Meanwhile Pan Ignas spent the time between Warsaw and Buchynek, going
from one place to the other daily, remaining now here, now there, just
as his work and business commanded. Since his marriage was to take
place in the fall, immediately after the season in Scheveningen, Pan
Stanislav told him that it was time to find a dwelling, and furnish
it, even in some fashion. He and Bigiel promised every assistance in
that affair. Pani Bigiel was to see to the part which pertained to
housekeeping. Pan Ignas's presence in Buchynek was necessary also in
view of his relations with Panna Helena. Though the will of her father,
bearing date a year earlier, made her the only heiress of the whole
immense property, she did not hide in the least that she knew that
her father did not make another will simply because either he had not
foreseen a death so sudden, or had deferred the matter from day to day,
in the manner of old people. She had not the least doubt, however, that
her father wished to do something for a man of the same name, and a
relative; and she said openly that she held it a duty to carry out her
father's wish. No one, it is true, could foresee in what measure she
would decide to do that; and for her too it was difficult to answer
such a question, before she had made an exact inventory of all the
properties and moneys; meanwhile, however, she began to present Pan
Ignas with everything which, in her opinion, male heirs should inherit.
In this way, she gave him a part of the household plate, left after the
deceased, as well as a considerable and valuable collection of arms,
which the old man prized, and horses greatly esteemed by him,--these
Polanyetski took on commission; and, finally, that collection of pipes
the fate of which had concerned Kopovski so much.
Cold, and apparently indifferent to all, intimidating people by her
severe and concentrated expression of face, she had for Pan Ignas
alone, in her voice and look, a certain something almost motherly;
just as if with the property she had inherited from her father his
inclination for the young man. He was indeed the only person on earth
with whom she was connected by bonds of blood, or at least by identity
of name. Learning from Pan Stanislav of the steps taken by Pan Ignas
toward furnishing a house, she begged him to put in the bank for her a
considerable sum in the name of "Pan Ignas," for outlays toward that
end, begging, however, not to mention the matter to him immediately.
Pan Ignas, who had a young and grateful heart, became attached to her
quickly, as to an elder sister; and she felt perfectly that sympathy of
two natures, who wish each other well, and feel mutual confidence. Time
usually changes original sympathies of that sort into great, enduring
friendship, which in evil periods of life may be of great support. But
at that juncture, Pan Ignas could devote to her barely a tiny part of
his soul; for he had applied soul, heart, and all his powers, with the
entire exclusiveness of a fanatic in love, to the greater and greater
adoration of "Nitechka."
Meanwhile he was as busy as a fly in a pot, between Buchynek and the
city, and even made new acquaintances. One of these was Professor
Vaskovski; who had returned from his pilgrimage among the "youngest of
the Aryans." He had visited the shores of the Adriatic, and the entire
Balkan peninsula; but the state of his health was so pitiful that Pan
Stanislav took him for good to Buchynek, to save the poor man from
being cheated, and to give him needful care, which in his loneliness he
could not have found in another place. Pan Ignas, himself a person of
lofty soul, and ready to grasp every broad idea, though it might seem
absurd to common-sense fools, conceived from the first day a love for
the old man, with his theory of a historical mission predestined to the
youngest of the Aryans. Of this theory he had heard already more than
once from Svirski and Polanyetski, and considered it a splendid dream.
But it struck him and Svirski and the Polanyetskis that the professor,
on returning from his journey, answered only that "No one could escape
the service which Christ had preordained to him;" then he gazed
forward with his mystic eyes, as if seeking something, or looking for
something in infinity, and his old face took on an expression of such
deep sorrow, and even of such pain, that no one had the heart to touch
that particular question. The doctor called in by Polanyetski declared
that the greasy kitchen of the youngest of the Aryans had given the old
man a serious catarrh of the stomach, to which was added _marasmus
senilis_. The professor had, in fact, a serious catarrh of the stomach;
but Pan Ignas divined in him something else,--namely, a desperate
struggle between doubt and that in which he believed, and to which,
as a real maniac-idealist, he had devoted a lifetime. Pan Ignas alone
understood the whole tragedy of such a final _ergo erravi_; and he was
doubly moved,--first, as a man with a heart, second, as a poet, who at
once saw a theme for a poem: the old man before the house, in the sun,
sitting on the ruin of his life and beliefs, with the words, "vanity,
vanity," on his lips, and waiting for death, whose steps he hears now
in the distance.
But with the professor it was not so bad, perhaps, as Pan Ignas had
imagined. "The youngest of the Aryans" might, indeed, have disappointed
him; but there remained the faith that Christianity had not uttered
its last word yet, and that the coming epoch in the life of humanity
would not be anything else than a spreading of the spirit of Christ,
and a transfer of it from relations between individuals to general
human relations. "Christ in history" did not cease to be for him a
vision of the future. He believed even always that the mission of
introducing love into history was predestined to the youngest of the
Aryans; but from the time of his journey a deep sadness had seized him,
for he understood that, before that could be realized, not only he, but
whole generations, must die of catarrh of the stomach, caused by the
indigestible kitchen of principalities on the Danube.
Meanwhile he shut himself up in himself, and in silence which had more
the appearance of life-sorrow than it was in reality. Of his "idea," he
hardly ever spoke directly, but the idea was evident. Just as the hand
of a clock, stopped at a certain hour, never indicates any hour but
that, so the indicator of his thought did not desert that idea; for to
various questions he answered with words which were rather connected
with it than the thing touching which he was questioned. Whenever they
wished to call him back to reality, it was needful to rouse him. In
dress he neglected himself utterly, and seemed every day to forget more
and more that buttons on a vest, for example, are there to be buttoned.
With his eternal absence of mind; with his eyes both short-sighted and
child-like, reflecting in some mechanical way external impressions;
with a face of concern, on which pimples had become still more evident
because of defective digestion; finally, with a neglect of dress,
and his wonderful trousers, which, it is unknown for what reason,
were twice as wide as the trousers of other men,--he roused mirth in
strangers, and became frequently the object of jokes more or less
malicious. It seems that he roused such feelings first of all in the
"youngest of the Aryans." In general, they considered him as a man in
whose head the staves lacked a hoop; but some showed him compassion.
The word "harmless" struck his ears frequently, but he feigned not to
hear it. He felt, however, that at Pan Stanislav's he was comfortable;
that no one laughed at him, no one showed him the compassion shown
idiots.
Finally, neither the too greasy kitchen of the "youngest of the
Aryans," nor the catarrh of the stomach, had taken away his boundless
forbearance, and his kindness to people. He was always that dear old
professor who fell into revery, but who recovered his senses when it
was a question of others. He loved, as of old, Marynia, Pan Stanislav,
Pani Emilia, Svirski, the Bigiels, even Mashko,--in a word, all those
with whom life had brought him in contact. In general, he had a certain
strange understanding of people; namely, that all, whether willing or
unwilling, were serving some purpose, and were like pawns which the
hand of God is moving for reasons which He Himself knows. Artists, like
Svirski, he esteemed as envoys who "reconcile."
He looked in the same way on Pan Ignas, whose poetry he had read
before. On becoming acquainted with the author, he looked at him as
curiously as at some peculiar object; but in the morning, when the poet
had gone to the city, and they began to talk about him during tea, the
old man raised his finger, and, turning to Marynia, said, with a look
of mystery,--
"Oh, he is God's bird! He does not know what God wrote on his head nor
to what He designed him."
Marynia told him of Pan Ignas's approaching marriage, of his feeling
for Panna Lineta, and of her, praising her goodness and beauty.
"Yes," said the professor, when he had heard all, "you see she too has
her mission, and she too is 'chosen.' God commanded her to watch over
that flame; and since she is chosen, she should be honored for having
been chosen. Do you see? Favor is upon her." Then he grew thoughtful
and added, "All this is precious for humanity in the future."
Pan Stanislav looked at his wife, as if wishing to say that the
professor was dreaming disconnectedly; but the latter blinked somewhat,
and, looking before him, continued,--
"There is in the sky a Milky Way; and when God wishes, He takes dust
from it and makes new worlds. And you see, I think there is likewise a
spiritual Milky Way, made up of all that people have ever thought and
felt. Everything is in it,--what genius has accomplished, what talent
has wrought; in it are the efforts of men's minds, the honesty of
women's hearts, human goodness, and people's pains. Nothing perishes,
though everything turns to dust, for out of that dust, by the will of
God, new spiritual worlds are created for people."
Then he began to blink, weighing what he had said; after that, as if
coming to himself, he looked for the buttons of his vest, and added,--
"But that young woman must have a soul pure as a tear, since God
pointed her out and designated her to be the guardian of that fire."
Svirski's arrival interrupted further conversation. For Marynia it was
not a surprise, as the artist had promised her that either he would
come himself or write to inform her what turn his affair had taken.
Marynia, seeing him now through the window, was nearly certain that all
had ended auspiciously; but when he had entered the room and greeted
every one, he looked at her with such a strange face that she did
not know what to divine from it. Evidently he wished to speak of the
affair, and that immediately; but he did not like to do so before the
old professor and Pan Stanislav. So the latter, to whom Marynia had
told everything, came to his aid, and, pointing to his wife, said,--
"She needs a walk greatly; take her to the garden, for I know that she
and you have some words to say."
After a while they found themselves in the alley among the white
poplars. They walked a time in silence, he swaying on his broad hips
of an athlete, and seeking for something from which to begin, she bent
somewhat forward, with her kindly face full of curiosity. Both were in
a hurry to speak, but Svirski began at another point.
"Have you told all to your husband?" asked he, on a sudden.
Marynia blushed as if caught in a fault, and answered,--
"Yes; for Stas is such a friend of yours, and I do not like to have
secrets from him."
"Of course not," said Svirski, kissing her hand. "You did well. I am
not ashamed of that, just as I am not ashamed of this, that I got a
refusal."
"Impossible! You are joking," said Marynia, halting.
"I give you my word that I am not." And, seeing the pain which the news
caused her, he began to speak as if with concern. "But don't take it
more to heart than I do. That happened which had to happen. See, I have
come; I am standing before you; I have not fired into my forehead, and
have no thought of doing so; but that I got a basket[12] is undoubted."
"But why? what did she answer you?"
"Why? what did she answer me?" repeated Svirski. "You see, just in
that is hidden something from which there is a bitter taste in my
mouth. I confess to you sincerely that I did not love Panna Ratkovski
deeply. She pleased me; they all please me. I thought that she would
be an honest and grateful heart, and I made a declaration here; but
more through calculation, and because it was time for me. Afterward I
had even a little burning at the heart. There was even a moment when I
said to myself, 'Thy declaration in Buchynek was not precise enough:
better put it forward another corner.' I grew shamefaced. 'What the
deuce!' thought I; 'thou hast crossed the threshold with one foot; go
over with the other.' And I wrote her a letter, this time with perfect
precision; and see what she has written as an answer."
Then he drew a letter from his coat-pocket, and said, before he began
to read it,--
"At first there are the usual commonplaces, which you know. She esteems
me greatly; she would be proud and happy (but she prefers not to be);
she nourishes for me sincere sympathy. (If she will nourish her husband
as she does that sympathy, he will not be fat.) But at the end she says
as follows:--
"'I have not the power to give you my heart with such delight as
you deserve. I have chosen otherwise; and if I never shall be
happy, I do not wish at least to reproach myself hereafter with
not having been sincere. In view of what has happened here I
cannot write more; but believe me that I shall be grateful to you
all my life for your confidence, and henceforth I shall pray daily
that God permit you to find a heart worthy of you, and to bless
you all your life.'
"That is all."
A moment of silence followed; then Svirski said,--
"So far as I am concerned, these are empty words; but they mean, I love
another."
"That is the case, I suppose," replied Marynia, sadly. "Poor girl! for
that is an honest letter."
"An honest letter, an honest letter!" cried Svirski. "They are all
honest, too. That is why it is a little bitter for me. She doesn't
want me. All right; that is permitted to every one. She is in love;
that, too, is permitted. But with whom is she in love? Not with
Osnovski or Pan Ignas, of course. With whom, then? With that head of a
walking-stick, that casket, that pretty man, that tailor's model,--with
that ideal of a waiting maid. You have seen such beautiful gentlemen
depicted on pieces of muslin? That is he, perfectly. If he should stand
in a barber's window, young women would burst in the glass. When he
wishes, he puts on a dress-coat; when not, he goes so, and all right!
You remember what I said of him,--that he was a male houri? And this
is bitter, and this is ill-tasting" (he spoke with growing irritation,
accenting with special emphasis the word _is_), "and this speaks badly
of women; for be thou, O man, a Newton, a Raphael, a Napoleon, and wish
thou as thy whole reward one heart, one woman's head, she will prefer
some lacquered Bibisi. That's how they are."
"Not all women, not all. Besides, as an artist, you should know what
feeling is. Something falls on a person, and that is the end of all
reasoning."
"True," said Svirski, calmly; "I know that not all women are so. And as
to love, you say that something falls, and there is an end. Perhaps so.
That is like a disease. But there are diseases by which the more noble
kinds of creatures are not affected. There is, for instance, a disease
of the hoofs. You will permit me to say that it is needful to have
hoofs in order to get this disease. But there has never been a case
that a dove fell in love with a hoopoo, though a hoopoo is a very nice
bird. You see that doesn't happen to the dove. Hoopoos fall in love
with hoopoos. And let them fall in love for themselves, if only they
will not pretend to be doves. That is all I care. Remember how I spoke
once against Panna Castelli at Bigiel's. And still she chose Pan Ignas
at last. For me, it is a question of those false aspirations, that
insincerity, and those phrases. If thou art a hoopoo's daughter, have
the courage to own it. Do not pretend; do not lie; do not deceive. I,
a man of experience, would have wagered my neck on this, that Panna
Ratkovski is simply incapable of falling in love with Kopovski; and
still she has. I am glad that here it is not a question of me, but of
comedy, of that conventional lying,--and not of Panna Ratkovski, but of
this, that such a type as Kopovski conquers."
"True," said Marynia; "but we ought to find out why all this has become
entangled somehow."
But Svirski waved his hand. "Speaking properly," said he, "it is rather
unravelled. If she had married me! surely I should have carried her at
last in my arms. I give you my word. In me immensely much tenderness
is accumulated. I should have been kind to her, and it would have been
pleasant for both of us. I am also a little sorry for it. Still, she is
not the only one on earth. You will find some honest soul who will want
me; and soon, my dear lady, for in truth at times I cannot endure as I
am. Will you not?"
Marynia began to be amused, seeing that Svirski himself did not take
the loss of Panna Ratkovski to heart so very greatly. But, thinking
over the letter a little more calmly, she remembered one phrase, to
which she had not turned attention at first, being occupied entirely
with the refusal, and she was disquieted by the phrase.
"Have you noticed," asked she, "that in one place, she says, 'After
what has happened here I cannot write more'? Can you think what that
may be?"
"Perhaps Kopovski has made a declaration."
"No; in such a case she would have written more explicitly. If she has
become attached to him, she is a poor girl indeed, for likely she has
no property, and neither is Pan Kopovski rich, they say; therefore he
would hardly decide?"
"True," said Svirski; "you know that that came to my mind, too. She is
in love with him,--that is undoubted; but he will not marry her." Then
he stopped, and said, "In such a case, why is he staying there?"
"They amuse themselves with him, and he amuses himself," answered
Marynia, hurriedly, while turning away her face somewhat, so that
Svirski might not notice her confusion.
And she answered untruly. Since Pan Stanislav had shared his views with
her touching Kopovski's relations with Pani Osnovski, she had thought
of them frequently; the stay of the young man in Prytulov seemed to
her suspicious more than once, and explaining it by the presence of
Panna Ratkovski dishonest. This dishonesty was increased, if Panna
Ratkovski had fallen in love really with Kopovski. But all those
intrigues might come to the surface any moment; and Marynia thought
with alarm then whether the words of Panna Ratkovski--"after what has
happened here"--had not that meaning precisely. In such a case it
would be a real catastrophe for that honest Pan Osnovski and for Panna
Steftsia.
Really everything might be involved in a tragic manner.
"I will go to-morrow to Prytulov," said Svirski; "I wish to visit the
Osnovskis, just to show that I cherish no ill-feelings. If anything has
happened there really, or if any one has fallen ill, I shall discover
it and let you know. Pan Ignas is not there at this moment."
"No. Pan Ignas is in the city. To-morrow, or after to-morrow surely, he
will come here, or go to Yasmen. Stas, too, is preparing for the city
to-day. Sister Aniela is ill, and we wish to bring her here. Since I
cannot go, Stas is going."
"Sister Aniela? That one whom your husband calls Pani Emilia,--a Fra
Angelico face, a perfectly sainted face, a beautiful face! I saw her
perhaps twice at your house. Oh, if she were not a religious!"
"She is sick, the poor thing. She can barely walk. She has disease of
the spine, from overwork."
"Oh, that is bad," said Svirski. "You will have the professor, and that
poor woman? But what kind people you are!"
"That is Stas," replied Marynia.
At that moment Pan Stanislav appeared at the end of the walk, and
approached them with a hurried step.
"I hear that you are going to the city to-day," said Svirski; "let us
go together."
"Agreed!"
And, turning to his wife, he said,--
"Marynia, hast thou not walked enough? Wilt thou lean on me?"
Marynia took his arm, and they walked to the veranda together; after
that she went in to give command to bring the afternoon tea.
"I have received a wonderful despatch," said Pan Stanislav; "I did not
wish to show it before my wife. Osnovski asks me where Ignas is, and
asks that I go to the city on his affair. What can that be?"
"It is a wonderful thing," answered Svirski. "Panna Ratkovski writes me
that something has happened there."
"Has any one fallen ill?"
"They would have sent for Pan Ignas directly. If it were Panna Castelli
or Pani Bronich, they would summon him at once."
"But if Osnovski didn't wish to frighten him, he would telegraph to me."
And both looked each other in the eyes with alarm.
FOOTNOTES:
[12] Was rejected.