From thenceforth I became entirely absorbed in my new acquaintances.
At night as I went to bed and on rising in the morning I thought
of nothing but my coming visit to the hill. I now wandered about
the streets for the sole purpose of ascertaining whether the whole
assemblage of what Yanush called the “bad company” was there or not. If
Lavrovski was sprawling in the meadow and Turkevich and Tiburtsi were
holding forth to their audiences, and if the rest of the suspicious
characters were poking about the bazaar, I immediately ran off across
the marsh and up the hill to the chapel, having first filled my pockets
with apples, which I was allowed to pick in our garden, and with
sweet-meats, which I always saved up for my new friends.
Valek, who was very serious, and whose grown-up ways inspired me with
respect, would quietly accept these gifts and generally put them aside
for his sister, but Marusia would clap her hands and her eyes would
sparkle with unaffected pleasure. The child’s pale cheeks would glow
with rosy colour and she would laugh, and this laugh of our little
friend’s always went straight to our hearts and rewarded us for the
sweets we had sacrificed for her sake.
This pale, diminutive little creature reminded one of a flower that had
blossomed without seeing the life-giving rays of the sun. Although she
was four years old, she still walked weakly on her crooked little legs,
swaying like a grass-blade as she moved. Her hands were transparent and
thin, and her head nodded on her neck like a bluebell on its stalk,
but her glance was, at times, so unchildlike and sad, and her smile
reminded me so of my mother’s during her last days as she had sat at
her open window with the breeze stirring her hair, that I would often
grow sad myself at the sight of her little babyish face, and the tears
would rise in my eyes.
I could not help comparing her to my sister who was the same age; the
latter was as round as a dumpling and as buoyant as a rubber ball.
Sonia ran so merrily when she was playing and laughed so ringingly, she
wore such pretty dresses, and every day her nurse would braid a crimson
ribbon into her dark hair.
But my little friend hardly ever ran and very seldom laughed; when she
did her laughter sounded like the tiniest of silver bells that ten
steps away is scarcely audible. Her dress was dirty and old, no ribbon
decked her hair, which was much longer and thicker than Sonia’s. To my
surprise, Valek knew how to braid it very cleverly, and this he would
do every morning.
I was a great madcap. People used to say of me: “That boy’s hands and
feet are full of quicksilver.” I believed this myself, although I
could not understand how and by whom the quicksilver could have been
inserted. During the first days of our friendship I brought my high
spirits into the company of my new companions, and I doubt if the
echoes of the old chapel had ever repeated such deafening shrieks as
they did whilst I was trying to rouse and amuse Valek and Marusia with
my pranks. But in spite of them all I did not succeed. Valek would gaze
seriously first at me and then at the little girl, and once when I was
making her run a race with me, he said:
“Don’t do that, you’ll make her cry.”
And in fact, when I had teased Marusia into running, and when she heard
my steps behind her, she suddenly turned round, raised her arms above
her head as if to protect herself, looked at me with the helpless eyes
of a trapped bird, and burst into tears. I was touched to the quick.
“There, you see,” said Valek. “She doesn’t like to play.”
He seated her on the grass and began picking flowers and tossing them
to her. She stopped crying and began quietly to pick up the blossoms,
whispering something to the golden butter-cups and raising the
blue-bells to her lips. I grew quiet too, and lay down beside Valek and
the little girl.
“Why is she like that?” I finally asked, motioning with my eyes toward
Marusia.
“Why is she so quiet, you mean?” asked Valek. And then in a tone of
absolute conviction, he continued: “You see, it is the grey stone.”
“Yes,” the child repeated like a feeble echo. “It is the grey stone.”
“Which grey stone?” I asked, not understanding what they meant.
“The grey stone has sucked her life away,” Valek explained, gazing at
the sky as before. “Tiburtsi says so. Tiburtsi knows.”
“Yes,” the child once more echoed softly. “Tiburtsi knows everything.”
I understood nothing of the puzzling words which Valek had repeated
after Tiburtsi, but the argument that Tiburtsi knew everything had its
effect on me. I raised myself on one elbow and looked at Marusia. She
was sitting in the same position in which Valek had placed her, and
was still picking up the scattered flowers. The movements of her thin
hands were slow, her eyes were like blue bruises in her pale face, and
her long lashes were downcast. As I looked at that wee, pathetic figure
I realised that in Tiburtsi’s words, although I could not understand
them, there lay a bitter truth. Something was surely sucking away the
life of this strange child that wept when other children would have
laughed. But how could a grey stone do this thing?
There was a riddle more dreadful to me than all the ghosts in the old
castle. Let the Turks pining under ground be never so terrible and the
old count never so cruel, they all smacked of the fantastic horror of
ancient legends. But here was something incredibly dreadful taking
place under my very eyes. Something formless, pitiless, cruel, and
heavy as a stone was hanging over this little being’s head, draining
the colour from her cheeks, the brightness from her eyes, and the life
out of her limbs. “It must be done at night,” I thought, and something
wrung my heart until it ached.
I, too, subdued my boisterous ways under the influence of this feeling.
Suiting our actions to our little lady’s quiet gravity, Valek and I
would put her down somewhere upon the grass and collect flowers and
little bright-hued pebbles for her, or else we would catch butterflies,
or make her sparrow traps of bricks. Sometimes, stretched beside her on
the grass, we would lie gazing at the sky and, as we watched the clouds
sailing high above the chapel’s crumbling roof, we would tell Marusia
stories or talk with one another.
These conversations cemented the friendship between Valek and me more
firmly every day, and it grew steadily in spite of the sharp contrast
that our characters presented. He opposed a sorrowful gravity to my
impulsive high spirits and won my respect by the masterly, independent
way in which he spoke of grown-up people. He also told me much that was
new to me, things of which I had never thought before. Noticing that he
spoke of Tiburtsi as of a comrade I asked:
“Is Tiburtsi your father?”
“He must be,” he answered thoughtfully, as if the question had never
before occurred to him.
“Does he love you?”
“Yes,” he answered much more decidedly this time. “He is always doing
things for me, and sometimes, you know, he kisses me and cries.”
“He loves me and cries too!” Marusia chimed in, with a look of childish
pride.
“My father doesn’t love me,” I said sadly. “He never kisses me. He is a
horrid man.”
“No, no,” Valek objected. “You don’t understand. Tiburtsi says he
isn’t. He says the Judge is the best man in the town, and that the town
would have been ruined long ago if it had not been for your father and
the Priest who has just gone into a monastery, and the Jewish Rabbi.
Those three--”
“What have those three done?”
“The town hasn’t been ruined because they were there, so Tiburtsi says,
because they look after the poor people. Your father, you know, once
sentenced a count to punishment.”
“Yes, that’s so. The count was very angry.”
“There, you see! It’s no joke to sentence a count.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Valek repeated. “Because a count isn’t an ordinary person. A
count does what he pleases and drives in a coach, and then _that_ count
had money. He would have given money to any other judge, and the judge
would have let him go and condemned a poor man.”
“Yes, that’s true. I heard the count shouting in our house: ‘I can buy
and sell every one of you!’”
“And what did the Judge say?”
“My father said: ‘Get out of my sight!’”
“There, now, you see! And Tiburtsi says he isn’t afraid to drive a rich
man away, but when old Ivanovna came to him with her rheumatism he
had a chair brought for her. He’s like that! Even Turkevich has never
raised a rumpus under his windows.”
That was true; when he was on his denunciatory expeditions Turkevich
always passed by our windows in silence, and sometimes even took off
his cap.
All this set me thinking deeply. Valek was showing me my father in a
light in which I had never before seen him, and the boy’s words touched
chords of filial pride in my heart. I was pleased to hear these praises
of my father coming from Tiburtsi who “knew everything,” but there
still quivered in my breast, with a pang of aching love, the bitter
certainty that this man never could and never would love me as Tiburtsi
loved his children.