A couple of months had passed, winter had passed, spring had passed,
summer had come, and those relations had not changed.
Yosef loved Helena, she loved him, and their life flowed on in mutual
forgetfulness of the future. But there was a shadow between them, a
shadow thrown by chance. One summer day the widow tied under her chin
the ribbons of a dainty blue hat, and covering her shoulders with a
cape, she took Yosef's arm and they went out to walk.
The sun was shining, there was a little dust in the air, and the heat
made itself felt on all faces, though the hour was about six in the
afternoon. Multitudes of people were on the streets; many acquaintances
greeted Yosef with a friendly nod; some, and among them strangers,
looked around at our couple. Really they were a beautiful couple. Yosef
had grown, he had become manly; his chin and the sides of his face were
covered now by a splendid, ruddy growth, and his face had a serious
expression, with a certain tinge of pride. The widow looked exactly like
a young betrothed. The wind blew apart the ribbons of her dainty hat,
played with her white dress, and bearing apart the cape, showed her
slender form. Leaning on Yosef's arm gracefully, she delighted in him
and the sun and the air, and was as if born into the world a second
time. Yosef looked more at her than at the people around. We will not
undertake to repeat the words in that twittering of lovers, without
meaning for others, full of charm for themselves. But there was more
serious conversation; she, for example, begged him to take her to
Potkanski's grave.
"In the summer," said she, "there is much shade even in the cemetery.
And it is so long since I was there; still I cannot forget him. Thou
takest his place, Yosef, but permit me to pray for him sometimes."
It was all one to Yosef for whom or for what Helena prayed; so he
answered with an indulgent smile,--
"Very well, remember thy dead; but love the living," added he, inclining
his head toward her face.
A slight pressing of Yosef's arm to her breast was Helena's answer. She
looked him in the eyes, then blushed like a girl.
Yosef covered with his palm the little hand resting on his arm, and--was
perfectly happy.
They went to the cemetery, and on the way met Augustinovich; he was
smoking a cigar and walking with two ladies, a mother and a daughter.
Augustinovich had the daughter on his arm, the mother hurried on a
little at one side; plumpness and finally the heat hindered her haste
somewhat.
Augustinovich was eloquent evidently, for the young lady restrained her
laughter at moments. While passing Yosef he blinked with one eye; this
was to signify that he was content with the world and the order of the
earth at that moment.
Yosef asked Helena about Augustinovich.
"I know him, though I do not know his name. When Kazimir died, I saw him
near me, then he disappeared somehow from my eyes."
"He is the most gifted scapegrace whom I know," added Yosef. "But he
told me that he was in love with my lady."
"Why tell me that?"
"Without an object, but it is a wonder how all are attracted to thee."
"My dear Yosef, that is the one thing that I brought to the world with
me. Thou wilt not believe how sadly the years of my childhood passed.
Thou knowest not my history. I was reared in a wealthy family, where the
master of the house treated me as his own daughter. After his death I
was tormented in that house with every rudeness, till at last I fled and
came to Kieff, where an old and very kind man took me into his care. He
called me Helusiu always, and petted me as if I had been his own
daughter. But afterward he too died, without leaving me means of living.
Then I made the acquaintance of Kazimir. Thou wilt wonder how I went to
a students' club? I lacked little of dying from shame, I assure thee,
when I entered the first time; but wilt thou believe? I was hungry. I
had put nothing in my mouth for two days. I was chilled through, I knew
not what I was doing, and what it would lead to.
"Then Kazimir approached me. Oh! he did not please me that time. He
laughed and was glad, but it grew dark in my eyes. He asked at last if I
would go with him. I answered 'Yes.' On the road he put a warm fur
around me, for I was shivering from cold, and finally he took me to his
lodgings. There, when warmth had restored presence of mind to me, I saw
where I was, and I wept from disgrace and shame. For, seest thou, I was
alone in the lodgings of a man, I was in his power. He seemed to be
astonished at my weeping; then he was silent and sat near me, and when
again I looked at him he had tears in his eyes, and was different
entirely. He kissed my hands and begged me to calm myself.
"I had to tell him everything, everything. He promised to think of me as
a sister. How good he was, was he not? From that moment of knowing him I
knew no more of want. At parting he kissed my hand again. I wished to
kiss his, my heart was straitened, I pressed it with my hands and wept
real tears. Oh! how I loved him then! how I loved him!"
Helena raised her eyes, in those eyes gleamed great tears of gratitude.
She was as beautiful as if inspired. Yosef's expression, however, was
severe; his brows had come together on his forehead. The thought that he
owed that woman's love to empty chance, to a vain resemblance, covered
his face with a gloomy shadow.
Potkanski had gone to her by another road. That comparison pained Yosef.
He recalled Augustinovich's words, and conducted Helena farther in
silence.
They reached the cemetery. Among the trees were white crosses, stones,
and tombs. The city of the dead in the shade of green leaves slept in
silent dignity. A number of persons were strolling among the crosses;
among the branches a bird from time to time sang half sadly, half
charmingly. The figure of the cemetery guard pushed past at intervals.
Helena soon found Potkanski's grave. It was a large mound surrounded by
an iron railing; at the foot of the mound was a small grass-covered
hillock. Under these lay Potkanski with Helena's child. A number of pots
with flowers adorned the graves, at the sides grew reseda; in general,
the grave kept neatly and even with ornament indicated a careful hand.
Yosef called the guard to open the railing. Helena knelt there with
prayer on her lips and tears in her eyes.
"Who keeps this grave?" asked Yosef of the guard.
"This lady came; a gentleman with long hair came also, but now he comes
no longer. He always paid for the flowers, and he also gave command to
erect the iron grating."
"That gentleman is here now--last year they buried him," answered Yosef.
The guard nodded as if to say, "And thou too wilt dwell here."
"But this I beg to tell the gentlemen. In the city out there are trouble
and suffering, but when any one comes here he lies peacefully. I think
often to myself: 'Will the Lord God torture souls in that other world
also? Is it little that man suffers here?'"
After a time Helena finished praying. Yosef gave her his arm again.
Yosef was silent; evidently something was weighing on his heart. By
design or by chance he led Helena along a path different from the first
one. All at once, when near the gate, he pointed to one of the graves,
and said in a kind of cold voice,--
"See, Helena, that man there loved thee during his life more than
Potkanski, and still thou hast not mentioned him."
The day was inclining. Helena cast her eye on the object which Yosef had
indicated. At the grave stood a black wooden cross, and on it were
written in white the words: "Gustav--died year--day."
The evening rays painted the inscription as it were in letters of blood.
"Let us go from here; it is getting dark," whispered Helena, nestling
her head up to Yosef's shoulder.
When they entered the city, darkness was beginning in earnest, but a
clear night was coming. A great ruddy moon was rolling up from beyond
the Dnieper. In the dense alleys of the police garden steps were heard
here and there, from an open window in an adjoining pavilion came the
tones of a piano; a youthful, feeble voice was singing a song of
Schubert, the tones quivered in the warm air; far, far out on the steppe
some one was sounding the horn of a post-wagon.
"A beautiful night," said Helena, in a low voice. "Why art thou gloomy,
Yosef?"
"Let us sit a little," said he. "I am tired."
They sat there, and leaning shoulder to shoulder were both somewhat
pensive. They were roused on a sudden from meditation by a youthful,
resonant voice, which said,--
"True, Karol! The greatest happiness is the genuine love of a woman, if
it is an echo to the voice of a real manly soul."
Two young people arm in arm passed slowly near the bench on which Yosef
and Helena were sitting.
"Good evening!" said both, removing their hats.
They were Vasilkevich and Karol Karvovski.
When Yosef parted with the widow that evening, he held her hand to his
lips for a long time, and went home late, greatly agitated.