The count died really, and was buried according to Christian ceremonial.
After his death Yosef paid a visit to the old lady. It was a question of
securing guardianship for the countess, since no one of the family had
come forward.
The count had left very scanty means of maintenance, and even if he had
left more the countess was too young to manage a house alone.
Because of the lofty piety and exceeding delicacy of conscience of Pani
Visberg, it was not difficult for Yosef to arrange the business he had
mentioned. He persuaded her that she had killed the count by her
lawsuit, and therefore she was bound to give protection to the daughter
of her victim. The lady was greatly terrified at the executioners of
hell, with whom Yosef threatened her, and on the other hand she judged
that the companionship of the countess, who was of society and highly
educated as Yosef declared, would not be without profit to Malinka.
Pani Visberg was an honorable woman in the full sense of the word; she
had not much wit, it is true, and still less acquaintance with society.
The best proof of this was that she considered Augustinovich the acme of
elegance, polish, and good tone. Yosef she feared a little, from the
time of his first visit. But she was content in soul that such
distinguished young men, as she said, were inclined to her lowly
threshold.
Malinka, who in many regards resembled her mother, was seriously
smitten with Augustinovich. She had induced the old lady to take a
permanent residence in Kieff; for that matter Pani Visberg had come to
the city somewhat with that intent. She wished to show her daughter to
the world, for Malinka was nineteen years of age, and during those
nineteen years she had been once in Kieff, once in Jitomir, and had sat
out the rest of the time at home. Fortune permitted a residence in the
city. The late Pan Visberg had been in his day an official in the
customhouse, though in a funeral speech over his grave these words had
been uttered: "Sleep, Cleophas Visberg! for during long ages the nations
(all Europe) will admire thy integrity and stern rectitude." We say
Cleophas Visberg left to his wife, inconsolable in her sorrow, about
nine times one hundred thousand zlotys, and he would have left more if
inexorable Fate had not cut short his days. He entered the kingdom of
shadows more sated with years than with income.
But this income fell to good hands, for both ladies had excellent
hearts. They helped widows and orphans; they paid their servants, male
and female, regularly; they paid tithes to their church faithfully; in a
word, they performed all Christian deeds which concern soul and body.
They received the countess with open arms, and with as much cordiality
as if they had been her relatives. Malinka, an honest though simple
maiden, was in love out and out with the noble orphan. How much she
promised herself from the first glance to be kind and obliging to her,
how much she wished to comfort her, how much she dreamed of a pure
friendship with her in the future, it would be difficult to tell; enough
that Yosef found as good protection for the countess as if she had been
in the house of her own parents--it could not have been better.
It is true that the countess was well fitted to rouse sympathy. The
silent and deep sorrow which weighed her down at the moment did not
remove her so far from reality that she could not be charming to those
who were kind to her. She thanked Yosef with tears in her eyes;
stretched to him a hand, which he, with emotion rare in him, pressed to
his lips. "As I love God!" said Augustinovich, "I almost wept when she
looked at me. May the devils take me if she is not a hundred times more
beautiful than I am."
In fact, that new figure, attended already with words of sympathy, had
connected itself with the fate of the heroes of this book. That a
countess like her could not remain without influence on them is
understood easily. Whether the future will attach angel wings to the
shoulders of the countess, or show in her charming body a barren,
hypocritical soul, the continuation will teach us.
Hei! hei! If this life resembled a book; if it were possible to give
people souls such as are created in thought; but then would these be
people like the rest of mankind? It would be all one, however, for
poison cakes are the food of this world, as the boy said. The human soul
is like a spring; it carries poison far, and what man can guarantee that
poison is not lying at the bottom of his own soul, and that he would not
create poisoned characters? The soul is blank paper! God writes on one
side, and Satan on the other; but God and Satan are only symbols in this
case. In fact, there is another hand; the world is that hand really. The
world writes on the soul, good and bad people write on it, moments of
happiness write there, suffering writes more enduringly than all. But
there are souls like mussels. The mussel changes grains of sand, and the
soul pain, into pearls; sadness and solitude are the means. But not
always. It depends on the soul. Sadness and solitude sometimes conceal
weariness, emptiness, and stupidity. These three full sisters like to
dwell in palaces built of sadness and solitude, seeking that which they
have never lost. It does not follow from this that there are no charms
in solitude. Sadness has none, at least for a sad person. Solitude for
the soul is something like a time of sleep for the body. Nay, more; that
misty monad, the soul, seems to dissolve in solitude, to separate, to
vanish, to cease its existence almost; words and thoughts end in that
silent region; the soul is annihilated for a season, separates on all
sides from its own centre. All this is called rest.
Solitude is the worst term that the human mind has had wit to invent;
solitude is never alone, silence always goes with it.
It is a pity that the misty garments of this lady called Solitude are
borne most frequently by that seductive page whose name is Laziness.
But sometimes, say the poets, solitude gives a creative moment. The soul
is lost then and trembles, inclining to receive some vision flying in
from beyond.
For this reason only fools or sages love solitude greatly.
What was the countess?
Let us see. It is time to descend from cloudy heights to life's
realities. Let the countess enter! How? As a young maiden--can there be
anything more charming under the sun? Such a beautiful mixture of blood,
body, perfumes, flowers, sun rays--and what else?
Our illusions.
Fly in, golden butterfly.