Four days later, on the Assumption of the Most Blessed Lady, which was
also Marynia's name's[13] day, the Bigiels and Svirski went to Buchynek.
They did not find Marynia at home, for she was at vespers in the church
of Yasmen with Pani Emilia. When Pani Bigiel learned this, she followed
them with the whole crowd of little Bigiels. The men, left alone, began
to talk of the event of which for a number of days the whole city had
been talking,--that was of the attempted suicide of the poet Zavilovski.
"I went to see him to-day three times," said Bigiel; "but Panna
Helena's servants have the order to admit no one except the doctors."
"As for me," said Pan Stanislav, "this is the first day on which I
have not been able to visit him; but during the previous days I spent
a number of hours with him regularly. I tell my wife that I am at the
counting-house on business."
"Tell me how it happened," said Bigiel, who wanted to know all the
details, so as to consider them exactly afterward in his fashion.
"It happened this way," said Pan Stanislav. "Ignas told me that he was
going to the institution, to his father. I was glad, for I judged that
that would keep him away from his thoughts. I took him, however, to the
gate, and he promised to visit me next day. Meanwhile it turned out
that he wanted to be rid of me, so as to shoot himself undisturbed."
"Then you were not the first to find him?"
"No; I suspected nothing of that kind, and I should have looked for him
next day. Luckily Panna Helena came at the mere news that the marriage
was broken."
"I informed her," said Svirski, "and she took the matter to heart so
much that I was astonished. She had a forewarning, as it were, of what
would follow."
"She is a wonderful person," said Pan Stanislav. "I have not been able
to learn how it happened; but she found him; she saved him; she called
in a whole circle of doctors, and finally gave command to take him to
her house."
"But the doctors insist that he will live?"
"They know nothing yet definitely. In shooting, he must have turned
the pistol so that the ball, after passing through his forehead, went
up and lodged under the skull. They found the ball, and extracted it
easily enough; but whether he will live--and if he lives, whether his
mind will survive--is unknown. One doctor fears a disturbance in his
speech; but his life is in question yet."
The event, though known generally, and described every day in the
papers, had made so great an impression that silence continued awhile.
Svirski, who, with his muscles of an athlete, had the sensitiveness of
a woman, burst forth,--
"Through such women!"
But Vaskovski, sitting near, said in a low voice,--
"Leave them to the mercy of God."
"Is it possible?" said Bigiel, turning to Pan Stanislav; "and thou
hadst no suspicion?"
"It did not come to my head even that he would shoot himself. I saw
clearly that he was struggling with his feelings. For a while, when
we were riding, his chin trembled, as if he wished to burst into
weeping; but he is a brave soul. He restrained himself at once, and to
appearance was calm. He deceived me mainly by his promise to come next
day."
"Do you know what seems to me?" continued he, after a while; "the last
drop which overflowed the cup was Pani Bronich's letter. Ignas gave it
to me to read. She wrote that what had happened was the will of God;
that the fault was on his side; that he was an egotist; but that they
were obeying the voice of conscience and justice; that they forgave
him, and begged God to forgive him too,--in a word, unheard of things!
I saw that that made a desperate impression on him, and I imagine what
must have taken place in a man so injured and of such spirit, when
he saw that in addition to everything else injustice was attributed
to him; when he understood that it is possible for people to set
everything at naught and distort it, to trample on reason, truth, and
the simplest principles of justice, and then shield themselves behind
the Lord God. For that matter I was not concerned; but when I saw the
cynicism, the want of moral understanding, as God lives, I asked myself
this question: Am I mad, and are truth and honesty mere illusions on
earth?"
Here Pan Stanislav was so indignant at Pani Bronich's letter that he
tugged at his beard feverishly, and Svirski said,--
"I understand that even a believer may spit upon life in such moments."
Here Vaskovski rubbed his forehead with his hand, and then said to
himself,--
"Yes; I have seen that kind, too. For there are people who believe,
not through love, but as it were because atheism is bankrupt, as it
were from despair, who imagine to themselves that somewhere, off behind
phenomena, there is not a merciful Father, who places his hand on every
unfortunate head, but some kind of He, unapproachable, inscrutable,
indifferent; it is all one, in such case, whether that He is called the
Absolute, or Nirvana. He is only a concept, not love. It is impossible
to love this He; and when misfortune comes, people spit on life."
"That is well," answered Svirski, testily; "but meanwhile Pan Ignas is
lying with a broken skull, and they have gone to the seashore, and it
is pleasant for them."
"Whence do you know that it is pleasant for them?" answered Vaskovski.
"The deuce fire them!" said Svirski.
"But I say to you that they are unhappy. No one may trample on truth
and go unpunished. They will talk various things into each other, but
one thing they will not be able to talk into each other,--that is,
self-respect; they will begin to despise themselves in secret, and at
last even that attachment which they had for each other will be turned
into secret dislike. That is inevitable."
"The deuce fire them!" repeated Svirski.
"The mercy of God is for them, not for the good," concluded Vaskovski.
Meanwhile Bigiel talked with Pan Stanislav, admiring the kindness and
courage of Panna Helena.
"For there will be a fabulous amount of gossip from this," said he.
"She does not care for that," answered Pan Stanislav. "She does not
count with society, for she wants nothing of it. She, too, is a
resolute soul. She showed Pan Ignas always exceptional attachment, and
his act must have shocked her tremendously. Do you know the history of
Ploshovski?"
"I knew him personally," said Svirski. "His father was the first man
in Rome to predict success to me. Of Panna Helena they say, I think,
that she was betrothed to Ploshovski."
"No, she was not; but in her secret heart perhaps she loved him
greatly. Such was his fortune. It is certain that since his death she
has become different altogether. For a woman so religious as she is,
his suicide must in truth have been dreadful, for just think, not to
be able even to pray for a man whom one has loved. And now again Pan
Ignas! If any one, it is she who is doing everything to save him.
Yesterday I was there; she came out to me barely alive, pale, weary,
without having slept. And there is some one else to watch with her.
Panna Ratkovski told me of her, that for four days she hadn't slept one
hour, perhaps."
"Panna Ratkovski?" inquired Svirski, quickly; and he began mechanically
to seek with his hand in the coat pocket where he had her letter.
He remembered then her words: "_I have chosen otherwise, and if I
shall never be happy, I do not wish at least to reproach myself
afterwards with insincerity_." "Now for the first time I understand the
meaning and real tragedy of those words. Now, in spite of all social
appearances, without regard to the tongues of people, this young girl
has gone to watch over that suicide. What could this mean? The case is
clear as the sun. It is true that Kopovski went abroad with another;
but she had expressed always openly what she thought of Kopovski,
and if she had cared nothing for Pan Ignas, she would not have gone
this time to watch at his bedside. It seems to me that I am an ass,"
muttered Svirski.
But that was not the only conclusion to which he came after mature
consideration. All at once a yearning for Panna Ratkovski took hold of
him, and sorrow that that had not happened which might have happened,
as well as immense pity for her. "Thou hast become a poodle again, old
fellow," said he to himself, "and it serves thee right! A good man
would have felt sorrow, but thou didst begin to be angry and condemn
her for loving a fool and pretending to aspiration, and for having a
low nature; thou didst talk ill of her before Pani Polanyetski and
before him; didst do injustice to a kind and unfortunate person, not
because her refusal pained thee too greatly, but through thy own
self-love. Served thee right, right! thou art an ass; thou art not
worthy of her; and thou wilt be knocking around alone till death, like
a mandrill, behind a menagerie grating."
In these reproaches there was a portion of truth. Svirski had not
fallen in love decidedly with Panna Ratkovski; but her refusal pained
him more deeply than he acknowledged, and, not being able to master his
vexation, he gave way to general conclusions about women, citing Panna
Ratkovski as an example, and to her disadvantage.
Now he saw the whole vanity of such conclusions. "These stupid
syntheses have ruined me always," thought he. "Women are individuals
like all people; and the general concept woman explains nothing
whatever. There is a Panna Castelli, there is a Pani Osnovski, in whom
I admit various rascalities, without, however, having proof of them;
but on the other hand there is a Pani Polanyetski, a Pani Bigiel, a
Sister Aniela, a Panna Helena, and a Panna Stefania. Poor child! and
so it serves me right. She was there suffering in silence, and I was
gnashing my teeth. If that girl isn't worth ten times more than I,
then that sun isn't worth my pipe. She had a sacred reason in giving a
refusal to such a buffalo. I will go to the Orient, and that is the end
of the matter. Such light as there is in Egypt, there is nowhere else
on earth. And what an honest woman! Moreover, she has done me good,
even with her refusal, for through her I have convinced myself that my
theory about women should be broken on the back of a dog. But if Panna
Helena puts a whole regiment of dragoons before her door, I must see
that poor girl and say what I think to her."
In fact, he went on the following morning to Panna Helena's. They did
not wish to admit him, but he insisted so much that at last he was
admitted. Panna Helena, judging that friendship and anxiety alone had
brought him, conducted him even to the chamber in which the wounded man
was lying. There, in the gloom of fastened blinds, he saw Pan Ignas,
from whom came the odor of iodine, his head bound, his jaw protruding;
and with him those two wearied out women, the fever of sleeplessness
on their faces, and really like two shadows. The wounded man lay with
open lips; he was changed, and resembled himself in nothing. He was
as if incomparably older; his eyelids were swollen, and protruding
from under the bandage. Svirski had liked him greatly, and with his
sensitiveness had not less sympathy for him than had Pan Stanislav and
Osnovski; he was struck, however, this time by his deformity. "He has
fixed himself," thought he; then, turning to Panna Helena, he asked in
an undertone,--
"Has he not regained consciousness?"
"No," answered she, in a whisper.
"What does the doctor say?"
Panna Helena moved her thin hand in sign that all was uncertain yet.
"This is the fifth day," whispered she again.
"And the fever decreases," said Panna Ratkovski.
Svirski wished to offer his services in watching the sick man; but
Panna Helena indicated with her eyes a young doctor, whom he was not
able to distinguish at once in the darkness, but who, sitting in an
armchair near the table, with a basin and pile of iodine wadding, was
dozing from weariness, waiting till another should relieve him.
"We have two," said Panna Ratkovski, "and besides people from the
hospital, who know how to nurse the sick."
"But you ladies are wonderfully wearied."
"It is a question here of the sick man," answered she, looking toward
the bed.
Svirski followed her glance. His eyes were better accustomed now to the
gloom, and saw distinctly the face, motionless, with lips almost black.
The long body was motionless also, only the fingers of his emaciated
hand, lying on the coverlet, stirred with a monotonous movement, as if
scratching.
"They will take him out in a couple of days, as God is in Heaven!"
thought he, remembering his colleague, that "Slav" with whom Bukatski
had disputed in his time, and who, when he had shot himself in the
head, died only after two weeks of torture.
Wishing, however, to give comfort to the women, he said, in spite of
that of which he was certain,--
"Wounds of this kind are either mortal at once, or are cured."
Panna Helena made no answer, but her face contracted nervously, and her
lips grew pale. Evidently there was a terrible thought in her soul,
that he _also_ might die, and she did not wish to admit that she had
had enough with that other suicide, and at the same time it was for her
a question of something more than saving his life for Pan Ignas.
Svirski began to take farewell. He entered with a speech prepared
for Panna Ratkovski, to whom he had resolved to acknowledge that he
had judged her unjustly, and to express all the homage which he felt
for her, and to beg for her friendship; but in presence of the real
tragedy of those two women, and of the danger of death, and of that
half corpse, he saw at once that everything which he intended to say
would be poor and petty, and that it was not the time for such empty
and personal matters.
He merely pressed to his lips in silence the hand of Panna Helena, and
then that of Panna Ratkovski; and, going out of that room filled with
misfortune and permeated with iodine, he drew a deep breath. In his
artistic imagination was represented distinctly the changed Pan Ignas,
ten years older, with bound head and black lips. And in spite of all
the sympathy which he had for the man, indignation seized him all at
once.
"He made a hole in his skull," muttered he; "he made a hole in
his talent,--and doesn't care! and those souls there are dragging
themselves to death and trembling like leaves."
Then a feeling, as it were of jealousy, took hold of him, as if he were
sorry for himself, and he began to speak in a monologue,--
"Well, old man! but if thou, for example, were to pack a bit of lead
into thy talent, no one would walk at thy bedside on tiptoe."
Further meditation was interrupted by Pan Plavitski; who, meeting him
at the cross-street, stopped him, and began conversation,--
"I am just from Karlsbad," said he. "O Lord, how many elegant women! I
am going to Buchynek to-day. I have just seen Stanislav, and know that
my daughter is well; but he has grown thin somehow."
"Yes for he has had trouble. Have you heard of Pan Ignas?"
"I have, I have! But what will you say of that?"
"A misfortune."
"A misfortune; but this too, that there are no principles at present.
All those new ideas, those atheisms of yours, and hypnotisms, and
socialisms. The young generation have no principles,--that is where the
trouble lies."
FOOTNOTES:
[13] Name's day, day of that saint whose name a given person bears.