Sad, indeed, had been the previous life of the countess. During her
father's life she had sat whole days in a chamber which was lonely and
almost poor, listening to the twittering of sparrows outside the
windows, or the quarrels of girls in the kitchen.
The old count came home every evening wearied and broken with ceaseless
pouring from the empty into the void, as he called his affairs. Nothing
succeeded with him. In his time he had been active and industrious; he
had wished to give the aristocracy an example of how men with
escutcheons should apply themselves to labor and industry, and as a
result, he lost his property. There remained to him in return experience
which he would have been glad to sell for a few thousand, and still one
other thing which he would not have sold, that is, his reminiscences and
his family pride.
In him the cement of that experience and that pride was his hatred of
life, of men, of the whole world. This was natural. His own people did
not receive him, and those who did receive the man, received him in such
fashion that the fable of the dying lion and the asses' hoofs came to
one's memory. If he had only had a son! The young eagle might fly from
the nest with new strength, seeking light and the sun--but a daughter!
The old man did not deceive himself: a daughter must become either an
old maid, or marry after his death the first man who met her. For this
reason the count did not love his daughter as much as he should have
loved. In spite of that the daughter loved him sincerely. She loved him
because he had white hair, because he was unfortunate, finally, because
she had no one else to love. Moreover, he was for her the last volume of
the story which she was weaving on in her mind.
Frequently in the evening her father told her in his plaintive voice of
the ancient deeds of their family, full of glitter and glory, old
histories pleasant for counts and countesses; and she while listening to
them fixed her whole soul in that past.
Often it seemed to her that from the golden web of the legend some
winged figure tore itself free, half a hussar knight with a crooked
sabre in his grasp, an eagle-like son of the steppe and of battle. He
waved his hand, and the steppes were cleared of Tartars. One might say,
"I can see the Crimea and the blue waves beyond." Hei! the usual dreams
of a maiden! As wide as the steppes are, so many are the songs of his
actions; and then he is so covered with glory, though youthful; so
bloody, though so beloved. He bent his forehead before some female
figure. The usual dream of a magnate's daughter! That female figure is
she; he a Herburt or a Koretski.
And as she was reared, so did she imagine; and these imaginings had no
use, nay, they were perhaps harmful, though attractive. So, when the old
man finished the stories, and remembering the present, added with
bitterness, "My fault, my fault!" she wound her arms around his neck,
then, saying usually, "Not thy fault, papa; those times will return
again."
But those times did not return. The old man died, and no knight
appeared as a guardian, no knight cut from the blackened background of a
picture. The form which appeared had nothing in common with knighthood.
That head with severe face and broad forehead, the cold face of a modern
thinker, in no manner, even in the dreams of a maiden, did it fit to a
bronze helmet with ostrich plumes. Other powers must have pulsated in
the forehead of a man leading winged regiments against Tartars.
But, on the other hand, Yosef was something entirely new for the
countess, something which made her admire. There were not many words in
him, but there was force. In a short time he became for her everything;
she found in the man decision, energy, and swiftness of action. Perhaps
she could not explain to herself that that also was manhood, only
different from the manhood of the past; or was she unable to discern
that? The old count succeeded in nothing. Yosef when he had taken up her
affairs did in one day more than the count had ever done in ten. He
understood that the countess needed some resources, so as not to appeal
in small things to the kindness and pocket of Pani Visberg. At this
thought she trembled. He had foreseen it. He rescued radically the
remnant of her income; and his acts in this regard were like the cut of
a lancet, ever sure, always efficient. Naturally, Yosef managed by the
aid of a jurist, an acquaintance, who, though young, would have talked
love of God into Satan. But why did not the old count help himself in a
similar fashion?
This brought the countess to a certain idea: Aristocracy she imagined
to herself in the person of her father, democracy in the person of
Yosef. "Oh, what people they must be!" thought she, almost with dread,
"terrible people who know how to crush obstacles, another kind of
people." Books told the rest to her.
The countess went far in such thoughts. Once when she asked Yosef for
details concerning his past, she heard him answer with perfect freedom,
"My father was a blacksmith." She could hardly understand how he dared
tell such a thing, so natural did it seem to her that if that were the
case he ought not to mention it. Why did he not conceal it? These words
were really a hammer which struck the soul of the countess most heavily.
She surveyed Yosef with an astonished glance, as if seeking a leather
apron on him, or traces of sparks on his hands. Besides, it is proper to
confess that, despite all her gratitude to him and Pani Visberg, she
judged at first, in silence it is true, that the coronet inclined those
people to her; she judged that in sheltering the daughter of a lord they
did that somewhat to do themselves honor. But she learned that touching
Yosef she was thoroughly mistaken. He pronounced the word count just as
he did the word Jew, gipsy, or noble, not even turning attention to the
special sense of those sounds.
Did he not understand? She could not admit that, though really the
question of aristocracy lay thus far untouched in his mind. She
suspected him, however, of ignoring it purposely. But that was not
enough,--the countess noticed in Yosef's treatment of her a certain
loftiness or rather indulgence. He was considerate and kind toward her,
but in such a manner as if he wished to show that his action was the
yielding of strength before weakness, the indulgence of a strong man for
a child; though, on the other hand, how safe she felt under such
protection!
It seemed to her as if there was nothing impossible to Yosef. She could
sleep quietly and calmly; he was on guard. She tried, however, at once
to relate herself to him differently; she wished to dazzle him with her
culture. Meanwhile it came out that Yosef corrected her ideas
gently,--showed her what was right in them, what was erroneous. Briefly,
to her great disgust, he taught and enlightened her. She tried to impose
by her talent, and on a certain occasion she sat down at the piano as if
by chance and displayed cascades of melody before him; but what? That
tormented Augustinovich sat down after her and played far better. This
fellow also knew how to do everything, he knew everything!
The countess went in deep thought to her chamber that evening. But that
she comprehended and understood these relations showed that her
intelligence was not among the least, and it was not wonderful that she
thought of these relations so soon after the death of her father, for
even the very despair of a "well-bred" woman has in it a certain
coquetry more or less conscious, though always innocent.
So a silent battle had begun between a new child of the people and an
aristocratic young lady. It was developed by those relations which we
have mentioned, relations which were barely tangible. This struggle was
the more dangerous for him since he did not suspect it. The countess was
not able to dazzle him, but she roused in him the most lively sympathy.
For him she became a kind of beloved child whose fate he held in his
hand, as it seemed to him.
Occupied with her actively, he neglected Helena; his visits to her
became rarer. He pursued more the thought of doing something which might
be agreeable to the countess than he fled before the thought of doing
something disagreeable to Helena.
As for the countess, it is easy to understand that in her feelings for
him there was not and could not be anything which contained hate in it.
A somewhat roused vanity might lead rather to love than to hatred. To
tell the truth, Countess Lula wished simply that that energetic democrat
might in future bend to her aristocratic knees his submissive and
enamoured head.
But she had not put the object clearly till she noticed that Yosef was a
handsome man. We will state in parenthesis that Countess Leocadia was
twenty years old, and that for some time there had been roused in her
soul various yearnings and disquiets, of which she could not render
account to herself. In the language of poets, that would have been
called the echo of a desire "to love and be loved, and perhaps even to
die young." But whatever the question was, we may be satisfied by
knowing that it furnished Lula with a thread of continual thinking of
Yosef, the confidence which she had in him. Her gratitude for protection
experienced from day to day increased her sympathy.
It is true that the old countess in her time had told Lula that a
well-bred young lady must not love; but Mother Nature whispered to her
something quite different. In truth, those two mothers are often in
disagreement. This is one reason why in the souls of most women a broad
robust feeling rarely springs up and becomes vigorous in them; on the
contrary, a thousand nervous little loves are planted, less winged, but
less binding.
Lula verified the fact, then, that Yosef was intellectual, noble, and a
handsome man; we will not dare to guarantee which quality it was that
she emphasized most. That evening, however, when she was going to sleep
she gave herself this question, which in the sequel was important, "But
if he loved me?"
Instead of an answer she ran with bare feet and half dressed to the
glass. Authors alone are permitted to see pictures of this sort. The
night-cap was on her head, and from under the cap came to her white
shoulders tresses of dark hair which disappeared under her night-dress.
With gleaming eyes and moving breast she gazed at the glass. "But if he
loved me," repeated she, "and if he were to kneel here pale and
burning--" At that moment a blood-red blush covered her face and neck;
she blew out the light.
Thenceforth peculiar changes began to appear in her; sometimes a
strange disquiet mastered her, she fell into thoughtfulness; sometimes
she walked as if drowsy, as if oppressed, weakened; at another time she
covered her head on Malinka's breast, and kissed her without reason.
Yosef she saw daily.
And so days and months passed; but by degrees some change began to take
place in Yosef too. Gradually that dear child had ripened in his soul
and become a beautiful woman in full bloom. His glance when he looked at
her had not that former complete transparency and calmness. Formerly he
might have lulled her to sleep on his breast, and laid her as he would a
child on a couch; to-day that would have caused a surprisingly different
sensation. The idyl grew stronger in the spirit of both, till at last,
after so many and so many days, or so many and so many months, the
following conversations took place in the lodgings of Pani Visberg and
those of Yosef.
"If thou wert in love, Malinka?"
"Then, my Lula, I should be very happy, and I should love very much; and
seest thou, my Lula, the Lord God would arrange so that the man should
love me also."
"But if he did not love?"
Malinka rubbed her forehead with her hand.
"I do not know, I do not know, but it seems to me that there is a
difference between loving and loving. I should love this way--O God! I
do not know how to tell it--this way is how I should love--"
Malinka threw her arms around the neck of her friend, and pressing her
to her bosom, covered her with fondling and kisses.
"My Lula, he would have to love me then."
And like two doves they hid their heads on the breasts of each other.
There was silence.
"Malinka!" said Lula at last, with tears in her voice.
"Lula, my heartfelt!"
"Malinka, I love."
"I know, Lula."
* * * * *
"Old man!" said Augustinovich to Yosef.
"What news?"
"May I be ---- if this is new. Old man, I saw thee kissing the
countess's veil. May I be hanged if thou didst not kiss it! Well, thou
art fond of kissing--wait, I have a parasol here, perhaps thou wilt kiss
the parasol; if that does not suit thee, then perhaps my last year's
cloak. The sleeve lining is torn, but otherwise it is a good cloak. May
I be!--Give me the pipe--I know what this means, old man; that fool of a
Visberg does not know, but I know."
Yosef covered his face with his hands.
Augustinovich looked at him in silence, shuffled his feet under the
table, coughed, muttered something through his teeth; finally he said in
a voice of emotion,--
"Old man!"
Yosef made no answer.
Augustinovich shook him by the shoulder with sympathy.
"Well, old man, do not grieve, be not troubled--thou art concerned about
Helena."
Yosef trembled.
"About Helena. Thou art honest, old man. What is to be done with her
now?--I know! If thou wish, old man, I will marry her. By Jove, I will
marry her!"
Yosef stood up. Beautiful resolution shone on his broad forehead, and
though on his frowning brows thou couldst read pain and struggle, thou
couldst see that the victory would fall where Yosef wished it. He
pressed Augustinovich's hand.
"I am going out."
"Where art thou going?"
"To Helena."
Augustinovich stared at him.
"To He-le-na?"
"Yes," answered Yosef. "Enough of deceit and hesitation! To Helena with
a request for her hand."
Augustinovich looked at him as he went out, and shaking his head,
muttered through his teeth,--
"See, stupid Adasia,[1] how people act."
[Footnote 1: Adasia is Adam, Augustinovich's own name.]
Then he filled his pipe, turned on the bed, and snored with redoubled
energy.