I left them in
peace."
"Pan Ignas has no money."
"But he has reputation, and, besides, there is old Zavilovski; and a
connection like that is no joke. Who among us has not heard of the old
man? Besides, as to me, to tell the truth, I disliked the Broniches to
the degree that at last I turned from them."
"You knew the late Pan Bronich, then? Be not astonished that I ask, for
with me it is a question of our Pan Ignas."
"Whom have I not known? I knew also Pani Bronich's sister,--Pani
Castelli. For that matter I have been twenty-four years in Italy, and
am about forty,--that is said for roundness. In fact, I am forty-five.
I knew Pan Castelli, too, who was a good enough man; I knew all. What
shall I say to you? Pani Castelli was an enthusiast, and distinguished
by wearing short hair; she was always unwashed, and had neuralgia in
the face. As to Pani Bronich, you know her."
"But who was Pan Bronich?"
"'Teodor'? Pan Bronich was a double fool,--first, because he was a
fool; and second, because he didn't know himself as one. But I am
silent, for '_de mortuis nil nisi bonum_.' He was as fat as she is
thin; he weighed more than a hundred and fifty kilograms, perhaps, and
had fish eyes. In general, they were people vain beyond everything.
But why expatiate? When a man lives a while in the world, and sees
many people, and talks with them, as I do while painting, he convinces
himself that there is really a high society, which rests on tradition,
and besides that a _canaille_, which, having a little money, apes great
society. The late Bronich and his present widow always seemed to me of
that race; therefore I chose to keep them at a distance. If Bukatski
were alive, he would let out his tongue now at their expense. He knew
that I was in love with Panna Castelli; and how he ridiculed me, may
the Lord not remember it against him! And who knows whether he did not
speak justly? for what Panna Lineta is will be shown later."
"It concerns me most of all to learn something of her."
"They are good, all good; but I am afraid of them and their
goodness,--unless your wife would go security for some of them."
At this point the conversation stopped, and they began to talk of
Bukatski, or rather, of his burial of the day following, for which Pan
Stanislav had made previously all preparations.
On the way from Svirski's he spoke to the priest again, and then
informed acquaintances of the hour on the morrow.
The church ceremony of burial had taken place at Rome in its own
time, so Pan Stanislav, as a man of religious feeling, invited a few
priests to join their prayers to the prayers of laymen; he did this
also through attachment and gratitude to Bukatski, who had left him a
considerable part of his property.
Besides the Polanyetskis came the Mashkos, the Osnovskis, the Bigiels,
Svirski, Pan Plavitski, and Pani Emilia, who wished at the same time
to visit Litka. The day was a genuine summer one, sunny and warm; the
cemetery had a different seeming altogether from what it had during Pan
Stanislav's former visits. The great healthy trees formed a kind of
thick, dense curtain composed of dark and bright leaves, covering with
a deep green shade the white and gray monuments. In places the cemetery
seemed simply a forest full of gloom and coolness. On certain graves
was quivering a shining network of sunbeams, which had filtered in
through the leaves of acacias, poplars, hornbeams, birch, and lindens;
some crosses, nestling in a thick growth, seemed as if dreaming in cool
air above the graves. In the branches and among the leaves were swarms
of small birds, calling out from every side with an unceasing twitter,
which was mild, and, as it were, low purposely, so as not to rouse the
sleepers.
Svirski, Mashko, Polanyetski, and Osnovski took on their shoulders
the narrow coffin containing the remains of Bukatski, and bore it to
the tomb. The priests, in white surplices now gleaming in the sun,
now in the shade, walked in front of the coffin; behind it the young
women, dressed in black; and all the company went slowly through the
shady alleys, silently, calmly, without sobs or tears, which usually
accompany a coffin. They moved only with dignity and sadness, which
were on their faces as the shadow of the trees on the graves. There
was, however, in all this a certain poetry filled with melancholy; and
the impressionable soul of Bukatski would have felt the charm of that
mourning picture.
In this way they arrived at the tomb, which had the form of a
sarcophagus, and was entirely above ground, for Bukatski during life
told Svirski that he did not wish to lie in a cellar. The coffin was
pushed in easily through the iron door; the women raised their eyes
then; their lips muttered prayers; and after a time Bukatski was left
to the solitude of the cemetery, the rustling trees, the twitter of
birds, and the mercy of God.
Pani Emilia and Pan Stanislav went then to Litka; while the rest of the
company waited in the carriages before the church, for thus Pani Aneta
had wished.
Pan Stanislav had a chance to convince himself, at Litka's grave,
how in his soul that child once so beloved had gone into the blue
distance and become a shade. Formerly when he visited her grave he
rebelled against death, and with all the passion of fresh sorrow was
unreconciled to it. To-day it seemed to him well-nigh natural that she
was lying in the shadow of those trees, in that cemetery; he had the
feeling almost that it must end thus. She had ceased all but completely
to be for him a real being, and had become merely a sweet inhabitant
of his memory, a sigh, a ray, simply one of that kind of reminiscences
which is left by music.
And he would have grown indignant at himself, perhaps, were it not
that he saw Pani Emilia rise after her finished prayer with a serene
face, with an expression of great tenderness in her eyes, but without
tears. He noticed, however, that she looked as sick people look, that
she rose from her knees with difficulty, and that in walking she leaned
on a stick. In fact, she was at the beginning of a sore disease of the
loins, which later on confined her for years to the bed, and only left
her at the coffin.
Before the cemetery gate the Osnovskis were waiting for them; Pani
Aneta invited them to a betrothal party on the morrow, and then those
"who were kind" to Prytulov.
Svirski sat with Pani Emilia in Pan Stanislav's carriage, and for some
time was collecting his impressions in silence; but at last he said,--
"How wonderful this is! To-day at a funeral, to-morrow at a betrothal;
what death reaps, love sows,--and that is life!"