Transcriber's Note:
Text surrounded by _ was italic in the original, text surrounded by =
was bold and in a different font. The (rare) oe ligatures were replaced
by "oe".
IN VAIN
BY
HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
_Author of_
"QUO VADIS," "WITH FIRE AND SWORD," "THE DELUGE," "PAN MICHAEL," "HANIA,"
ETC.
_TRANSLATED FROM THE POLISH_
BY
JEREMIAH CURTIN
BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1899
_Copyright, 1899_,
BY JEREMIAH CURTIN.
_All rights reserved_.
University Press:
JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
INTRODUCTORY.
"In Vain," the first literary work of Sienkiewicz, was written before he
had passed the eighteenth year of his life and while he was studying at
Warsaw.
Though not included in his collected works by the author, this book will
be received with much favor; of this I feel certain.
The first book of the man who wrote "With Fire and Sword" and "Quo
Vadis" will interest those of his admirers who live in America and the
British Empire. These people are counted at present by millions.
This volume contains pictures of student life drawn by a student who saw
the life which he describes in the following pages. This student was a
person of exceptional power and exceptional qualities, hence the value
of that which he gives us.
JEREMIAH CURTIN.
Jerusalem, Palestine,
March 8, 1899.
IN VAIN
CHAPTER I
"And this is Kieff!"
Thus spoke to himself a young man named Yosef Shvarts, on entering the
ancient city, when, roused by toll-gate formalities, he saw himself
unexpectedly among buildings and streets.
The heart quivered in him joyfully. He was young, he was rushing forward
to life; and so he drew into his large lungs as much fresh air as he
could find place for, and repeated with a gladsome smile,--
"And this is Kieff!"
The Jew's covered wagon rolled forward, jolting along on the prominent
pavement stones. It was painful to Shvarts to sit under the canvas, so
he directed the Jew to turn to the nearest inn, while he himself walked
along by the side of the wagon.
Torrents of people, as is usual in a city, were moving in various
directions; shops were glittering with a show of wares; carriages were
passing one after another; merchants, generals, soldiers, beggars, monks
pushed along before the eyes of the young man.
It was market-day, so the city had taken on the typical complexion of
gatherings of that sort. There was nothing unconsidered there; no
movement, no word seemed to be wasted. The merchant was going to his
traffic, the official to his office, the criminal to deceit,--all were
hastening on with some well-defined object; all pushed life forward,
thinking of the morrow, hastening toward something. Above that uproar
and movement was a burning atmosphere, and the sun was reflected in the
gleaming panes of great edifices with just the same intensity as in any
little cottage window.
"This uproar is life," thought Shvarts, who had never been in Kieff
before, or in any large city.
And he was thinking how immensely distant was life in a little town from
the broad scene of activity in a great city, when a well-known voice
roused him from that meditation.
"Yosef, as God lives!"
Shvarts looked around, gazed some seconds at the man who called him by
name; at last he opened his arms widely, and exclaimed,--
"As God lives, it is Gustav!"
Gustav was a man small and thin, about twenty-three years of age; long
hair of a chestnut color fell almost to his shoulders; his short reddish
mustache cut even with his lip made him seem older than he was in
reality.
"What art thou doing, Yosef? Why hast thou come? To the University, hast
thou not?"
"Yes."
"Well done. Life is wretched for the man without knowledge," said
Gustav, as he panted. "What course wilt thou choose?"
"I cannot tell yet; I will see and decide."
"Think over it carefully. I have been here a year now, and have had a
chance to look at things coolly. I regret much a choice made too
hastily, but what is one to do afterward? Too late to turn back, to go
on there is lack of power. It is easier to commit a folly than correct
it. To-morrow I will go with thee to the University; meanwhile, if thou
hast no lodgings, let the Jew take thy things to my room, it is not far
from here. Thou mayst begin with me; when thou art tired of me, look for
another man."
Yosef accepted Gustav's offer, and in a few moments they were in the
narrow lodgings of the student.
"Ei, it is long since we have seen each other. We finished our school
course a year ago," said Gustav, putting aside Yosef's small trunk and
bundle. "A year is some time. What hast thou done this whole year?"
"I have been with my father, who would not let me come to the
University."
"What harm could that be to him?"
"He was a good man, though ignorant--a blacksmith."
"But he has let thee come now?"
"He died."
"He did well," said Gustav, coughing. "The cursed asthma is tormenting
me these six months. Dost wonder at my hard breathing? Thou too wilt
breathe hard when thou hast bent over books as I have. Day after day
without rest for a moment. And fight with poverty as one dog with
another.--Hast money?"
"I have. I sold the house and property left by my father. I have two
thousand rubles."
"Splendid! For thee that will be plenty. My position is poverty! Oh the
cursed asthma! Oi! that is true. One must learn. Barely a little rest in
the evening; the day at lectures, the night at work. Not time enough for
sleep. That is the way with us. When thou enterest our life, thou wilt
see what a University is. To-day I will take thee to the club, or simply
to the restaurant; thou must learn to know our students immediately.
Today, right away thou wilt go with me."
Gustav circled about the room without intermission; he panted and
coughed. To look at his bent shoulders, sunken visage, and long hair,
one might have taken him rather for a man tortured by joyous life than
by labor; but the printed volumes and manuscripts in piles, the poverty
in the furnishing of the room, gave more proof than was needed to show
that the occupant belonged to that species of night birds who wither
away while bent over books, and die thinking whether a certain syllable
should or should not be accented.
But Yosef breathed the atmosphere of the chamber with full breast; for
him that was a world at once new and peculiar. "Who knows," thought he,
"what ideas are flashing through the heads of dwellers in fourth and
fifth stories? Who knows what a future those garrets are preparing for
science?"
"Thou wilt make the acquaintance to-day of many of our fellows," said
Gustav, drawing out from beneath his bed a one-legged samovar and
putting a broken dish under it in place of the two other legs. "But let
not this evening offend thee," continued the student, as he let charcoal
drop into the samovar. "I will make tea. Let not heads partly crazy
offend thee. When thou hast looked round about at the city, thou wilt
discover that there is no lack of fools here as in other places; but it
moves forward with no laggard steps. There is no lack among us of
originals, though there is much that is empty and colorless. This last
is ridiculous, and the dullest of all the stupidities. In some heads
there are blazes of light, in other heads darkness like that out of
doors at this moment."
Silence reigned for a time in the chamber; there was no noise there
save that made by Gustav while puffing and blowing at the samovar. In
fact, night had been coming gradually, on the walls and ceiling of the
room an increasing darkness was falling; the fiery circle reflected from
the samovar widened or narrowed as Gustav blew or stopped blowing. At
last the water began to sound, to hiss, to sputter. Gustav lighted a
candle.
"Here is tea for thee. I will go now to the lecture," continued he;
"wait thou here, or better sleep on my bed. When thy time to pay money
comes, thou wilt have also to look after lectures. The work is dreary,
but there is no escape from it. Student life has its bitter side, but
why mention this in advance? Our student world and the rest of society
are entirely separate. People here neither like nor receive us, and we
quarrel with all persons, even with one another. Oh, life here is
difficult! If thou fall ill, no man, who is not a student, will reach a
hand to thee. This is the fate of us poor fellows; moreover people are
angry because we play no comedies, we call things by their names."
"Thou seest objects in black," remarked Yosef.
"Black or not black," answered Gustav, with bitterness, "thou wilt see.
But I tell thee that thou wilt not rest on roses. Youth has both rights
and demands. They will laugh in thy eyes at these rights, these demands;
they will say that thou art not cooked enough, they will call thy wants
exaltation. But devil take it, the name matters little if the thing it
describes hurts or pains thee. As to that thou wilt see.--Pour tea for
thyself, and lie down to rest. I shall be here in an hour; and now give
me that hat, and good-by!"
For a while the panting, puffing, and steps of Gustav were heard on the
stairway. Yosef was alone.
Those words of Gustav impressed his friend strangely. Yosef remembered
him as different. To-day a certain disappointment and peevishness were
heard in his voice, mental gloom of a certain kind broke through those
words half interrupted, half sad. Formerly he had been healthy in mind
and in body; to-day his breathing was difficult, in his movements and
speech appeared wonderful feverishness, like that of a man who is
exhausted.
"Has life tortured him that much already?" thought Yosef. "Then one
must struggle here, go against the current somewhat; but this poor
fellow had not the strength, it seems. A man must conquer in this place.
It is clear that the world does not lay an over-light hand on us. Devil
take it! the question is no easy one. Gustav is in some sort too
misanthropic; he must exaggerate rather easily. But he is no idler and
must go forward. Perhaps this is only a mask, the misanthropy, under
which he finds his position more convenient and safer. But really, if
one must take things by storm or perish? Ha, then I will go through!"
exclaimed the young man, with strength, though in this interjection
there was more resolution than passion.
An hour after this monologue panting was heard on the stairway a second
time, and Gustav entered, or rather pushed in.
"Now follow!" cried he. "Thou art about to enter the vortex of student
life; today thou wilt see its gladder aspect. But lose no time!"
While speaking, he turned his cap in his hand, and cast his eyes on
every side; finally he went to a small table, and taking a comb began to
arrange his long yellow, or rather his long faded hair.
At last they went out to the street.
At that time in Kieff there were restaurants where students assembled.
Circumstances were such that it was not possible to live with the city
society. Those various city circles were unwilling to receive young
persons whom the future alone was to form into people. On the student
side lack of steadiness, violence of speech, insolence, and other native
traits usual to youth were not very willing to bend themselves to social
requirements; as to the country, that furnished its social contingent
only in winter, or during the time of the contracts. So the University
was a body entirely confined to itself, living a life of books in the
day, and leading a club life at night. For many reasons there was more
good in this than evil, for though young men went into the world without
polish, they had energy and were capable of action. Wearied and worn-out
individuals were not found among them.
Our acquaintances passed through the street quickly, and turned toward
the gleaming windows of a restaurant. Under the light of the moon it was
possible to distinguish the broad, strong figure of Yosef near the bent
shoulders and large head of Gustav. The latter hurried on in advance
somewhat, conversing with Yosef or with himself; at last he halted under
a window, seized the sill, and drawing himself up examined the interior
carefully. Finally he dropped down, and said, while wiping off whitewash
from his knees,--
"She is not there."
"Who is not there?"
"Either she has been there or she will not come."
"Who is she?"
"What o'clock is it?"
"Ten o'clock. Whom art thou looking for through the window?"
"The widow."
"The widow? Who is she?"
"I fear that she is sick."
"Is she thy acquaintance?"
"Evidently. If I did not know her I should not be occupied with her."
"Well, that is clear," answered Yosef. "Let us go in."
He raised the door-latch; they entered.
A smoky, hot atmosphere surrounded them. At some distance in the hall
faces of various ages were visible. Amid clouds of smoke, which dimmed
the light of the wall lamps, and outbursts of laughter, wandered the
tones of a piano, as if wearied and indifferent. The piano was
accompanied by a guitar, on which thrummed at intervals a tall, slender
youth, with hair cut close to his skull and with scars on his face. He
played with long fingers on the strings carelessly, fixed his great blue
eyes on the ceiling, and was lost in meditation.
The person sitting at the piano had barely grown out of childhood. He
had a milk-white complexion, dark hair combed toward the back of his
head, sweetness on his red lips, and melancholy in his eyes. He was
delicate, of a slight build of body, and good looking. It was evident
that he had played a long time, for red spots on both cheeks showed
great weariness.
With their backs to the light stood a number of men from the Pinsk
region, all strong as oaks, and at the same time so eager for music of
every sort given in the restaurant that they formed a circle around the
player, drooped their heads, and listened with sighs or delight.
Other young fellows were on benches or in armchairs; a few tender girls,
of the grasshopper order who sing away a summer, circled here and there.
It was noisy; goblets clinked in places. In the room next the hall some
were playing cards madly, and through a half-open door the face of one
player was visible. Just then he was lighting a cigar at a candle
standing on the corner of a table, and the flame either smothered or
rising for an instant shone on his sharply cut features.
The woman at the refreshment counter examined near the light, with
perfect indifference, the point of the pen with which she entered down
daily sales; at her side, leaning on a table, slumbered her assistant in
wondrous oblivion. A cat sitting on a corner of the counter opened his
eyes at moments, and then closed them with an expression of philosophic
calm and dignity.
Yosef cast a glance around the assembly.
"Ho! How art thou, Yosef?" called a number of voices.
"I am well. How are ye?"
"Hast come for good?"
"For good."
"I present him as a member of this respected society. Do thou on thy
part know once for all the duty of coming here daily, and the privilege
of never sleeping in human fashion," said Gustav.
"As a member? So much the better! Soon thou wilt hear a speech.--Hei,
there, Augustinovich, begin!"
From that room of card-players came a young man with stooping shoulders
and a head almost bald, ugly in appearance. He threw his cap on a table,
and sitting in an armchair began,--
"Gentlemen! If ye will not remain quiet, I shall begin to speak
learnedly, and I know, my dear fellows, that for you there is nothing on
earth so offensive as learned discourses. In Jove's name! Silence, I
say, silence! I shall begin to discourse learnedly."
Indeed, under the influence of the threat silence reigned for a season.
The speaker looked around in triumph, and continued,--
"Gentlemen! If we have met here, we have met to seek in rest itself the
remembrance of bitter moments. ["Very well."] Some one will say that we
meet here every night. ["Very well."] I come here nightly, and I do not
dream of denying it; I do not deny, either, that I am here on this
occasion! [Applause; the speaker brightens and continues.] Silence! Were
I forced to conclude that every effort of mine which is directed toward
giving a practical turn to our meetings is shattered by general
frivolousness, for I can call it general ["You can, you can!"], not
directed by the current of universal agreement which breaks up in its
very beginning ["Consider, gentlemen, in its very beginning"] the
uniform efforts of individuals--if efforts marked by the regular object
of uniting disconnected thoughts into some organic whole, will never
issue from the region of imagination to the more real field of action,
then, gentlemen, I am the first, and I say that there are many others
with me who will agree to oppose the sense of the methods of our
existence so far [Applause], and will take other methods ["Yes, yes!"]
obliging, if not all, at least the chosen ones [Applause]."
"What does this mean?" asked Yosef.
"A speech," answered Gustav, shrugging his shoulders.
"With what object?"
"But how does that concern any one?"
"What kind of person is he?"
"His name is Augustinovich. He has a good head, but at this moment he is
drunk, his words are confused. He knows, however, what he wants, and, as
God lives, he is right."
"What does he want?"
"That we should not meet here in vain, that our meetings should have
some object. But those present laugh at the object and the speech. Of
necessity the change would bring dissension into the freedom and repose
which thus far have reigned in these meetings."
"And what object does Augustinovich wish to give them?"
"Literary, scientific."
"That would be well."
"I have told him that he is right. If some one else were to make the
proposal, the thing would pass, perhaps."
"Well, but in his case."
"On everything that he touches he leaves traces of his own
ridiculousness and humiliation. Have a care, Yosef! Thou in truth art
not like him in anything so far as I know, but here any man's feet may
slip, if not in one, in another way."
Gustav looked with misty eyes on Augustinovich, shrugged his shoulders,
and continued,--
"Fate fixed itself wonderfully on that man. I tell thee that he is a
collection of all the capacities, but he has little character. He has
lofty desires, but his deeds are insignificant, an eternal dissension.
There is no balance between his desires and his strength, hence he
attains no result."
A number of Yosef's acquaintances approached; at the glass conversation
grew general. Yosef inquired about the University.
"Do all the students live together?"
"Impossible," answered one of the Lithuanians. "There are people here of
all the most varied conceptions, hence there are various coteries."
"That is bad."
"Not true! I admit unity as to certain higher objects; the unity of life
in common is impossible, so there is no use in striving for it."
"But the German Universities?"
"In those are societies which live in themselves only. A life of
feelings and thoughts, at least among us, should agree with practice;
therefore dissension in feelings and thoughts produces dissension in
practice."
"Then will you never unite?"
"That, again, is something different. We shall unite in the interest of
the University, or in that which concerns all. For that matter, I think
that the contradictions which appear prove our vitality; they are a sign
that we live, feel, and think. In that is our unity; that which
separates unites us."
"Under what banner do you stand, then?"
"Labor and suffering. We have no distinguishing name. Those who are
peasant enthusiasts call us 'baker's apprentices.'"
"How so?"
"According to facts. Life will teach thee what these mean. Each one of
us tries to live where there is a bakery, to become acquainted with the
baker, and gain credit with him. That is our method; he trusts us. The
majority of us eat nothing warm, but a cake on credit thou wilt get as
long as thou wishest."
"That is pleasant!"
"Besides our coterie, which is not united by very strong bonds, there
are peasant enthusiasts. Antonevich organized and formed them. Rylski
and Stempkovski led them for a time, but today these are all fools who
know not what they want, they talk Little Russian and drink common
vodka--that is the whole matter."
"And what other coteries are there?"
"Clearly outlined, there are no more; but there are various shades. Some
are connected by a communion of scientific ideas, others by a common
social standpoint. Thou wilt find here democrats, aristocrats, liberals,
ultra-montanes, frolickers, women-hunters, idlers, if thou wish, and
finally sunburnt laborers."
"Who passes for the strongest head?"
"Among students?"
"Yes."
"That depends on the branch. Some say that Augustinovich knows much; I
will add that he does not know it well. For connected solid work and
science Gustav is distinguished."
"Ah!"
"But they talk variously about him. Some cannot endure him. By living
with him thou wilt estimate the man best,--for example, his relations
with the widow. That is a sentimental bit of conduct; another man would
not have acted as he has. Indeed, it is not easy to get on with her
now."
"I have heard Gustav speak of her, but tell me once for all, what sort
of woman is she?"
"She is a young person acquainted with all of us. Her history is a sad
one. She fell in love with Potkanski, a jurist, and loved him perhaps
madly. I do not remember those times--I remember Potkanski, however. He
was a gifted fellow, very wealthy and industrious; in his day he was the
idol of his comrades. How he came to know Helena, I cannot tell you; it
is explained variously. This only is certain, that they loved each other
to the death. She was not more than eighteen years of age. At last
Potkanski determined to marry her. It is difficult to describe what his
family did to prevent him, but Potkanski, an energetic man, stuck to his
point, and married her despite every hindrance. Their married life
lasted one year. He fell ill of typhoid on a sudden, and died leaving
her on the street as it were, for his family seized all his property. A
child which was living when he died, died also soon after. The widow was
left alone, and had it not been for Gustav--well, she would have
perished."
"What did Gustav do?"
"Gustav did wonders. With wretched means he prosecuted the Potkanskis.
God knows whether he would have won the case, for that is a family of
magnates, but he did this much: to avoid scandal, they engaged to pay
the widow a slight life annuity."
"He acquitted himself bravely!"
"Of course he did, of course he did! Leave that to him! What energy! And
remember it was during his first year at the University, without
acquaintances, in a strange city, without means. And it is this way, my
dear: a rich man can, a poor man must, help himself."
"But what obligation had he toward the widow?"
"He was Potkanski's friend, but that is still little; he loved her
before she became Potkanski's wife, perhaps, but held aloof; now he
makes no concealment."
"But she?"
"Oh, from the time of the misfortunes through which she passed the woman
has fallen into utter torpor; she has become insane simply. She does not
know what is happening to her, she is indifferent to everything. But
beyond doubt thou wilt see her on this occasion, for she comes here
every evening."
"And with what object?"
"I say that she is a maniac. The report is that she made the
acquaintance of Potkanski here, so now she does not believe, it seems,
that he is dead, and she goes around everywhere, as maniacs do usually.
In fact, were he to rise from the dead, and not go to her straightway,
she would surely find him here, nowhere else. We remind her, perhaps, of
Potkanski; many students used to visit them."
"Does Gustav permit her to come here?"
"Potkanski never would have permitted her to come, but Gustav does not
forbid her anything."
"How does she treat Gustav?"
"Like a table, a bench, a plate, or a ball of thread. She seems not to
see him, but she does not avoid him,--she is always indifferent,
apathetic. That must pain him, but it is his affair.--Ah! there she is!
that woman coming in on the right."
When the widow entered, it grew somewhat silent. The appearance of that
mysterious figure always produced an impression. Of stature a little
more than medium, slender; she had a long face, bright blond hair, and
dark eyes; her shoulders and bosom were rather slight, but she had the
round plumpness of maiden forms; a forehead thrown back in a way
scarcely discernible. She was pensive, and as dignified as if of marble.
Her eyes, deeply set beneath her forehead, as it were in a shadow, were
pencilled above with one delicate arch of brow. Those eyes were
marvellous, steel-colored; they gleamed like polished metal, but that
was a genuine light of steel. It was light and nothing more; under the
glitter warmth and depth of thought were lacking. One might have said of
those eyes, "They look, but they see not." They gave no idea of an
object, they only reflected it. They were cold beyond description; we
will add that their lids almost never blinked, but the pupils possessed
a certain movement as if investigating, inquiring, seeking; still the
movement was mechanical.
The rest of the widow's face answered to her eyes. Her mouth was pressed
downward a little, as might be the case in a statue; the complexion
monotonous, dull, pale, had a swarthy tinge. She was neither very
charming nor very beautiful; she was accurately pretty.
This in the woman was wonderful, that though her face was torpid
apparently, she had in her whole person something which attracted the
masculine side of human nature inexplicably. In that lay her charm. She
was statuesque to the highest degree, but to the highest degree also a
woman. She attracted and also repelled. Gustav felt this best. It was
difficult to reconcile with that cold torpor the impression which she
produced, which seemed as it were not of her, but aside from her.
She was like a sleeping flower; pain had so put her to sleep. In
reality the blows which she had received were like strokes of an axe on
the head. Let us remember that in the career of the woman brief moments
of happiness were closed by two coffins. As a maiden she had loved; he
whom she had loved was no longer alive. As a wife she had given birth to
a child; the child was dead. That which law had given her, which had
been the cause and effect of her life, had vanished. Thenceforth she
ceased to live, she only existed. Imagine a plant which is cut at the
top and the root; such was Helena. Torn from the past and debarred from
the future, at first she bore within her a dim belief that a shameful
injustice had been wrought on her. At the moment of her pain she threw
out, it is difficult to know at whom, this question, as unfathomable as
the bottomless pit: Why has this happened? No answer came from the blue
firmament, or the earth, or the fields, or the forest; the injustice
remained injustice. The sun shone and the birds sang on as before. Then
that unfortunate heart withdrew into itself with its own pain and became
deadened.
No answer came, but her mind grew diseased--she lost belief in the death
of her husband, she thought that he had taken the weeping child in his
arms and gone somewhere, but that he might return any moment. Then,
altogether incapable of another thought, she sought him with that bitter
mechanical movement of the eyes. She went to the restaurant, thinking to
find him there where she had made his acquaintance.
Unfortunately she did not die, but found a valiant arm which strove to
snatch her from error, and a breast which wished to give her warmth. The
effort was vain, but it saved her life. Gustav's love secured her rescue
and protection, as it were by the tenure of a spider-web which did not
let her go from the earth. His voice cried to her, "Stay," and though
there was no echo in her, she remained, without witness of herself,
indifferent, a thing, not a human being.
Such was the widow.
She entered the room and stood near the door, like a stone statue, in
gloomy majesty. It was warm and smoky around her, the last sounds of a
song were quivering in the air yet. A little coarse and a little
dissolute was the song, and on that impure background bloomed the widow
like a water-lily on a turbid pool.
Silence came. They respected her in that place. In her presence even
Augustinovich became endurable. Some remembered Potkanski, others
inclined their heads before her misfortune. There were also those who
revered her beauty. The assembly assumed in her presence its seemliest
aspect.
Gustav brought up an armchair to Pani Helena, and taking her warm shawl
went to a corner to Yosef, who, attracted and astonished, turned his
gleaming eyes at the widow.
Gustav began a conversation with him.
"That is she," said he, in an undertone.
"I understand."
"Do not show thyself to her much. The poor woman! every new face brings
her disappointment, she is always looking for her husband."
"Art thou acquainted with her long?"
"This is the second year. I was a witness and best man at Potkanski's
wedding." Gustav smiled bitterly. "Since his death I see her daily."
"Vasilkevich says that thou hast given her aid and protection."
"I have, and I have not; some one had to attend to that, and I occupied
myself with it; but such protection as mine--Do what is possible, work,
fly, run--misery upon misery! so that sometimes despair seizes hold of a
man."
"But the family?"
"What family?"
"His."
"They injure her!" cried Gustav, with violence.
"But they are rich, are they not?"
"Aristocrats! Hypocrites! They and I have not finished yet. They will
remember long the injustice done to this dove. Listen to me, Yosef. Were
a little child of that family to beg a morsel of bread of me from
hunger, I would rather throw the bread to a dog."
"Oh, a romance!"
"Wrong me not, Yosef. I am poor, I waste no words. Potkanski when in
the hospital regained consciousness just before death, and said,
'Gustav, to thee I leave my wife; care for her.' I answered, 'I will
care for her.' 'Thou wilt not let her die of hunger?' 'I will not,' said
I. 'Let no one offend her; take vengeance on any one who tries to do her
an injury.' 'As God is merciful in life to me, I will avenge her,' said
I. He quenched after that, like a candle. There thou hast the whole
story."
"Not the whole story, not all, brother!"
"Vasilkevich told thee the rest. Very well! I will repeat the same to
thee. I have no one on earth, neither father nor mother. I myself am in
daily want, and she alone binds me to life." He indicated the widow with
his eyes.
And here Yosef, little experienced yet, had a chance to estimate what
passion is when it rises in a youthful breast and adds fire to one's
blood. That dry and bent Gustav seemed to him at that moment to gain
strength and vigor; he seemed to him loftier, more manly; he shook his
hair as a lion shakes his mane, and on his face a flush appeared.
"Well, gentlemen," began Vasilkevich, "the hour is late, and sleep is
not awaiting all of us after leaving this meeting-place. One more song,
and then whoso wishes may say his good-night."
He of the maiden face who sat at the piano struck some well-known notes,
then a few youthful voices sounded, but afterward a whole chorus of them
raised the song dear to students, "Gaudeamus" (Let us rejoice).
Yosef went nearer the piano than others. He stood with his side face
turned to the widow, under the light; but the lamp hanging near the wall
cast his profile in one line of light. After a while the widow's eyes
fell on that line, connecting it unquietly with her own thoughts. On a
sudden she rose, as pale as marble, with a feverish gleam in her eyes,
stretched forth her arms, and cried,--
"My Kazimir, I have found thee!"
In her voice were heard hope, alarm, joy, and awakening. All were
silent. Every eye turned toward Yosef, and a quiver ran through those
who had known Potkanski. In the light and shade that tall, strong figure
seemed a repetition of the dead man.
"I was not careful," muttered Gustav, on his way home about daybreak.
"H'm! well, her trouble has passed, but she was excited! He is really
like him--The devils take it! But the cursed asthma stifles me to-day."