Next day, half an hour after Pan Stanislav's arrival, Osnovski rang
at his house. At the sound of the bell, Pan Stanislav, who had been
in great alarm since the day before, went himself to the door. He had
admitted for some time that a bomb might burst in Prytulov any day; but
he struggled in vain with his thoughts, to discover what connection the
explosion might have with Pan Ignas.
Osnovski pressed his hand at greeting with special force, as is done in
exceptional circumstances; and when Pan Stanislav invited him to his
study, he asked on the way,--
"Are you living in Buchynek?"
"I am; we are perfectly alone."
In the study, Osnovski, when he had sat in the armchair pointed out
to him, bent his head and was silent for a while, breathing hurriedly
meantime; for in consequence of excessive exercise he was affected
somewhat with distention of the lungs. At present emotion, and the
steps, obstructed his breath still more. Pan Stanislav waited patiently
for some time; at last his inborn curiosity conquered, and he asked,--
"What has happened?"
"A misfortune has happened," said Osnovski, in deep sorrow. "Ignas's
marriage is broken off."
"Why?"
"Those are things so disagreeable that it would be better for Ignas
perhaps not to know the reasons. For a time, I even hesitated to
mention them. But he ought to know all; for this is a question of more
importance than his self-love. Indignation and disgust may help him to
bear the misfortune. The marriage is broken, for Panna Castelli is not
worthy of such a man as Pan Ignas; and if to-day there could be a talk
of renewing the relation, I would be the first to veto it decisively."
Here Osnovski began to catch breath again; but Pan Stanislav, who had
been listening as if fixed to the floor, burst out suddenly,--
"By the dear God, what has happened?"
"This has happened, that those ladies went abroad three days ago, with
Kopovski as the betrothed of Panna Castelli."
Pan Stanislav, who a moment before had sprung up from the chair, sat
down again. On his face, with all its emotion and alarm, was reflected
unspeakable astonishment. He looked for some time at Osnovski, and
then, as if unable to collect his thoughts, said,--
"Kopovski?--and has Panna Castelli gone too?"
But Osnovski was too much occupied with the affair itself to turn
attention to the particular form of Pan Stanislav's inquiry.
"It is unfortunate," said he; "you know that I am related to those
ladies: my mother was a sister of Pani Bronich, and also of Lineta's
mother; and for a time we were reared together. You will understand
that I would rather spare them. But let that go. Our relations are
broken; and, besides, if Lineta were my own sister, I would say what
I say now. As to Pan Ignas, since my wife and I are going, and that
to-day I may not find him, I will even say openly that I lack courage
to talk with him; but I will tell you what I saw. You, as his near
friend, may be able to soften the blow; he should know everything, for
in a misfortune of this kind, there is no better cure than disgust."
Here he began to tell Pan Stanislav what he had seen in the
conservatory. Excited himself, he lost breath at moments, but was
unable to resist a certain astonishment at sight of the feverishness
with which Pan Stanislav listened. He had hoped for cool blood in the
man; he could not, of course, divine that Pan Stanislav had personal
reasons, in virtue of which a narrative of that sort acted more
powerfully on his nerves than would news even of the death of Pan Ignas
or Panna Castelli.
"At the first moment I lost my head," continued Osnovski; "I am not
hasty, but how I avoided breaking his bones, I know not. Perhaps I
remembered that he was my guest; perhaps, since it is a question here
of something more important than he, I thought of Ignas; perhaps I
thought of nothing. I lost my head, and went out. After a time I
returned, and told him to follow me. I saw that he was pale, but
decided. In my own room I told him that he had acted unworthily; that
he had abused the hospitality of an honorable house; and that Lineta
was a wretch, for whom I had not sufficient words of contempt; that,
by this same act, her marriage with Pan Ignas was broken,--but that I
would force him to marry her, though I had to go to extremities. Here
it turned out that they must have taken counsel during the interval in
which I left them alone; for he told me that he had been in love with
Lineta a long time, and that he was ready to marry her at any moment.
As to Pan Ignas, I felt that Kopovski was repeating words which Lineta
had dictated, for he told me that which he could not have come at
himself. He said that he was ready to give every satisfaction, but that
he was not bound to count with Pan Ignas, for he had no obligations
touching him: 'Panna Lineta has chosen me finally; that,' said he,
'is all the worse for him, but it is her affair.' What was going on
meanwhile between aunt and Lineta, I cannot tell; it is enough that
before I had finished with Kopovski, Aunt Bronich rushed in like a
fury, with reproaches, saying that I and my wife had not permitted
Lineta to follow the natural impulse of her heart; that we had thrust
her on Pan Ignas, whom she had never loved; that Lineta had cried whole
nights, and that she would have paid for that marriage with her life;
that what happened now was by the express will of God,--and so for a
whole hour. We are to blame; Pan Ignas is to blame,--they alone are
faultless."
Here Osnovski rubbed his forehead with his hand, and said,--
"I am thirty-six years of age; but before this affair I could not even
imagine what woman's perversity may be. I cannot understand yet such
an inconceivable power of perverting things, of placing them bottom
upward. I understand what the situation was; I understand that they
thought everything finished with Pan Ignas, even for this alone, that
I hindered, and that there was no one left for them save Kopovski. But
the ease with which white was made black, and black white; that lack of
moral sense, that absence of truth and justice,--that egotism without
bound or bottom. The deuce might take them were it not for Ignas. He
would have been most unhappy with them; but what a blow for a man of
such nature, and so much in love; what a deception! But Lineta! Who
could have supposed? Kopovski, such a fool, such a fool! And that young
woman thought to be so full of impulses; she who a few weeks before
exchanged rings, and gave her word! And she the betrothed of Pan Ignas!
As God lives, a man might lose his senses."
"A man might lose his senses," repeated Pan Stanislav, as an echo.
A moment of silence followed.
"But is it long since this happened?" asked Pan Stanislav, at last.
"Three days ago they went to Scheveningen together. They started that
very day; Kopovski had a passport. See how a supreme ass may still have
some cunning. He had a passport ready, for he pretended to pay court to
Panna Ratkovski, my cousin, and to be ready to go abroad with us; he
pretended to be courting this one, so as to have the chance of turning
the other one's head. Ai, poor Pan Ignas, poor man! I give you my word,
that if he had been my brother, I should not have had more sympathy for
him. Better, better, that he had not bound himself to such a Lineta;
but what a crash!"
Here Osnovski took out a handkerchief and rubbed his glasses, blinking
meanwhile with a suffering and helpless expression of face.
"Why did you not inform us earlier?" inquired Pan Stanislav.
"Why did I not inform you earlier? Because my wife fell ill. Nervous
attacks--God knows what! You will not believe how she took it to
heart. And no wonder! Such a woman as she is--and in our house! With
her sensitiveness, that was a blow, for it was a deception on the
part of Lineta, whom she loved so much; and her sorrow for Ignas, and
that contact with evil, and her disgust! On such a pure and sensitive
nature as hers is, that was more than was needed. At the first moments
I thought that she would be dangerously ill, and even now I say, God
grant that it have no fatal effect on her nerves! We simply cannot give
an account to ourselves of what takes place in a soul like hers at the
very sight of evil."
Pan Stanislav looked carefully at Osnovski, bit his mustache, and was
silent.
"I sent for the doctor," continued Osnovski, after a while, "and lost
my head a second time. Happily, Stefania Ratkovski was there, and that
worthy Pani Mashko. Both occupied themselves with Anetka so earnestly
that I shall be grateful to them for a lifetime. Pani Mashko seems
cold, but she is such a cordial person--"
"I judge simply," said Pan Stanislav, wishing to turn the conversation
from Pani Mashko, "that if old Zavilovski had left his property to
Ignas, all this would not have happened."
"Perhaps not; but for me again it is not subject to doubt that if
Lineta had married Ignas, and even if he owned all Pan Zavilovski's
property, her instinct would attract her toward as many Kopovskis as
she might chance to meet in her lifetime; she is that kind of soul. But
I understand some points; I have said that it is possible to lose one's
mind at the thought that things are as they are, but I give a partial
account to myself of what has happened. Hers is too common a nature
to love really such a man as Pan Ignas; she needs Kopovskis. But they
talked into her various lofty impulses, and finally she talked into
herself that which did not exist. They seized on Ignas through vanity,
through self-love, because of public opinion, and because they had no
true knowledge of themselves; but what is insincere cannot last. From
the moment when their vanity was satisfied, Ignas ceased to interest
those ladies. Then they were afraid that with him, perhaps, they would
not have such a life as alone is of worth to them; perhaps he, with
his too lofty style, began to weary them. Add to this the story of the
will, which, without being certainly the main cause of the catastrophe,
diminished Pan Ignas in their eyes; add, before all, the instincts of
Lineta's nature; add Kopovski, and you have an answer to all. There are
women like Pani Polanyetski or my Anetka; there are women, also, like
Lineta and her aunt."
Here Osnovski was silent again for a time; then he said,--
"I see the regret and indignation of your wife, and I am sorry that you
have not seen how this affected mine--or even Pani Mashko. Yes, there
are women and women; but I tell you that we ought to thank God every
day on our knees for having given us such wives as we have." And his
voice trembled with emotion.
Pan Stanislav, though for him it was a question mainly of Pan Ignas,
was simply astounded that a man who, some minutes before, understood
things so profoundly and well, could be so naïve. A bitter smile came
on him, too, at mention of Pani Mashko's indignation. In general, he
was seized by a feeling of a certain crushing irony of life, the whole
immensity of which he had never seen before so distinctly.
"Will you not see Ignas?" asked he, after a while.
"I tell you plainly that I do not feel sufficient courage; to-day I
return to Prytulov, and to-day we will go from our station. I must take
my wife abroad,--first, because she herself begged me tearfully to do
so, and second, perhaps her health will be restored by change of air.
We will go somewhere to the seaside, only not to Scheveningen, where
they went with Kopovski. But I have a great request to make of you. You
know how I love and value Ignas? Let me know by letter how the poor man
receives the news, and what happens to him. I would ask the favor of
Svirski, but I may not see him."
Then Osnovski covered his face and said,--
"Ai! how sad all this is, how sad!"
"Very well," said Pan Stanislav; "send me your address, and I will
report to you how matters turn. But since the grievous mission falls
to me of telling Ignas what has happened, lighten it for me. It is
necessary that he receive information not from a third person, or a
fourth, but from some one who saw everything. If he hears of the event
from me, he may think that I represent the affair inaccurately. In
such cases a man grasps at every shadow of a hope. Sit down and write
to him. I will give him your letter in support of what I tell him;
otherwise he may be ready to fly after them to Scheveningen. I consider
such a letter indispensable."
"Will he not come here soon?"
"No; his father is sick, and he is with him. He thinks that I shall be
here only in the afternoon. Write to him surely."
"You are right, perfectly right," said Osnovski. And he sat down at the
writing-desk.
"Irony of life, irony of life!" thought Pan Stanislav; "bloody irony is
this which has met Pan Ignas. What is such a person as Panna Castelli,
with her bearing of a swan, and her instincts of a chambermaid,--that
'chosen of God,' as Vaskovski said only yesterday? What is Pani
Bronich, and Osnovski, with faith in his wife, and the nervous attacks
of that wife, caused by the mere contact with evil, of _such a pure_
soul, and the indignation of Pani Mashko? Nothing but a ridiculous
human comedy, in which some are deceiving others, and others deceiving
themselves; nothing but deceived and deceivers; nothing but mistakes,
blindness, and errors, and lies of life, and victims of error, victims
of deceit, victims of illusions; a complication without issue; a
ridiculous, farcical, and desperate irony, covering the feelings,
the passions, and hopes of people, just as snow covers fields in
winter--and that is life."
These thoughts were for Pan Stanislav more grievous because, rising
on a basis purely personal, they became at once a kind of reckoning
with his conscience. He was enough of an egoist to refer everything
to himself; and he was not fool enough not to see that in that most
ironical human comedy he was playing a rôle immensely abject. His
position was of that sort that he wished with all the power of his
breath to hiss that Panna Castelli; and still he understood that if
there was any one who was not free to judge her, it was he. In what was
he better? In what was he less vile? She had betrayed a man for a fool;
he had betrayed his wife for a brainless puppet. She had followed her
instincts of a milliner; he had followed his instincts of an ape. But
she had trampled on artificial phrases merely, with which she deceived
herself and others; he had trampled on principles. She had betrayed
confidence, and broken her word; he had betrayed confidence also, and
broken more than a word,--he had broken an oath. And in view of this
what can he say? Has he the right to condemn her? If there is no way
to justify her, if he is ready to acknowledge that it would be unjust
and deserving of indignation for a person like her to become the wife
of Pan Ignas, with what right is he the husband of Marynia? If he can
find even one word of condemnation for Panna Castelli,--and it is
impossible not to find it,--and he wishes to be consistent, he should
separate from Marynia, which he will never have either the will or
the power to do. There is a vicious circle for you. Pan Stanislav had
passed many bitter moments because of his _success_; but this moment
was so grievous that it even filled him with amazement. By degrees
it became simply a torture. At last, through the simple instinct of
self-preservation, he began to seek for something to give him even
momentary relief. But in vain did he say to himself that such people
as Kopovski would not have taken his position to heart so. That was
the same consolation to him as if he had thought that a cat or a horse
would not have taken it to heart so either. In vain he remembered the
words of Balzac: "Infidelity, when undiscovered, is nothing; when
discovered, it is a trifle." "That's a lie," repeated he, gritting
his teeth, "a pleasant _nothing_, which burns so!" He understood, it
is true, that behind the fact itself there may be something which
heightens or lessens its criminality; and he understood also that in
his case all the circumstances are of a kind to make the fault immense
and unpardonable. "Here," thought he, "it takes from me the right
of judging, the right of serving with may conscience. Those women
sacrificed a man of the loftier kind for an idiot; they trampled him;
they pushed him into misfortune, into tragedy, which may break him;
they did this in a mean and abject manner, and I cannot, even in my
soul, brand such a woman as Panna Castelli." And never before had the
truth become to him so nearly tangible that as a man for certain crimes
is deprived of a share in public life, so he now had become deprived
of a share in moral life. He had had remorse enough already, but now
he saw still new desolations, which he had not noted at first. The
more he thought over the tragedy of Pan Ignas, and took in its extent
with growing clearness, the more he was seized by a dull alarm, and a
kind of prescience that in virtue of a higher and mysterious logic,
something terrible must happen in his fate as well. For the man who
bears in his system the germs of mortal disease, death is a question of
time simply.
At last, however, he found this relief, that his thoughts turned
exclusively to the present, and to Pan Ignas. How will Pan Ignas
receive the news? How will he hear it? In view of the man's exaltation,
in view of his deep, blind faith in Lineta, and the love which he feels
for her, these questions were simply terrible. "Everything in him
will be broken; all will slide away from under his feet in a moment,"
thought Pan Stanislav. It seemed to him that there was something
repulsive and monstrous in this, that even those relations of life
which do not bear in them germs of tragedy, and which ought to end
well, end badly without any reason; and that life is, as it were, a
forest in which misfortunes hunt a man more venomously than dogs hunt a
wild beast, for they hunt in silence. Pan Stanislav felt suddenly that
besides faith in himself, which he had lost already, there might fail
in him various other things too, which are more important, because they
are more fundamental.
In this moment, however, he thought more of Pan Ignas than of anything
else. He had a good heart, and Pan Ignas was near him; hence he was
touched sincerely by his misfortune. "But that man is simply writing
his sentence," thought he, as he heard the squeak of Osnovski's pen in
the next room. "Poor fellow! And this is so undeserved."
Osnovski finished the letter at last, and, opening the door, said,--
"I have written guardedly, but written the whole truth. May God give
him strength now! Could I think that I should have to send him such
news!"
But under the sincere sorrow was evident, as it were, a certain
satisfaction with his own work. Clearly he judged that he had succeeded
in writing better than he had expected.
"And now I repeat once again an earnest prayer: send me even a couple
of words about Ignas. Oh, if this were not so irreparable!" said he,
extending his hand to Pan Stanislav. "Till we meet again! till we meet
again! I will write to Ignas, too, but now I must go, for my wife is
waiting. God grant us to see each other in happier times! Till we meet!
A most cordial greeting to the lady," and he went out.
"What is to be done?" thought Pan Stanislav. "Limit myself to sending
the letter to Pan Ignas in his lodgings, or look for him, or wait for
him here? It would be well not to leave him alone at such a time; but I
must return in the evening to Marynia, so that he will be alone in any
case. Besides, who can hinder him from hiding? In his place, I should
hide too,--I must go to Pani Emilia's."
He felt so tired from that sudden tragedy, from thoughts about himself,
and thoughts about the difficult rôle which he had to play with Pan
Ignas, that he remembered with some satisfaction that he must go to
Pani Emilia's and take her to Buchynek. For a moment he was tempted to
defer the interview with Pan Ignas, and the delivery of the letter,
till the following day; but it occurred to him that if Pan Ignas did
not find him at home, he might go to Buchynek.
"Better let him know everything here," thought he; "in view of
Marynia's condition, I must keep everything perfectly secret from
her,--both what has happened, and what may happen hereafter. I must
warn every one to be silent. Pan Ignas would do better to go abroad;
I could tell Marynia that he is in Scheveningen, and later, that they
disagreed and separated there."
Now again he began to walk with long strides through the room, and
repeat,--
"The irony of life! the irony of life!"
Then bitterness and reproaches flamed in on his soul with a new
current. He was seized by a wonderful feeling, as it were, of some kind
of responsibility for what had happened. "Deuce take it!" repeated
he; "but I am not to blame at least in this matter." After a while,
however, it cane to his head that if he were not to blame personally,
he, in every case, was a stick from the same forest as Panna Castelli,
and that such as he had infected that social-moral atmosphere in which
such flowers might spring up and blossom. At this thought he was
carried away by savage anger.
The bell in the entrance was heard now. Pan Stanislav was a man of
courage, but at the sound of that bell he felt his heart beat in alarm.
He had forgotten his promise to lunch with Svirski, and at the first
moment he was sure that Pan Ignas was coming. He recovered only when
he heard the voice of the artist, but he was so wearied that Svirski's
coming was disagreeable.
"Now he will let out his tongue; he will talk," thought he, with
displeasure.
But he decided to tell Svirski all, for the affair could not be kept
secret in any case. The point for him was that Svirski, if he visited
Buchynek, should know how to bear himself before Marynia. He was
mistaken in supposing that Svirski would annoy him with theories about
ungrateful hearts. The artist took the matter, not from the side of
general conclusions, but that of Pan Ignas. To conclusions he was to
come later; at present, while listening to the narrative, he only
repeated, "A misfortune! May God protect!" But at times, too: "May the
thunderbolts crush!" when his fists of a Hercules were balled in anger.
Pan Stanislav was carried away somewhat, and attacked Panna Castelli
without mercy, forgetting that he was uttering thereby a sentence on
himself. But, in general, the conversation gave him relief. He regained
at last his usual power of management; he concluded that in no case
could he leave Pan Ignas at such a moment, so he begged Svirski to take
his place, conduct Pani Emilia to Buchynek, and excuse to Marynia his
absence with counting-house duties. Svirski, who had no reason now to
visit Prytulov, agreed very willingly, and since the carriage engaged
by Pan Stanislav had arrived, both drove to Pani Emilia's.
Labor beyond her strength--labor which, as a Sister of Charity, she had
to fulfil--brought on a disease of the spine. They found her emaciated
and changed, with a transparent face and eyelids half closed. She
walked yet, but by leaning on two sticks and not having full use of her
lower limbs. As labor had brought her near life, so sickness had begun
to remove her from it. She was living in the circle of her own thoughts
and reminiscences, looking at the affairs of people somewhat as though
a dream, somewhat as from the other shore. She suffered very little,
which the doctors considered a bad sign; but, as a Sister of Charity,
she had learned something of various diseases, and knew that there was
no help for her, or, at least, that help was not in human power, and
she was calm. To Pan Stanislav's inquiries she answered, raising her
eyelids with effort,--
"I walk poorly; but it is well for me that way."
And it was well for her. One moral scruple alone gave her trouble. In
her soul she believed most profoundly that were she to visit Lourdes
she would regain her health surely. She did not wish to go because of
the remoteness of Lourdes from Litka's grave, and because of her own
wish for death. But she did not know whether she had a right to neglect
anything to preserve the life given her, and especially whether she had
a right to put a hindrance in the way of grace and miracles, and she
was disturbed.
At present, however, the thought of seeing Marynia smiled on her, and
she was ready for the road; Svirski was to take her at five. The two
men went now to the lunch agreed on, for Svirski, in spite of his
amazement at the affair of Pan Ignas, felt as hungry as a wolf. After
they had sat down at table, they remained a while in silence.
"I wanted to make one other request of you," said Pan Stanislav at
last, "to inform Panna Helena of everything that has happened, and also
to tell her not to mention the matter to my wife."
"I will do so," said Svirski. "I will go this very day to Yasmen, as
if to walk, and try to see her. Should she not receive me, I will send
her a note, stating that it is a question of Pan Ignas. If she wishes
to come to Warsaw, I will bring her, for I shall return to-day in every
case. Did Osnovski say whether Panna Ratkovski had gone with them,"
inquired the artist, after a pause, "or will she stay in Prytulov?"
"He said nothing. Usually Panna Ratkovski lives with her old relative,
Pani Melnitski. If she goes, it will be as company for Pani Osnovski,
whose angelic nature got a palpitation of the heart at sight of what
has happened."
"Ah!" said Svirski.
"Yes. There is no other cause for it. Panna Ratkovski was stopping with
the Osnovskis, so that Kopovski might seem to court her; but since he
was courting another, there is no further reason for her stay there."
"As God lives, this is something fabulous!" said Svirski; "so that all,
with the exception of Pani Osnovski, fell in love with that hoopoo."
Pan Stanislav smiled ironically and nodded his head; on his lips were
sticking the words, "without exception, without exception!"
But now Svirski began his conclusions about women, from which he had
refrained so far.
"Do you see; do you see? I know German and French and especially
Italian women. The Italians in general have fewer impulses, and less
education, but they are honester and simpler. May I not finish this
macaroni, if I have seen anywhere so many false aspirations and such
discord between natures which are vulgar and phrases which are lofty!
If you knew what Panna Ratkovski told me of Kopovski! Or take that
'Poplar,' that 'Column,' that 'Nitechka,' that Panna Castelli, that
Lily, is it not? You would swear that she was a mimosa, an artist, a
sibyl, a golden-haired tall ideal. And here she is for you! She has
shown herself! She has chosen, not a living person, but a lay-figure;
not a man, but a puppet. When it came to the test, the sibyl turned
into a waiting-maid. But I tell you that they are all palpitating for
fashionable lay-figures. May thunderbolts singe them!"
Here Svirski extended his giant fist, and wanted to strike the table
with it; but Pan Stanislav stopped the hand in mid-air, and said,--
"But you will admit that something exceptional has happened."
Svirski began to dispute, and to maintain that "they are all that
way," and that all prefer the measure of a tailor to that of Phidias.
Gradually, however, he began to regain his balance, and acknowledge
that Panna Ratkovski might be an exception.
"Do you remember when you inquired touching the Broniches, I said the
ladies are _canaille, canaille_! neither principles nor character,
parvenu souls, nothing more? He was a fool, and you know her. God
guarded me; for if they had known then that I have some stupid old
genealogical papers, wouldn't they have made sweet faces at me, and I
might have fixed myself nicely! May the woods cover me! I will go, as
you see me, with Pan Ignas abroad, for I have enough of this."
They paid, and went out on to the street.
"What will you do now?" inquired Svirski.
"I shall go to look for Pan Ignas."
"Where will you find him?"
"I think among the insane, with his father; if not, I will wait for him
at my own house."
But Pan Ignas was approaching the restaurant just at that moment.
Svirski was the first to see him at a distance.
"Ah, there he goes!"
"Where?"
"On the other side of the street. I should know him a verst away by his
jaw. Will you tell him everything? If so, I will go. You have no need
of spectators."
"Very well."
Pan Ignas, on seeing them, hurried his steps and stood before them,
dressed elegantly, almost to a fit, and with a glad face.
"My father is better," said he, with a voice panting a little; "I have
time and will drop in at Prytulov to-day."
But Svirski, pressing his hand firmly, went off in silence. The young
man looked after him with surprise.
"Was Pan Svirski offended at anything?" asked he, looking at Pan
Stanislav; and he noticed then that his face too had a serious, almost
stern, expression.
"What does this mean?" asked he, "or what has happened?"
Pan Stanislav took him by the hand, and said, with a voice full of
emotion and cordiality,--
"My dear Pan Ignas, I have esteemed you always, not only for
exceptional gifts, but for exceptional character; I have to announce
very bad news to you, but I am sure that you will find in yourself
strength enough, and will not give way to the misfortune."
"What has happened?" asked Pan Ignas, whose face changed in one moment.
Pan Stanislav beckoned to a droshky, and said,--
"Take a seat. To the bridge!" cried he, turning to the driver. Then,
taking out Osnovski's letter, he gave it to Pan Ignas.
The young man tore open the envelope hurriedly, and began to read.
Pan Stanislav put his arm with great tenderness around his friend's
body, not taking his eyes from his face, on which as the man read were
reflected amazement, incredulity, stupefaction, and, above all, terror
without limit. His cheeks became as white as linen; but it was evident
that, feeling the misfortune, he did not grasp its extent yet, and did
not understand it thoroughly, for he looked at Pan Stanislav as if
without sense, and inquired with a low voice, full of fear,--
"How--how could she?"
Then, removing his hat, he passed his hand through his hair.
"I do not know what Osnovski has written," said Pan Stanislav, "but
it is true. There is no reason to diminish the affair. Have courage;
say to yourself that this has happened, and happened beyond recall.
You were lost on her, for you are worth more than all that. There are
people who know your worth, and who love you. I am aware that this is a
mighty misfortune; your own brother would not be pained on your behalf
more than I am. But it has happened! My dear Pan Ignas, they have gone,
God knows whither. The Osnovskis too. There is no one in Prytulov. I
understand what must take place in you; but you have a better future by
yourself than with Panna Castelli. God destined you to higher purposes,
and surely gave greater power to you than to others. You are the salt
of the earth. You have exceptional duties to yourself and the world. I
know that it is difficult to wave your hand at once on that which has
been loved, and I do not ask you to do so; but you are not permitted to
yield to despair like the first comer. My dear, poor Pan Ignas!"
Pan Stanislav spoke long, and spoke with power, for he was moved. In
the further course of his speech he said things which were not only
heartfelt, but wise: that misfortune has this in itself, that it
stands still; while a man, whether he wishes or wishes not, must move
on into the future; therefore he goes away from it ever farther and
farther. A man drags, it is true, a thread of pain and remembrance
behind him; but the thread grows ever more slender, for the force of
things is such that he lives in the morrow. All this was true, but
it was something by itself; far nearer, more real, more tangible was
that which Osnovski's letter mentioned. Beyond the fact described in
that letter there existed only empty sounds, striking on his ears
externally, but without meaning, and for Pan Ignas as devoid of sense
as the rattle of the iron lattice-work on the bridge, past which he
was driving with Pan Stanislav. Pan Ignas could feel and think only in
an immensely dull way; he had, however, the feeling first that what
had happened was simply impossible, but still it had happened; second,
that in no measure could he be reconciled to it, and never would he be
reconciled,--a fact, however, which had not the least significance.
There was no place in his head for another idea. He was not conscious
of having lost anything except Lineta. He was not conscious of pain or
sorrow or ruin or desolation, or the loss of every basis of life; he
knew only that Lineta had gone, that she had not loved him, that she
had left him, that she had gone with Kopovski, that the marriage was
broken, that he was alone, that all this had happened, and that he did
not want it,--as a thing incredible, impossible, and dreadful. Still,
it had happened.
The droshky moved slowly beyond the bridge, for they were passing
through a herd of oxen driven toward the city; and in the midst of the
heavy tramping of these beasts, Pan Stanislav continued. Pan Ignas's
ears were struck by the words, "Svirski, abroad, Italy, art;" but
he did not understand that Svirski meant an acquaintance, abroad a
journey, Italy a country. Now, he was talking to Lineta: "That is all
well," said he; "but what will become of me? How couldst thou forget
that I love thee so immensely?" And for a time it seemed to him that
if he could see her, if he could tell her that one must think of the
suffering of people, she would fall to weeping and throw herself on his
neck. "And so many things unite us," said he to her; "besides, I am
the same, thine." And suddenly his jaw protruded; it began to tremble;
the veins swelled in his forehead, and his eyes were filled with a
mist of tears. Pan Stanislav, who had an uncommonly kind hearty and
who thought, besides, that he might touch his feelings, put his arm
around his neck suddenly, and, being affected himself, began to kiss
him on the cheek. But Pan Ignas's emotion did not continue; he returned
to the feeling of reality. "I will not tell her that," thought he,
"for I shall not see her, since she has gone with her betrothed,--with
Kopovski." And at that thought his face became rigid again. He began
then to take in effectively the whole extent of the misfortune. The
thought struck him for the first time that if Lineta had died, his loss
would have been less. The gulf caused by death leaves to believers the
hope of a common life on the other shore; to unbelievers, a common
nothingness; hence, to some the hope of a union, to others a common
fate. Death is powerless against love which passes beyond the grave;
death may wrest a dear soul from us, but cannot prevent us from loving
it, and cannot degrade it. On the contrary, death makes that soul
sacred; makes it not only beloved, but holy. Lineta, in taking from
Pan Ignas herself,--that is, his most precious soul,--took from him at
once the right of loving and grieving and yearning and honoring; by
going herself, she left a memory behind her which was ruined in full
measure. Now Pan Ignas felt clearly that if he should not be able to
cease loving her; he would thereby become abject; and he felt that he
would not be able to cease loving. Only in that moment did he see the
whole greatness of his wreck, ruin, and suffering. In that moment he
understood that it was more than he could bear.
"Go with Svirski to Italy," said Pan Stanislav. "Suffer out the pain,
my dear friend; endure till it is over. You cannot do otherwise. The
world is wide! There is so much to see, so much to love. Everything
is open before thee; and before no one as before thee. Much is due
to the world from thee; but much also to thee from the world. Go, my
dear. Life is around thee; life is everywhere. New impressions will
come; thou wilt not resist them; they will occupy thy thought, soften
thy pain. Thou wilt not be circling around one existence. Svirski will
show thee Italy. Thou wilt see what a comrade he is, and what horizons
he will open. Besides, I tell thee that a man such as thou art, should
have that power which the pearl oyster has, of turning everything into
pearl simply. Listen to what thy true friend says. Go, and go at once.
Promise me that thou wilt go. God grant my wife to pass her illness
safely; then we may journey there also in spring. Thou wilt see how
beautiful it will be for us. Well, Ignas, promise me. Dost thou say
yes?"
"Yes." answered Pan Ignas, hearing the last word, but not knowing in
general what the question was.
"Well, now, praise God," replied Pan Stanislav. "Let us return to the
city, and spend the evening together. I have something to do in the
counting-house, and I have left home for two days."
Then he gave command to turn back, for the sun was toward setting. It
was a beautiful day, of those which come at the end of summer. Over the
city a golden, delicate dust was borne; the roofs, and especially the
church towers, gleamed at the edges, as it were with the reflection of
amber, and, outlined clearly in the transparent air, seemed to delight
in it. The two men rode for some time in silence.
"Wilt thou go to my house, or to thy own lodgings?" asked Pan
Stanislav, when they entered the city.
The city movement seemed to calm Pan Ignas, for he looked at Pan
Stanislav with perfect presence of mind, and said,--
"I have not been at home since yesterday, for I spent the night with my
father. Perhaps there are letters for me; let us drive to my lodgings."
And he foresaw correctly, for at his lodgings a letter from Pani
Bronich in Berlin was awaiting him. He tore open the envelope
feverishly, and began to read; Pan Stanislav, looking at his changing
face, thought,--
"It is evident that some hope is hidden yet in him."
Here he remembered all at once that young doctor, who in his time said
of Panna Kraslavski, "I know what she is, but I cannot tear my soul
from her."
Pan Ignas finished reading, and, resting his head on his hand, looked
without thought on the table and the papers lying on it. At last he
recovered, and gave the letter to Pan Stanislav.
"Read," said he.
Pan Stanislav took the letter and read as follows:--
"I know that you believed really in your feeling for Nitechka,
and that at the first moment what has happened will seem to you
a misfortune; believe me, too, that to me and to her it was not
easy to resolve on the decisive step. Perhaps you will not be
able to estimate Nitechka well,--there are so many things which
men cannot estimate; but you ought to know her at least enough
to know how much it costs her when she is forced to cause the
slightest pain, even to a stranger. But what can we do! such is
the will of God, which it would be a sin not to obey. We both act
as our consciences dictate; and Nitechka is too just to give her
hand to you without a real attachment. What has taken place, has
taken place not only in conformity with the will of God, but in
conformity with your good and hers; for if, without loving you
sufficiently, she had become your wife, how would she be able to
resist the temptations to which such a being would with certainty
be exposed in view of the corruption of society? Besides, you have
your talent; therefore you have something. Nitechka has only her
heart, which violence would break in one moment; and if it seems
to you that she has disappointed you, think conscientiously whose
fault is the greater? You have done much harm to Nitechka, for
you fettered her will, and you did not let her follow the natural
impulse of her heart; and by thus doing you sacrificed, or were
ready to sacrifice, through your selfishness, her happiness, and
even her life, for I am convinced that under such conditions
she would not have survived a single year. Nevertheless may God
forgive you as we forgive; and be it known to you that this
very day we prayed for you at a Mass ordered purposely for your
intention, in the church of Saint Yadviga.
"You will be pleased to send the ring to Pan Osnovski's villa;
your ring, since the Osnovskis had to go abroad too, will reach
you through the hands of Panna Ratkovski. Once more, may God
forgive you everything, and keep you in His protection!"
"This is something unparalleled!" said Pan Stanislav.
"It is evident that truth may be treated as love is," said Pan Ignas,
with a heart-rending sorrow; "but I had not supposed that."
"Listen to me, Ignas," said Pan Stanislav, who under the impulse of
sympathy had begun to say _thou_ to Zavilovski; "this is not merely a
question of thy happiness, but of thy dignity. Suffer as much as may
please thee; but it is thy duty to find strength to show that thou art
indifferent to all this."
A long silence followed. But Pan Stanislav, remembering the letter,
repeated from time to time,--
"This passes human understanding." Finally he turned to Pan Ignas,--
"Svirski is returning to-day from Buchynek, and late in the evening
he will come to my house. Come thou too. We will pass the evening
together, and he and thou will talk of the journey."
"No," said Pan Ignas; "on my return from Prytulov, I was to spend the
night with my father, so I must go to him. To-morrow morning I will be
with you and see Svirski."
But he merely said that, for he wanted to be alone. Pan Stanislav did
not oppose his intention of spending the night at the institution,
for he judged that occupation near the sick man, and care for him,
would occupy his mind, then weariness and need of sleep would come. He
determined, however, to drive with him to the institution.
In fact, they took farewell only at the gate. Pan Ignas, however, after
he had remained a few minutes in the institution and inquired of the
overseer touching his father, went out and returned home by stealth.
He lighted a candle, read Pani Bronich's letter once more, and,
covering his face with his hands, began to meditate. In spite of
Osnovski's letter and in spite of everything which Pan Stanislav had
told him, a certain doubt and a certain hope had lingered in his
soul, yet he knew that _all was over_; but at moments he had the
feeling that that was not reality, but an evil dream. It was only Pani
Bronich's letter that had penetrated to that little corner of his soul
which was unwilling to believe, and burned out in it the remnant of
illusion. So there was no Lineta any longer; there was no future, no
happiness. Kopovski had all that; for him were left only loneliness,
humiliation, and a ghastly vacuum. There was left to him also the
impression that if "Nitechka" could have snatched from him that talent
too, of which Pani Bronich made mention, she would have snatched it
and given it to Kopovski. What was he for her in comparison with
Kopovski? "I shall never really understand this," thought he; "but it
is so." And he began to meditate over this, what was there in him so
abject that she should sacrifice him thus without mercy, without the
least consideration, to take less note of him than the meanest worm.
"Why does she love Kopovski and not me, the man to whom she confessed
love?" And he recalled how once she had quivered in his arms, when
after the betrothal he gave her good-night. But now she is quivering
in Kopovski's arms in precisely the same way. And at this thought he
seized his handkerchief and squeezed it between his teeth, so as not
to scream from pain and madness. "What is this? Why has it happened?"
But there was a time when he, Ignas, did not love her; why did she not
marry Kopovski at that time? What motive could she have to trample him
without need?
And again he caught after the letter of Pani Bronich, as if hoping
to find in it an answer to these terrible questions. He read once
more the passage about the will of God, and about this,--that he was
guilty, that he had done much harm to "Nitechka," and that she forgave
him, and about the Mass, which was celebrated for his intention in
Saint Yadviga's; and when he had ended he began to gaze at the light,
blinking and saying,--
"How is that possible? How have I offended?" And suddenly he felt that
the understanding of what truth is and what falsehood, of what evil is,
and what good, and what is proper and improper, began to desert him.
Lineta had gone from him, taken herself from him, taken his future,
and now one after another all the bases of life were gliding away--and
reason and thought and life itself. He saw yet that he had always loved
this "Nitechka" of his beyond life, and in no way was he able to wish
any harm to her; but besides that impression, everything which composes
a thinking being was crushed into dust in him, and flew apart like dust
in that mighty wind of misfortune.
Still he loved. Lineta became divided for him now into the Lineta of
to-day and the Lineta of the past. He began to call to mind her voice,
her face, her bright golden hair, her eyes and mouth, her tall form,
her hands, and that warmth which so many times he had felt from her
lips. His powerful imagination recreated her almost tangibly; and he
saw that not only had he loved his own distant one, but he loved her
yet,--that is, he yearned for her beyond measure, and was suffering
beyond measure for the loss of her.
And, recognizing this, he began again to speak to her:
"How couldst thou think me able to bear this?"
At that moment he had not the least doubt of this either, that God knew
the position very well. He sat a long time more in silence, and the
light had burned out half its length almost when he came to himself.
But something uncommon took place in him then. He had an impression
as if he were going from land in a ship, and that seemed to him which
seems always on such an occasion, that it was not he who was moving
away, but the shore on which he had dwelt hitherto. Everything--that
was he, and in general his life; all thoughts, hopes, ambitions,
objects, plans, even love, even Lineta, even his loss; and those
vicious circles, and those tortures through which he had passed--seemed
not merely removed from him, but foreign, and belonging exclusively to
that land off there. And gradually they sank, gradually they melted,
becoming ever smaller, ever more visionary, ever more dreamlike; and
he went on, he became more distant, feeling that to that foreignness
he does not wish to return, that he cannot return, and that all which
is left of him belongs to the space which has taken him to itself, and
opened its bosom before him, immense and mysterious.