These words were a great consolation to Marynia, for, remembering her
previous alarms, she thought at once that Pan Stanislav would not
have said anything like them had he been capable of betraying her
confidence; for she did not suppose that a man can have one measure
for his neighbors and another for himself, and that in life these
different measures meet at every step. She said to herself that to
restrain her husband from everything, it was enough to show perfect
trust in him; and she thought now with less fear of the nearness of
Pani Kraslavski's country house to the house of the Bigiels, in which
she and her husband were to pass the summer. It was easy to divine that
Pani Mashko, who had moved already into her mother's house, would be a
frequent guest at the Bigiels' from very tedium. Mashko did not send
her to Kremen, for he did not wish to be separated from her during
summer. From Warsaw, where he had to be on business, it was easy to go
every day to Pani Kraslavski's villa, one hour's ride from the city
barrier, while to distant Kremen such journeys were not possible. To
Mashko, really in love with his wife, her presence was requisite to
give him strength, for trying times had come again. The case against
the will was not lost yet by any means; but it had taken a turn which
was unfavorable, since the defence was very vigorous. It had begun to
drag, so people began to doubt; and for Mashko doubt approached defeat.
His credit, almost fallen at the opening of the case, had bloomed
forth like an apple-tree in spring, but was beginning now to waver
a second time. Sledz (the opposing advocate), hostile personally to
Mashko, and in general a man of strong will, not only did not cease
to spread news of the evil plight of his opponent, but strove that
doubts as to the favorable issue of the will case should make their way
into the press. A merciless legal and personal warfare set in. Mashko
strove with every effort to lame his enemy; and when they met, he bore
himself defiantly. This brought no advantage, however. Credit became
more and more difficult; and creditors, though so far paid regularly,
lost confidence. Again a feverish hunt began for money, to stop one
debt with another, and uphold the opinion of ready solvency. Mashko
exhibited such intelligence and energy in this struggle that, had it
not been for the fundamental error in his life relations, he would have
advanced to fame and great prosperity.
The breaking of the will might save all, but to break the will it was
needful to wait; meanwhile to mend threads breaking here and there
was difficult as well as humiliating. It came to this, that in two
weeks after the Polanyetskis had moved to Bigiel's, when the Mashkos
came to them with a visit, Mashko was forced to ask of Pan Stanislav a
"friendly service;" that is, his signature to a note for a few thousand
rubles.
Pan Stanislav was by nature an obliging man and inclined to be liberal,
but he had his theory, which in money affairs enjoined on him to be
difficult, hence he refused his signature; but to make up he treated
Mashko to his views on money questions between friends,--
"When it is a question not of a mutually profitable affair," said he to
him, "but of a personal service, I refuse on principle to sign; but I
will oblige with ready money as far as an acquaintance or a friend may
need it in temporary embarrassment, but not in a desperate position. In
this last case I prefer to keep my service till later."
"That means," answered Mashko, dryly, "that thou art giving me a small
hope of support when I am bankrupt."
"No; it means that should a catastrophe come, and thou borrow of me,
thou'lt be able to keep the loan, or begin something anew with that
capital. At present thou wilt throw it into the gulf, with loss to me,
without profit to thyself."
Mashko was offended.
"My dear friend," said he, "thou seest my position in a worse light
than I myself see it, and than it is in reality. It is merely a
temporary trouble, and a small one. I esteem thy good wishes, but this
very day I would not give my prospects for thy actual property. Now I
have one other friendly request; namely, that we speak no more of this."
And they went to the ladies,--Mashko angry at himself for having made
the request, and Pan Stanislav for having refused it. His theory, that
in money questions it was proper to be unaccommodating, caused him such
bitter moments more than once, not to mention the harm which it had
done him in life.
When with the ladies his ill-humor increased because of the contrast
between Pani Mashko and Marynia. To Mashko's intense disappointment
nothing announced that Pani Mashko was to be a mother. On the contrary,
she preserved all the slenderness of maiden forms; and now, especially
in her muslin summer robes, she looked, near Marynia, who was greatly
changed and unwieldy, not only like a maiden, but younger than her
neighbor by some years. Pan Stanislav, to whom it had seemed that
the strange attraction which she exercised on him was overcome, felt
suddenly that it was not, and that because of their living near each
other, and of his seeing her frequently, he would yield more and more
to her physical charm.
Still his relations with his wife had become warmer since Pan Ignas's
betrothal evening, and Marynia was in better spirits than before;
so now after the Mashkos had gone, she, seeing that the men had
parted more coolly than usual and that in general Pan Stanislav was
ill-humored, inquired if they had not quarrelled.
Pan Stanislav had not the habit of talking with her about business; but
at this moment he was dissatisfied with himself, and felt that need of
telling what troubled his mind which a man who is somewhat egotistical
feels when he is sure that he will find sympathy in a heart devoted to
him. Therefore he said,--
"I refused Mashko a loan; and I tell thee sincerely that it pains me
now that I did so. He has certain chances of success yet; but his
position is such that before he reaches his object he may be ruined by
any obstacle. Of course we have never been in friendship; I almost do
not like him. He irritates, he angers me; still life brings us together
constantly, and he rendered us once a great service. It is true that I
have rendered him services too; but now he has a knife at his throat
again."
Marynia heard these words with pleasure, for she thought that if "Stas"
were really under the charm of Pani Mashko, he would not have refused
the loan, and second, she saw in his sorrow the proof of a good heart.
She too was sorry for their neighbor, but as she had brought her
husband hardly any dower, she did not venture to ask "Stas" directly to
assist Mashko, she merely inquired,--
"But dost thou think that the loan would be lost?"
"Perhaps so, perhaps not," answered Pan Stanislav. Then with a certain
boastfulness: "I can refuse. Bigiel has a softer heart."
"But don't say that. Thou art so kind. The best proof is this, that the
present matter is so disagreeable to thee."
"Naturally it cannot be agreeable to think that a man, though a
stranger, is squirming like a snake because of a few thousand rubles.
I know what the question is. Mashko has given to-morrow as the last
day of payment. Hitherto he has sought money everywhere, but sought
guardedly, not wishing to make a noise and alarm his creditors; and in
straits he relied on me. So thou seest, he will not pay to-morrow. I
will suppose that in a few days he will find money as much as he needs;
but meanwhile the opinion of his accuracy will be shaken, and in the
position in which he is anything may be ruin for him."
Marynia looked at her husband; at last she said with a certain
timidity,--
"And would this be really difficult for thee?"
"If thou wish the truth, not at all. I have even a check-book here with
me; I took it to give earnest-money, if I found a place to buy. Oh,
interest in a former adorer and sympathy for him give me something to
think of," said he, laughing.
Marynia laughed too, for she was glad that she had brightened her
husband's face; but, shaking her charming head, she said,--
"No! not sympathy for an adorer, but vile egotism, for I think to
myself, are the two thousand rubles worth the sorrow of my husband?"
Pan Stanislav began to smooth her hair with his hand.
"But thou," said he, "art an honest little woman to thy bones."
Then he said, "Well, now, decide; one, two, three! to give?"
She made no answer, but began to wink her eyes like a petted child, as
a sign to give. Both became joyous at once; but Pan Stanislav pretended
to complain and mutter.
"See what it is to be under the slipper. Drag on through the night,
man, and beg Pan Mashko to take thy money, because it pleases that
fondled figure there."
And her heart was overflowing with delight, simply that he called her
a "fondled figure." All her former sorrows and alarms vanished as if
enchanted by those words. Her radiant eyes looked at her husband with
indescribable love. After a while she inquired,--
"Is it necessary to go there right away?"
"Of course. Mashko will go to the city at eight in the morning, and be
flying all day."
"Then give order to make Bigiel's horse ready."
"No! The moon is shining, and it is not far; I'll go on foot."
Thus saying, he took farewell of Marynia, and, seizing his check-book,
went out. On the road he thought,--
"But Marynia might be applied to a wound. She is such a golden woman
that though at times a man might like to play some prank, he simply
hasn't the heart for it. God has given me a wife of the kind of which
there are few on earth."
And he felt at the moment that he loved her in truth. He felt also
that love alone in itself, as a mutual attraction between persons of
different sexes, is not happiness yet, and if ill directed may be even
a misfortune; but that, on the other hand, the imagination of people
cannot dream out a truer happiness on earth than great and honest love
in marriage. "There is nothing superior to that," said Pan Stanislav to
himself; "and to think that it lies at hand; that it is accessible to
each one; that it is simply an affair of good and honest will; and that
people trample on that ready treasure and sacrifice their peace for
disturbance, and their honor for dishonor."
Thus meditating, he went to the villa of the Mashkos, the windows of
which were shining like lanterns on the dark ground of the forest.
When he had passed through the gate to the yard lighted by the moon,
and had drawn near the porch, he saw, through the window of the room
next the entrance, Mashko and his wife, sitting on a low sofa formed
like a figure eight, near which was a small table and a lamp. Mashko
was embracing his wife with one arm; with his other hand he held her
hand, which he raised to his lips, and then lowered, as if thanking
her. All at once he embraced the young woman, with both arms drew her
toward him, and inclining, began to kiss her mouth passionately; she,
with hands dropped without control on her knees, not returning his
fondling, but also not refusing, yielded as passively as if she had
been deprived of blood and will. For a time Pan Stanislav saw only the
top of Mashko's head, his long side whiskers moving from the kissing;
and at sight of that the blood rushed to his head. And he was dashed
with just such a flood of desire as when looking for the ribbons of
Pani Osnovski's mantle (in Rome), and the more burning that it was
strengthened by a whole series of temptations. This purely physical
attraction, surprising to Pan Stanislav himself, and with which he had
struggled long, revived now with irresistible force. In a twinkle were
roused in him the wild instincts of the primitive man, who, when he
sees the woman desired in the embrace of another, is enraged and ready
to fight to the death for her with the fortunate rival. Together with
desire, jealousy burned him,--an unjust, a pitiful, and the lowest of
all kinds of jealousy, because purely physical, but still so unbridled
that he, who the moment before had understood that only honest love for
a wife might be real happiness, was ready to trample that happiness
and that love, if he could trample Mashko, and seize himself in his
arms that slender body of a woman, and cover with kisses that face of a
puppet, without mind, and less beautiful than the face of his own wife.
That sight beyond the window not only excited him, but he could not
suffer it; hence he sprang to the door and pulled the bell feverishly.
The thought that that sound, heard on a sudden in the silence, would
stop that fondling of husband and wife roused a savage and malicious
delight in him. When the servant opened the door, Pan Stanislav gave
command to announce him, and endeavored to calm himself and compose
somehow that which he had to tell Mashko.
After a while Mashko came out with a face somewhat astonished,--
"Pardon that I come so late, but my wife scolded me because I refused
thee a service; and since I knew that thou wilt go early in the
morning, I have come to settle the business to-night."
On Mashko's face a secret joy was reflected. He divined straightway
that such a late visit from his neighbor had relation to their previous
talk; he did not hope, however, that the affair would go so smoothly
and at once.
"I beg thee," said he. "My wife is not sleeping yet."
And he brought him into that room the interior of which Pan Stanislav
had seen the minute before. Pani Mashko was sitting on the same sofa;
in her hand she held a book and a paper-knife, which evidently she had
taken from the table that moment. Her quenched face seemed calm, but
traces of the fresh kisses were evident on her cheeks; her lips were
moist, her eyes misty. The blood seethed up again in Pan Stanislav; and
in spite of all efforts to keep himself indifferent, he so pressed the
hand given him that Pani Mashko's lips contracted as if from pain.
But when he touched her hand, a shiver ran through him from feet to
crown. There was in that very giving of her hand something so passive
that it ran through his head involuntarily that that woman was not
capable of resisting any man who had the courage and daring to attack
her directly.
Meanwhile Mashko said,--
"Imagine to thyself, we have both raised a storm,--thou for refusing
me a service, and I for requesting it. Thou hast an honest wife, but
mine is no worse. Thine took me into her protection, and mine thee.
I revealed to her plainly my temporary trouble, and she scolded me
for not having done so before. Evidently she did not speak to me as a
lawyer, for of that she has no idea; but in the end of ends she said
that Pan Polanyetski refused me justly; that one should give some
security to a creditor; and this security she is ready to give with her
life annuity, and in general with all that she has. I was just thanking
her when you came." Here Mashko laid his hand on Pan Stanislav's arm.
"My dear friend, I agree with thee that thy wife is the best person
on earth; and I agree all the more that I have fresh proof of it, on
condition, however, that thou assure me that mine is no worse. It ought
not to surprise thee, then, that I hide my troubles from her, for, as
God is true, I am always ready to share the good with such a beloved
one, but the evil, especially the temporary, to keep for myself; and if
thou knew her as I do, this would be no wonder to thee."
Pan Stanislav, who, despite all the temptation which Pani Mashko was
for him, entertained by no means a high opinion of the woman, and had
not considered her in the least as capable of sacrifice, thought,--
"She is, in truth, a good woman; and I was mistaken, or Mashko has lied
to her, so that she really considers his position as brilliant, and
this trouble as purely a passing one." And he said aloud to her,--
"I am an accurate man in business; but for whom do you hold me, when
you think that I would ask security on your property? I refused simply
through sloth, and I am terribly ashamed of it; I refused to avoid
going at a given time to Warsaw for a new supply. In summer a man
becomes lazy and egotistical. But the question is a small one; and to
a man like your husband, who is occupied in property, such troubles
happen daily. Not infrequently loans are needed only because one's own
money cannot be raised at a given moment."
"Just that has happened to me," answered Mashko, satisfied, evidently,
that Pan Stanislav had presented affairs to his wife in this manner.
"Mamma occupied herself with business, therefore I have no knowledge of
it," put in Pani Mashko; "but I thank you."
Pan Stanislav began to laugh. "Finally, what do I want of your
security? Suppose for a moment that you will be bankrupt, and I will
suppose so just because nothing similar threatens you; can you imagine
me in such an event bringing an action against you, and taking your
income?"
"No," said Pani Mashko.
Pan Stanislav raised her hand to his lips, but with all the seeming of
society politeness; he pressed his lips to it with all his force, and
at the same time there was in the look that he gave her such passion
that no declaration in words could have said more.
She did not wish to betray that she understood, though she understood
well that the show of politeness was for her husband, and the power
of the kiss for herself. She understood, also, that she pleased Pan
Stanislav, that her beauty attracted him; still better, however, she
understood that she was triumphing over Marynia, of whose beauty,
while still unmarried, she was jealous, hence, first of all, she felt
her self-love deeply satisfied. For that matter she had noticed for a
long time that Pan Stanislav was ardent in her presence; hers was not
a nature either so honest or so delicate that that action could offend
or pain her. On the contrary, it roused in her curiosity, interest, and
vanity. Instinct warned her, it is true, that he is an insolent man,
who, at a given moment, is ready to push matters too far,--and that
thought filled her at times with alarm; but since nothing similar had
happened yet, the very fear had a charm for her.
Meanwhile she said to Pan Stanislav,--
"Mamma mentions you always as a man to be relied on in every case."
She said this with her usual thin voice, which Pan Stanislav had
laughed at before more than once; but now everything in her became more
attractive thereby, and hence, looking her fixedly in the eyes, he
said,--
"Think the same of me."
"Have mutual confidence in each other," put in Mashko, jestingly; "but
I will go to my study to prepare what is needed, and in a moment we
will finish the matter."
Pani Mashko and her guest were left alone. On her face a certain
trouble was apparent. To hide this she began to straighten the shade on
the lamp; but he approached her quickly, and began,--
"I shall be happy if you think the same of me. I am a man greatly
devoted to you; I should be glad to have even your friendship. Can I
rely on it?"
"You can."
"I thank you."
When he had said this, he extended his hand to her, for all that he had
said was directed only to this, to get possession of her hand. In fact,
Pani Mashko did not dare to refuse it; and he, seizing it, pressed
it to his lips a second time, but this time he did not stop with one
kiss,--he fell to devouring it almost. It grew dark in his eyes. A
moment more, and in his madness he would have seized and drawn that
desired one toward him. Meanwhile, however, Mashko's squeaking boots
were heard in the adjoining room; hearing which, Pani Mashko began to
speak first, hurriedly,--
"My husband is coming."
At that moment Mashko opened the door, and said,--
"I beg thee."
Then, turning to his wife, he added,--
"Give command at once to bring tea; we will return soon."
In fact, the business did not occupy much time, for Pan Stanislav
filled out a check, and that was the end. But Mashko treated him to a
cigar, and asked him to sit down, for he wished to talk.
"New troubles are rolling on to me," said he; "but I shall wade out.
More than once I have had to do with greater ones. It is only a
question of this,--that the sun should get ahead of the dew, and that
I should open some new credit for myself, or some new source of income,
before the conclusion of the will case, and in support of it."
Pan Stanislav, all roused up internally, listened to this beginning of
confidences with inattention, and chewed his cigar impatiently. On a
sudden, however, the dishonest thought came to him that, were Mashko
to be ruined utterly, his wife would be a still easier prey; hence he
asked dryly,--
"Hast thought of this, what thou art to do should the case be lost?"
"I shall not lose it."
"Everything may happen; thou knowest that best thyself."
"I do not wish to think of it."
"Still it's thy duty," said Pan Stanislav, with an accent of a certain
pleasure, which Mashko did not notice. "What wilt thou do in such a
case?"
Mashko rested his arms on his knees, and looking gloomily on the floor,
said,--
"In such a case I shall have to leave Warsaw."
A moment of silence came. The young advocate's face became gloomier and
gloomier; at last he grew thoughtful, and said,--
"Once, in my best days, I knew Baron Hirsh, in Paris. We met a number
of times, and once we took part in some affair of honor. Sometimes now,
when doubts come upon me, I remember him; he has withdrawn, apparently,
from business, but really has much on hand, especially in the East. I
know men who have made fortunes by him, for the field there is open at
every step."
"Dost think it possible to go to him?"
"Yes; but besides that I can shoot into my forehead."
But Pan Stanislav did not take this threat seriously. From that short
conversation he convinced himself of two things: first, that Mashko,
in spite of apparent confidence, thought often of possible ruin; and
second, that in such an event he had a plan, fantastic, it may be but
ready.
Mashko shook himself suddenly out of his gloomy visions, and said,--
"My strength has lain always in this,--that I never think of two things
at once. Therefore I am thinking only of the will case. That scoundrel
will do everything to ruin me in public opinion, I know that; but I
sneer at public opinion, and care only for the court. Should I fail
before the decision, that might have a bad influence, perhaps. Dost
understand? They would consider the whole case then as the despairing
effort of a drowning man, who grasps at what he can. I have no wish for
that position; therefore I must seem to be a man standing on firm feet.
This is a sad necessity, and I am not free now to be even economical. I
cannot diminish my scale of living. As thou seest me, I have troubles
to my ears; as for that matter, who knows it better than thou, who art
giving me a loan? And still, as late as yesterday, I was buying Vyborz,
a considerable property in Ravsk, simply to throw dust in the eyes of
my creditors and opponents. Tell me, dost thou know old Zavilovski
well?"
"Not long. I made his acquaintance through the young man."
"But thou hast pleased him, for he has immense admiration for men with
noble names who make property. I know that he is his own agent; but
he is growing old, and the gout is annoying him. I have put several
thoughts before him; therefore, if he asks thee about anything,
recommend me. Understand that I do not wish to get at his money chest,
though, as agent, I should have some income, which would be greatly to
my hand; but the main question for me is that it should become noised
abroad that I am the agent of such a millionnaire. Is it true that he
intends to create an entail for the young man out of his estates in
Poznan?"
"So Pani Bronich says."
"That would be a proof that it is not true; but all things are
possible. In every case the young man, too, will receive with his wife
a certain dower; and, being a poet, he has not the least idea, surely,
how to handle such matters. I might serve him, too, with advice and
aid."
"I must refuse you decisively in his name, for we have engaged to
occupy ourselves with his interests in future,--that is, my partner and
I."
"It is not a question with me of his interest either," said Mashko,
frowning slightly, "but that I might tell people that I am Zavilovski's
agent; for, dost understand, before it is known which Zavilovski, my
credit can only gain by it?"
"Thou knowest that I never look into other men's business; but I tell
thee sincerely that for me it would be a terrible thing to exist in
this way only on credit."
"Ask the greatest millionnaires on earth if they made fortunes on
another basis."
"And ask all bankrupts if they did not fail from that cause."
"As to me, the future will show."
"It will," said Pan Stanislav, rising.
Mashko thanked him once more for the loan; and both went to tea to the
lady, who inquired,--
"Well, the business is finished?"
Pan Stanislav, whom her appearance roused again, and who remembered
suddenly that a little while before she said to him, "My husband is
coming!" as if half guilty, answered her without reference to Mashko,--
"Between your husband and me it is, but between us two--not yet."
Pani Mashko, though she had cool blood, was still confused, as if
frightened at his daring; and Mashko asked,--
"How is that?"
"This way," answered Pan Stanislav: "that the lady thought me capable
of asking her property in pledge, and I cannot pardon her that yet."
Pani Mashko looked at him with her indefinite gray eyes, as if with a
certain admiration. His boldness had imposed on her, and the presence
of mind with which he was able to give a polite society turn to his
words. He seemed to her also at that moment a fine-looking man, beyond
comparison better-looking than Mashko.
"I beg pardon," said she.
"That will not be given easily. You do not know what a stubborn and
vengeful man I am."
Then she answered with a certain coquetry, like a person conscious of
her charm and her power,--
"I don't believe that."
He sat near her; and taking, with a somewhat uncertain hand, the cup,
he began to stir the tea with the spoon. Greater and greater alarm
seized him. More than once before he had called Pani Mashko, while
unmarried, a fish; but now he felt warmth passing through her light
garments from her body, and felt as if some one were scattering sparks
on him. Again he remembered her words, "My husband is coming;" and
waves of blood rushed to his heart, for it seemed to him that only a
woman could speak thus who was prepared and ready for everything. Some
voice in his soul said, "That is only a question of opportunity;" and
at this thought his unbridled desire was turned at once to unbridled
delight. He ceased altogether to control himself. Soon he began to seek
her foot with his; but suddenly that act seemed to him passing rude and
peasant-like. Finally he said to himself that since it was a question
of opportunity only, he ought to know how to wait. He foresaw that the
time would come, the opportunity be found.
Meanwhile his position was awkward; he had to keep up a conversation
quite in disaccord with the state of his mind, and to answer Mashko,
who asked about the future plans of Pan Ignas, and various things of
like tenor. At last he rose to leave; but before going, he turned and
said to Mashko,--
"Some dogs attacked me on the way, and I forgot my cane; lend me thine."
No dogs had attacked, but with him it was a question of remaining even
one minute alone with the young woman, so that when Mashko went out he
approached her quickly, and said, with a sort of stifled and unnatural
voice,--
"You see what is taking place with me?"
She saw, indeed, his excitement, his eyes glittering with desire, and
his distended nostrils. Alarm and fear seized her at once; but he
remembered only her words, "My husband is coming," and one feeling,
described by the words, "let happen what may," made the man, who, a
moment before, said to himself that he ought to know how to wait, put
everything on one card in the twinkle of an eye, and whisper,--
"I love you."
She stood before him with downcast eyes, as if stunned, and turned
into a pillar under the influence of those words, from which simple
infidelity must begin, and then a new epoch in life. She turned her
head away slightly, as if to avoid his gaze. Silence followed, broken
only by the somewhat panting breath of Pan Stanislav. But in the next
room Mashko's squeaking boots were heard.
"Till to-morrow," said Pan Stanislav.
And in that whisper there was something almost commanding. Pani Mashko
stood all this time with downcast eyes, motionless as a statue.
"Here is the cane," said Mashko. "To-morrow morning I go to the city,
and return only in the evening. If the weather is good, maybe thou and
Pani Polanyetski would like to visit my hermitess."
"Good-night," said Pan Stanislav.
And after a while he found himself on the empty road, which was lighted
by the moon. It seemed to him that he had sprung out of a flame. The
calm of the night and the forest was in such contrast to his tempest
that it struck him like something uncommon. The first impression
which he was able to note was the feeling that his internal conflict
was closed, his hesitations ended; that the bridges were burned, and
all was over. Some internal voice began to shout in his soul that
first of all it had transpired that he was a wretch; but in this
thought precisely there was a kind of desperate solace, for he said to
himself if it were true, he must come to terms with himself as with a
wretch, and in that event "let everything perish, and let the devils
take all." In every case a wretch will not need to fight with his
own inclinations, and may indulge himself. Yes, all is over, and the
bridges are burned! He will be false to Marynia, trample her heart,
trample honesty, trample the principles on which he built his life; but
in return he will have Pani Mashko. Now one of two, either she will
complain of him to her husband, and to-morrow there will be a duel,--if
so be, let it come,--or she will be silent, and in that case will be
his partner. To-morrow Mashko will go to Warsaw; and he, Pan Stanislav,
will gain all that he desires, even if the world had to sink the next
moment. If she will not expose him, it is better for her not to try
resistance. He imagined even that she would not try, or if she did,
she would do so only to preserve appearances. And it began to seethe
in him again; that helplessness of hers, which formerly roused so much
contempt in him, had become now an additional charm. He imagined the
morrow, and the passiveness of that woman. In spite of all his chaos
of thought, he understood perfectly that just in that passiveness she
would seek later on an excuse: she would say to herself that she was
not a partaker in the guilt, because she was forced to it; and in this
way she would calumniate God, her own conscience, and, if need be, her
husband. And thinking thus, he despised her as much as he desired her;
but he felt at the same time that he himself was not much worthier, and
that by virtue of a certain selection, not only natural, but moral,
they ought to belong to each other.
He understood, also, that for him it was too late to with draw from
that road, and that once those same lips of his, which had sworn
faith and love to Marynia, had said to another woman, "I love!" the
greatest evil was committed. The rest was simply a sequence, which
it was not proper to reject, even for this reason,--that in every
case it was a pleasure. He imagined that all must reason thus who
throw honesty through the window, and resolve on deeds of vileness;
and the reasoning seemed to him as exact as it was immoral. And the
more soberly he reflected, the more he was astonished at his own
degradation. He had seen much evil and hidden vileness in the world
under the guise of refinement and polish. He knew that corruption had
worked out for itself, somehow, under the influence of bad books, a
right of citizenship; but he remembered that he was indignant at this,
that he wished simplicity and strictness for the society in which he
lived, in the conviction that only on such bases could social strength
and permanence be developed. Nothing has roused in him so many fears
for the future as that refined evil of the West sown on the wild Slav
field, and growing up on it with a sickly bloom of dilettantism,
license, weakness, and faithlessness. More than once, as he remembered,
he had reproached with such sowings, at one time high financial
spheres, at another aristocracy of birth; and more than once he had
attacked them without mercy. Now he understood that whoso lives in an
atmosphere filled with carbonic gas, must suffocate. In what was he
better than others? Or rather, how much worse was he than those who,
floating in corruption, as sticks float in water, do not, at least,
amuse themselves with hypocrisy, nor deceive themselves, nor prescribe
rules to others, nor erect ideals of a healthy man spiritually, an
honest husband, an honest father, as a binding model. And he almost
refused to believe that he was the man, who once gave Pani Emilia ideal
friendship, and promised faithfulness to Marynia, and who considered
that he had a clear intellect and a character juster and stronger than
others.
He stronger? His strength was only deception, coming from lack of
temptation. If he had loved Pani Emilia with the ideal feeling of a
brother; if he had resisted the coquetry of Pani Aneta,--it was only
because they did not rouse in him that animal feeling which that puppet
with her red eyes roused, she whom his soul rejected, but for whom
his senses were striving this long time. He thought then, too, that
his feeling for Marynia had never been honest, for at the basis of
things it was not anything else than just such an animal attraction.
Familiarity had dulled it; and, restrained by the condition of Marynia,
he had turned to where he was able, and turned without restraint or
scruple hardly half a year after his marriage.
And Pan Stanislav, who, on leaving Mashko's house, had the feeling that
he was a wretch, thought all at once that he was more of a wretch than
at first he had imagined, for he remembered now that he was to be a
father.
At home, in Marynia's windows, the lights had not been extinguished;
he would have given much to find her sleeping. It came to his mind,
even, to walk on and not return till there was darkness in the chamber.
But suddenly he saw her profile in the window. She must be looking for
him; and, since it was clear in front of the house, she must have seen
him,--hence he halted and went in.
She received him in a white night wrapper, and with unbound hair. There
was in that unbound hair a certain calculated coquetry, for she knew
that she had beautiful hair, and that he liked to fondle it.
"Why art thou not sleeping?" asked he, coming in.
She approached him, sleepy, but smiling, and said,--
"I was waiting for thee to say the evening prayer."
Since their stay in Rome they had prayed together; but at present the
very thought of this seemed to him insupportable. Meanwhile Marynia
inquired,--
"Well, Stas, art content that thou hast saved him? Thou art, I think."
"Yes," answered he.
"But she does not know of his position?"
"She does and does not. It is late. Let us go to sleep."
"Good-night. Dost thou know of what I have been thinking here alone?
That thou art so good and honest."
And, extending her face to him, she put her arms around his neck; he
kissed her, feeling at the same time the pure honesty of her kiss, and
his own vileness, and the whole series of vilenesses which he would
have to commit later on.
One of these he committed right there, kneeling down to the prayer,
which Marynia repeated aloud. He could not avoid saying it; and in
saying it, he merely played a pitiful comedy, for he could not pray.
After the prayer was finished and a second good-night given, he could
not sleep. It seemed to him that, when coming from Mashko's, he had
embraced with his mind his action and all its moral consequences.
Meanwhile it turned out that he had not. It came to his head now that
it is possible not to believe in God, but not permitted to make sport
of Him. To commit, for example, a perfidy, to return home to-morrow,
or the following day, after having committed adultery, and kneel down
to prayer, that would be too much. He felt that it was necessary to
choose either religious feeling and sincere faith, or Pani Mashko.
To reconcile these was not possible. And all at once he saw that
everything which he had worked out and elaborated in himself purposely
for years, that all that immense calm, resulting from the solution of
life's chief enigma,--in a word, that which composed the essence of his
spiritual existence,--must be rejected outright. On the other hand, he
understood equally well that, from to-morrow forward, he must give the
lie to his own social principles, to his recognition of the family as
the basis of social existence. It is not permitted to proclaim such
principles, and seduce other men's wives in secret. It was necessary
to choose here too. As to Marynia, perfidy against her had been
committed already. With one sweep, then, his relations with God, with
society, with his wife, had gone to ruin; the ceiling of that spiritual
house, reared with great labor, and in which he had been dwelling,
had tumbled on his head. And that chilling cold of evil filled him
with wonder. He had not expected that, on cutting a single thread,
the whole fabric would unravel so quickly; and with astonishment he
asked himself how there can exist in the world opportunism of that
kind, which reconciles faith-breaking in life with honesty and honor?
For that is what is done. He knew many so-called decent people,
married men, loving their wives, as it were, religious,--and at the
same time pursuing every woman they met. These same men, who would
account to their wives every deviation from duty as a crime, permitted
themselves conjugal infidelity without a scruple. He remembered how
one of his acquaintances, pushed to the wall on this point, wriggled
out humorously with the well-known street witticism that he was not
a Swedish match. Absolute infidelity was obliterated, and among men
passed as something permitted, almost customary. That thought brought
Pan Stanislav a moment of consolation, but a short one, for he was
consistent, if not in his actions, at least in his reasoning. True!
The world is not composed of thieves and hypocrites alone, but in
great part of thoughtless and frivolous people; and this opportunism,
reconciling adultery with honor and honesty, is nothing else than
frivolity. For in what can custom excuse a man, who recognizes the
immorality and stupidity of that custom? For a fool, infidelity may be
a joke, thought Pan Stanislav; for a man who thinks seriously, it is
scoundrelism, as much opposed to ethics as a crime, as the signing of
other men's names to notes, as the breaking of an oath, as the breaking
of a word, as swindling in trade, or in cards. Religion may forgive
the sin of adultery as a momentary fall; but adultery which excuses
itself beforehand, excludes religion, excludes society, excludes
honesty, excludes honor. Pan Stanislav, who, in his reasonings with
himself, was always consistent and in general utterly unsparing, did
not withdraw before this last induction. But he was frightened when he
saw the precipice. If he did not withdraw, he would break his neck;
but at the same time he began to fret at his own weakness. He knew
himself well enough, with sorrow and with contempt also for his own
weakness; he knew in advance that when he should see Pani Mashko, the
human beast would get the upper hand of his soul. To withdraw? But he
had repeated that to himself, and determined it after every temptation;
and afterward, in presence of each succeeding one, passion had run
away with his will at breakneck speed, just as a wild horse runs away
with a rider. At the very remembrance of this he wanted to curse. If
he had been unhappy at home, if his passion had grown up on the ground
of great love, he would have had some excuse for it; but he did not
love Pani Mashko,--he only desired her. He could never give himself an
account of this dualism in the nature of man,--he knew only that he
desired and would desire after every meeting, after every thought of
her.
There remained one escape, not to see her,--an impossible escape, not
only with reference to relations of acquaintance of every kind, but
even with reference to this, that then Marynia would begin to suspect
something. Pan Stanislav did not even suppose that that had taken place
already, and that she merely concealed from him her suffering; he gave
account to himself, however, that if his treason should in any way come
out, it would be a blow simply beyond the strength of that mild and
trusting woman. And his reproaches increased still more. Great pity
and compassion for her seized him, as well as increased contempt for
himself. In spite of darkness, the blood rushed to his face when he
remembered that the fatal words had fallen; that he had said, "I love,"
to Pani Mashko; that he had deceived and betrayed Marynia, that honest,
truthful woman; and that he was capable of betraying her trust, and
trampling on her heart.
For a while it seemed to him a pure impossibility; but his conscience
answered him, Thou art capable! Still, in that sorrow and pity for her
he found a kind of consolation, when he saw that his feeling for her
was and is something more than animal attraction, and that there were
in him certain attachments, flowing out of the community of life and
mutual possession; from the marriage vow; from comradeship in good
and evil fortune; from the great esteem and affection which in future
was to be strengthened by a child. Never had he loved her more than
in that moment of internal torture, and never had there risen in him
greater tenderness. Day began to break; through the openings of the
window the dawn was entering, and filled the chamber with a pale light,
in which he could see indistinctly her dark head sunk in the pillow.
His heart was filled with the feeling that that was his only and best
treasure,--his greatly beloved comrade sleeping there, his best friend,
his wife, and the future mother of his child. And no conclusions, no
reasonings about religion and social unvirtue, filled him with such
disgust for that unvirtue and for himself as the sight of that mild,
sleeping face. The light through the openings entered more and more,
and her head emerged more distinctly each moment from the shade. The
half-circles of her eyelids were visible already on her cheeks and Pan
Stanislav, looking at her, began to say to himself, "Thy honesty will
help me!" All at once better feelings gained the victory in him: the
beast abandoned his son and a certain consolation seized him, for he
thought that if he were such a wretch as he had imagined, he would have
followed the voice of passion with a lighter heart, and would not have
passed through such suffering.
He woke late in the morning, wearied and somewhat ill; he felt such
dissatisfaction and exhaustion as he had never felt before. But by the
light of day, and besides a rainy and gloomy day, the whole affair
stood before him differently,--it seemed more sober, ordinary; the
future did not appear to him so terrible, nor his fault so great.
Everything grew smaller in his eyes; he began to think then principally
of this, whether Pani Mashko had confessed all to her husband or not.
At moments he had the feeling of a man who has crawled into a great and
sore trouble needlessly. Gradually, however, this feeling was changed
into an ever increasing and more vivid alarm. "The position is stupid,"
said he to himself. "Every reproach may be made against Mashko, but not
this, that he is an incompetent or a coward; and he will not put such
an insult as that into his pocket. Hence there will be an explanation,
a scandal, perhaps a duel. May the thunderbolts shatter it! What a
fatal history, if the thing reaches Marynia!" And he began to be angry
with the whole world. Till then he had had perfect peace; he had
cared for no one, counted with no one. To-day, however, he is turning
to every side; in his head is the question, "Has she told; has she
not told?" and from the morning he could not think of aught else. It
went that far that finally he put to himself this question: "What the
deuce! am I afraid of Mashko? I?" It was not Mashko whom he feared, but
Marynia, which was in like manner something both new and astonishing,
for a couple of days earlier he would have admitted anything rather
than this,--that he would ever fear Marynia. And as midday approached,
the affair, which seemed to him diminished in the morning, began again
to increase in his eyes. At moments he strengthened himself with the
hope that Pani Mashko would be silent; at moments he lost that hope.
And then he felt that he would not dare to look into the eyes, not of
Marynia, merely, but of any one; and he feared Bigiel, too, and Pani
Bigiel, and Pani Emilia, Pan Ignas,--in a word, all his acquaintances.
"See what it is to make a muddle!" thought he. "How much one stupidity
costs!" His alarm increased to the degree that at last, under pretext
of returning the cane, he sent a servant boy to Pani Mashko with a bow,
and an inquiry as to her health.
The servant returned in half an hour. Pan Stanislav saw him through
the window, and, going down hurriedly to meet him, learned that he had
brought a note from Pani Mashko to Marynia. Taking the note, he gave it
to Marynia; and his heart beat with still greater alarm while watching
her face as she read it.
But Marynia, when she had finished, raised her calm eyes to him, and
said,--
"Pani Mashko invites us to supper to-day--and the Bigiels also."
"A-a!" answered Pan Stanislav, drawing a full breath. And in his soul
he added, "She has not told."
"We will go, shall we not?" asked Marynia.
"If thou wish--that is, go with the Bigiels, for after dinner I must go
to the city. I must see Svirski; perhaps I shall bring him here."
"Then we may send an excuse?"
"No, no! go with the Bigiels. Maybe I shall call in on the way and
explain to her; but even that is not necessary. Thou wilt explain for
me." And he went out, for he needed to be alone with his thoughts.
"She has not told;" a feeling of relief and delight now possessed him.
She had not told her husband; she was not offended; she had invited
them. She has agreed, therefore, to everything; she is ready to go
farther, and to go everywhere, whithersoever he may wish to lead her.
What is that invitation itself, if not a wish to put him at ease, if
not an answer to his, "Till to-morrow"? Now all depends on him alone;
and shivers begin again to go from his feet to his head. There are
no hindrances unless in himself. The fish has swallowed the hook.
Temptations attacked him with new power, for uncertainty restrained
them no longer. Yes, the fish had swallowed the hook; she had not
resisted. Here a feeling of triumph seized him, and of satisfaction for
his self-love; and at the same time, thinking of Pani Mashko, he began
almost to beg pardon of her in his soul, because he had at moments been
capable of doubting her, and thinking her an honest woman, for even
five minutes. Now, at least, he knew what to think of her, and he was
thankful. After a while he laughed at his previous fears. In this way
he rendered the first tribute due her, contempt. She had ceased to be
for him something unattainable, something for which a battle between
hope and fear is fought. In spite of himself, he imagined her now as
something of his, as his own, always attractive, but for this very
reason less valuable. The thought also caused him pleasure, that if he
resisted temptation at present, it would be a pure merit. Now, when
the doors stood open, he saw with wonder that the desire of resistance
increased in him. Once more all that he had said during the sleepless
night about faith-breaking flew through his mind. Once more his heart
reminded him of Marynia, her justness, her honesty, her approaching
motherhood, and that great peace, that real happiness, which he could
find only near her; and in the end of all these considerations he
decided to go to the city, and not be at Pani Mashko's.
After midday he gave command to bring the horses. When he was seated
in Bigiel's carriage he bent over, embraced Marynia at parting, "Amuse
thyself well," and drove away. His morning exhaustion had passed;
he recovered even his humor, for he felt satisfied with himself.
Confidence in his own power and character returned to him. Meanwhile,
a certain exciting pleasure was caused in his mind by the thought of
Pani Mashko's astonishment when she should learn that he had gone, and
had no intention to visit her. He felt a certain need of revenge on the
woman for the physical impression which she had produced on him. Since
the coming of that note, which she had written to Marynia, his contempt
for her had increased with such force that soon he began to think that
he would be in a position to come off victorious, even should he visit
her.
"And if I should go there, indeed, and give another meaning to
yesterday's words," said he. But directly he thought, "I will not be a
deceiver, at least, with reference to myself."
He was certain, however, that she would not be astonished at his
coming. After what he had told her yesterday, she might suppose that he
would find some excuse for visiting her before the arrival of Marynia
and the Bigiels, or for remaining behind them.
But should she see him driving past, she might think that he feared
her, or consider him a boor, or jester.
"There is no doubt," monologued he, further, "that a man who does not
consider himself a fool, or a dolt, incapable of resisting any puppet,
would go in and try to correct in some fashion yesterday's stupidity."
But at the same moment fear seized him. That same voice which yesterday
evening shouted in his soul that he was a wretch, began to shout again
with redoubled energy.
"I will not go in," thought Pan Stanislav. "To understand and to be
able to refrain are two different matters."
Pani Kraslavski's villa was visible now in the distance.
Suddenly it flew into his head that Pani Mashko, through vexation and
the feeling of being contemned, through offended self-love, through
revenge, might tell Marynia something that would open her eyes. Maybe
she would do that with one word, with one smile, giving even, it might
be, to understand further, that certain insolent hopes of his had been
shattered by her womanly honesty, and in that way explain his absence.
Women rarely refuse themselves such small revenges, and still more
rarely are they merciful one toward another.
"If I had the courage to go in--"
At that moment the carriage was even with the gate of the villa.
"Stop!" said Pan Stanislav to the driver.
He saw on the balcony Pani Mashko, who, however, withdrew at once.
He walked through the yard; the servant received him at the door.
"The lady is upstairs," said he.
Pan Stanislav felt that his legs were trembling under him, when he
walked up the steps; meanwhile the following thoughts flew through his
head,--
"He may permit himself everything who takes life lightly, but I do not
take it lightly. If, after all that I have considered and thought over
and said, I could not master myself, I should be the last among men."
Now, standing at the door of the room pointed out by the servant, he
inquired,--
"Is it permitted?"
"I beg," said the thin voice.
And after a while he found himself in Pani Mashko's boudoir.
"I have come in," said he, giving her his hand, "to explain that I
cannot be at supper. I must go to the city."
Pani Mashko stood before him with head a little inclined, with drooping
eyes, confused, full of evident fear, having in her posture and
expression of face something of the resigned victim, which sees that
the decisive moment has come, and that the misfortune must happen.
That state of mind came on Pan Stanislav, too, in one flash; hence,
approaching her suddenly, he asked with stifled voice,--
"Are you afraid? Of what are you afraid?"