Autumn was approaching. It was cold in the rooms of the poorer students.
Wrapped in their blankets and wearing caps, they warmed themselves with
study. The rooms of those who had something with which to heat their
stoves were swarming with comrades. No one visited the club any longer.
At first there were efforts to select some other place for a club, but
it ended in nothing, because Gustav on the one hand, and on the other
Yosef, who had acquired considerable influence among students, resisted
together; more especially Yosef, who held that clubs consumed too much
time and were of small utility. He desired to introduce reform in this
regard, and at last he succeeded. In spite of all opposing opinions he
combated for that idea in the University, and especially at
Vasilkevich's rooms, where students met with more willingness than
elsewhere.
Vasilkevich roomed with Karvovski, or rather the latter with
Vasilkevich, for though Karvovski was very wealthy (he was that pale
youth who had played on the piano to his comrades in the club) and paid
by far the greater part of the rent for their lodgings, the soul and the
pivot of this male housekeeping was our Lithuanian.
The friendship between these two young men deserved admiration and even
envy. One, delicate, pampered, beautiful, with a head full of the
loftiest dreams, mild-mannered and beloved of all, slipped lightly
through life in comfort and plenty. The other, a genuine Lithuanian;
ugly in appearance, pock-marked, with closely cut hair and flashing
eyes, vivacious, laborious, energetic, and profoundly instructed, was
for the first as a guardian or elder brother.
Vasilkevich possessed a warm heart, and was made, as the phrase runs,
for the palm of the hand. Once when Karvovski fell dangerously ill, he
nursed him night and day with real unparalleled self-denial, and when at
last he recovered, the Lithuanian wept and scolded him from delight.
"Oh, thou jester," said he, "what a trick for thee to fall ill; but just
try it a second time!"
The students called them a chosen pair, and an old blind grandfather
(minstrel) of the Ukraine who begged not far from their lodgings and to
whom they gave frequent alms, spoke of them as the "kind-hearted young
lords."
Many circumstances united them, but especially one which we shall
mention immediately. They spent a summer vacation in the country at
Karvovski's. Karvovski had a sister, weakly and not comely, but with
wonderful kindness of heart, quiet, calm, a genuine angel, with a
sunburnt little face and a fragile figure. That young maiden was loved
by Vasilkevich; he loved her in his own way, very deeply, with faith in
her and in his love, and, what is more, she loved him. Her parents did
not know much of the matter, or if they did know they had no wish to
hinder the young people. The maiden was ill-favored, he was honest and
reliable; these facts balanced the small inequality of social position.
Moreover, they did not wish to deprive their son of a society which in
every regard could be only of use to him.
This Lithuanian had another good side; he loved his parents beyond
everything,--the "old people," as he called them. These old people lived
in remotest Jmud, near Livonia; they were poor, their son helped them.
His father was a forester. The old man had a small home in the
wilderness; round about him the forest sounded and the wave plashed;
beyond the forest and the wave were other forests and other waves,--a
remote corner it was behind the lakes. The devil lived there, according
to local traditions, but somehow that devil did not trouble the old
people. Such was the place in which Vasilkevich first saw the light of
day.
When as a boy he went fishing, he met ducks beyond the lake, he found
nests in the swamps. He was of a healthy and active disposition. Nature
had cradled him; he was taught by birds, water, and trees. From the fern
of the forest to the birch which knew not where in the heavens to put
its head, all was for him a book the first words of which he himself
learned to read. The birds of the Commonwealth explained their laws to
him; once he saw how beavers made dams with their tails in the rivers;
he knew that by following the voice of the bee-eater he could find
hidden bee-nests; he knew how to take their young from the badgers. He
even brought home young wolves to the house with him.
When he had grown up sufficiently, his father taught him to read; the
old man drew out of a box some rusty coins, and sent the boy to school;
then difficult times set in. There was need to learn; so he learned. It
would be a long tale to tell how much and what he passed through before
he reached the University and began to be the man whom we know at
present.
His parents returned his love a hundred-fold. In truth, they were a pair
of doves whitened by age, loving each other, in agreement and happiness.
Happiness and peace dwelt in that cottage. Such bright spots on the
earth are met with, though rarely, like oases in a desert. The old
people enjoyed each other, and went side by side as in the first days
after marriage; they called each other falcon and berry. What joy there
was when that son came home for vacation, no tongue can tell, no pen can
describe. With Vasilkevich came Karvovski. The old people loved and
petted him also, but he was not for them as their Yasek, whom they
simply called "Ours."
Often when the young men were tired from racing a whole day through the
wilderness, the old people after going to bed talked in a low voice
about them. This is what Karvovski heard once through their chamber
partition,--
"He is a handsome boy, that Karvovski," said the old man.
"But ours is handsomer," answered the old woman.
"Oh, handsomer, handsomer!"
Meanwhile that "Ours" was what is called ugly, but through the prism of
parental love he seemed the most beautiful on earth. It is not reality
itself, but the heart with which we approach it that gives things their
form and color.
But let us return to Kieff and to our acquaintances.
It is nothing wonderful that with such hosts as Vasilkevich and
Karvovski their dwelling, in which among other things stood a perfect
stove, became a centre for many students. Even the intelligence of the
University assembled there; literary evenings were established. All who
felt a vein for letters made public their productions in those rooms.
The long autumn evenings were turned into genuine literary sessions. It
would be difficult to enumerate the burning thoughts which were uttered
there by youthful lips.
Vasilkevich, Karvovski, Yosef, in a little while Gustav, and especially
Augustinovich, took the lead in those meetings. Yosef tried his creative
powers, but somehow he did not succeed, he had not the talent, simply;
he did not know how to fashion, how to create, how to attach his own
ideas to that golden thread of fantasy which bathes all things in
rainbow tints before it gives them to the world warmed and illuminated,
or bright as a summer night's lightning.
But in recompense he had another kind of power. He judged soundly, and
what is more, with keenness. After he had read a production of his own
he analyzed it in presence of all; joyous laughter continued till late
in the apartments. In like manner did he treat the productions of
others; if he ridiculed the chips flew from those first offerings placed
on the altar of art. He was able so to arrange his voice and expression
of face to the current of his words that when he wished the gloomiest
subject roused the most laughter. This obtained for him great
consideration. Those who, feeling a sympathy for the moon, struck the
sentimental chords of their hearts, dreaded him as they might have
dreaded Satan.
Vasilkevich described his Lithuanian lakes and forests pithily. From
time to time Karvovski permitted himself lyric verses in which dew,
tears, lilies of the valley, and sighs spoke with each other in the
manner of people. In this case it was not a question of judgment, but of
the love of a village shepherd for a birch of the field which after his
death "took up and withered," according to the words of those pathetic
verses.
There were better and worse things in that assembly; humor appeared
often, but at times something superior which was worth listening to,
especially since by degrees through exercise and criticism capacities of
greater or less power were manifested.
But Augustinovich towered above every one at all times. It happened
more than once, God forgive, that he came drunk to the meeting, his
manuscript crushed, soiled, and written fragmentarily on anything; but
when he began to read all else was forgotten, the soul clung to his
words. More than one student used hands and head, drew out of himself
all that was best, wrote a thing that was more or less good, but common.
"That lurking soul" caught up a pen right there in the room amid noise
and conversation, but sheets and sheets flew from his hand and dropped
under the table. When he had finished writing he picked up the sheets,
arranged them, and sat down with indifference; but all listened, and
more than one man envied him secretly. His figures were as if living, so
complete were they; under the wave of his words thought flowed in a
hundred colors, like a serpent glittering with jewels. When he spoke of
love you felt the beating of a beloved heart on your own; when he rose
with the strength of enthusiasm, the thunder of words roared, and the
mind dazzled by lightning flashes quivered in fear; when in the low fall
of words he depicted some feeling touchingly, the odor of roses and
myrtle was discovered in the air, the fern blossomed in the moonlight,
from some place beyond the forest and the pine wood, the song of a
maiden floated out on the dew.
Ah, he was gifted! Beautiful words and beautiful thoughts fell from him
of themselves, not having apparent connection with the man. Those were
blossoms on a quagmire. Revelations of humor, in which moral fall
accompanied cynicism, testified best of all to this.
"Ei, Augustinovich! Augustinovich!" said the students to him then, "with
thy gifts, were there not such a devil in thee, what couldst thou not
do, O thou scapegrace!"
"For this very reason I wish to drown him. Have ye not something here to
drink?" replied he.
Gustav had been present at those meetings a few times; but he did not
like Karvovski, simply because all liked him. The more difficult his
career was, the more clouds obscured the horizon of his love, the more
irritable and embittered did he become. Passionate and unsuccessful
attachments have this peculiarity, that they develop hatreds just as
passionate. Such a hatred not directed to any person or thing yet had
occupied Gustav's breast and was resting like rust in it. He hated all
who had what he lacked. He felt as if wronged, and for every wrong such
natures are accustomed to pay, even though they pay only in theory.
He withdrew, therefore, from the society of students, though among them
alone existed hearts which could beat for him. He knew this, and in
spite of his hatred for all men he loved students; still he shut himself
up within his own bosom. Sympathy humiliated him. He suspected the
existence of pity in all places, and was afraid of it.
Finally, they learned this, that Yosef had promised him not to visit
Helena. This information had not come from Yosef, but from Gustav
himself; he had told it in a moment of irritation. Naturally this raised
Yosef in the opinion of his comrades. Gustav was angry. Between him and
Yosef a dark cloud of dislike had intervened.
The widow spoke to him of Yosef with greater and greater insistence,
with increasing force, with rising passion. A process of ill-omen for
Gustav, as Gustav himself thought, took place in her. The deceased
Potkanski became more and more incarnate in Yosef; in this new figure
Potkanski was dissolved and lost. By degrees, and just through long
separation, the enthusiastic heart of Helena remembered Yosef more and
more, but now for the sake of himself.
A new epoch of resuscitated happiness for the widow, of dying hope for
Gustav, emerged gradually, urged on by the rude hand of necessity,--an
epoch born of tears, chance, and pain.
"I may not, I may not be long in peace!" thought he. "But happen what
may, I will not bring him here a second time."
Every one will divine easily what was hidden under a reflection of that
sort. Gustav judged that he would be able to stifle himself by work,--he
was more and more wearied; happy moments he had only in sleep.
Once he dreamed that he was at Helena's knees and kissing her hands; he
felt distinctly her dear palms on his heart. Then in the dream
excitement of passion he found her lips with his lips, and almost
suffered from excess of delight.
After that came awakening.
He saw her daily,--he was so near to her and always so distant.
He grew thinner and more emaciated; in his eyes shone feverish gleams of
unbending will. That fever exhausted him, but kept him on his feet.
"I am curious to know what will come of this," muttered he through his
parched lips.
But there was one side almost sublime in this gloomy exertion of
suffering. Gustav was not dreaming. He took life as it was, not as it
might be. In spite of the sad condition of his health, he knew how to
work, and worked more than ever. To come from Pani Helena and sit down
to toil needed no common strength,--such victories he won over his own
nature daily. He gathered about him a number of the most capable men,
and as it were to compare them with the assemblies at Vasilkevich's, he
organized a circle laboring only scientifically. He and two
fellow-students were writing a grammar of the Lettish languages; in
spite of continual disputes with his co-workers, he stood at the head of
this labor, and what he stole from suffering he gave to it.