CHAPTER XIV
“I have never run after wealth,” said Plavitski; “but if Providence in its inscrutable decrees has directed that even a part of that great fortune should come to our hands, I shall not cross its path. Of this not much will come to me. Soon I shall need four planks and the silent tear of my child, for whom I have lived; but here it is a question of Marynia.”
“I would turn your attention to this,” said Mashko, coldly, – “that, first of all, those expectations are very uncertain.”
“But is it right not to take them into consideration?”
“Secondly, that Panna Ploshovski is living yet.”
“But sawdust is dropping out of the old woman. She is as shrivelled as a mushroom!”
“Thirdly, she may leave her property for public purposes.”
“But is it not possible to dispute such a will?”
“Fourthly, your relationship is immensely distant. In the same way all people in Poland are related to one another.”
“She has no nearer relatives.”
“But Polanyetski is your relative.”
“No. God knows he is not! He is a relative of my first wife, not mine.”
“And Bukatski?”
“Give me peace! Bukatski is a cousin of my brother-in-law’s wife.”
“Have you no other relatives?”
“The Gantovskis claim us, as you know. People say that which flatters them. But there is no need of reckoning with the Gantovskis.”
Mashko presented difficulties purposely, so as to show afterward a small margin of hope, therefore he said, —
“With us people are very greedy for inheritances; and let any inheritance be in sight, they fly together from all sides, as sparrows fly to wheat. Everything in such cases depends on this: who claims first, what he claims, and finally through whom he claims. Remember that an energetic man, acquainted with affairs, may make something out of nothing; while, on the other hand, a man without energy or acquaintance with business, even if he has a good basis of action, may effect nothing.”
“I know this from experience. All my life I have had business up to this.” Here Plavitski drew his hand across his throat.
“Besides, you may become the plaything of advocates,” added Mashko, “and be exploited without limit.”
“In such a case I could count on your personal friendship for us.”
“And you would not be deceived,” answered Mashko, with importance. “Both for you and Panna Marynia I have friendship as profound as if you belonged to my family.”
“I thank you in the name of the orphan,” answered Plavitski; and emotion did not let him speak further.
Mashko put on dignity, and said, “But if you wish me to defend your rights, both in this matter, which, as I said, may prove illusive, and in other matters, then give me those rights.” Here the young advocate seized Plavitski’s hand, —
“Respected sir,” continued he, “you will divine that of which I wish to speak; therefore hear me to the end patiently.”
He lowered his voice; and although there was no one in the room, he began to speak almost in a whisper. He spoke with force, with dignity, and at the same time with great self-command, as befitted a man who never forgot who he was nor what he offered. Plavitski closed his eyes at moments; at moments he pressed Mashko’s hand; finally, at the end of the conference, he said, —
“Come to the drawing-room; I will send in Marynia. I know not what she will say to you; in every case, let that come which God wills. I have at all times known your value; now I esteem you still more – and here!”
The arms of Plavitski opened wide, and Mashko bent toward them, repeating, not without emotion, but always with lofty dignity, —
“I thank, I thank – ”
After a while he found himself in the drawing-room.
Marynia appeared with a face which had grown very pale; but she was calm. Mashko pushed a chair toward her, seated himself in another, and began, —
“I am here by the approval of your father. My words can tell you nothing beyond what my silence has told already, and which you have divined. But since the moment has come in which I should mention my feelings explicitly, I do this then with all confidence in your heart and character. I am a man who loves you, on whom you may lean; therefore I put in your hands my life, and I beg you from the bottom of my heart to consent to go with me.”
Marynia was silent for a moment, as if seeking words, then she said, —
“I ought to answer you clearly and sincerely. This confession is for me very difficult; but I do not wish such a man as you to deceive himself. I have not loved you; I do not love you, and I will not be your wife, even should it come to me never to be any one’s.”
Then a still more prolonged silence followed. The spots on Mashko’s face assumed a deeper hue, and his eyes cast cold steel gleams.
“This answer,” said he, “is as decided as it is painful to me and unexpected. But will you not give yourself a few days to consider, instead of rejecting me decisively at this moment?”
“You have said that I divined your feelings; I had time then to make my decision, and the answer which I gave you, I give after thorough reflection.”
Mashko’s voice became dry and sharp now, —
“Do you think that by virtue of your bearing with me, I had not the right to make such a proposal?”
And he was sure in that moment that Marynia would answer that he understood her bearing incorrectly, that there was nothing in it authorizing him to entertain any hope, – in one word, that she would seek the crooked road taken usually by coquettes who are forced to redeem their coquetry by lying; but she raised her eyes to him and said, —
“My conduct with you has not been at times what it should have been; I confess my fault, and with my whole soul I beg pardon for it.”
Mashko was silent. A woman who evades rouses contempt; a woman who recognizes her fault dashes the weapon from the hand of every opponent in whose nature, or even in whose education, there lies the least spark of knightly feeling. Besides this, there is one final method of moving the heart of a woman in such a ease, and that is to overlook her fault magnanimously. Mashko, though he saw before him a precipice, understood this, and determined to lay everything on this last card. Every nerve in him quivered from anger and offended self-love; but he mastered himself, took his hat, and, approaching Marynia, raised her hand to his lips.
“I knew that you loved Kremen,” said he; “and I bought it for one purpose only, to lay it at your feet. I see that I went by a mistaken road, and I withdraw, though I do so with endless sorrow; I beg you to remember that. Fault on your part there has not been, and is not. Your peace is dearer to me than my own happiness; I beg you, therefore, as an only favor, not to reproach yourself. And now farewell.”
And he went out.
She sat there motionless a long time, with a pale face and a feeling of oppression in her soul. She had not expected to find in him so many noble feelings. Besides, the following thought came to her head, “That one took Kremen from me to save his own; this one bought it to return it to me.” And never before had Pan Stanislav been so ruined in her thoughts. At that moment she did not remember that Mashko had bought Kremen, not from Pan Stanislav, but from her father; second, that he had bought it profitably; third, that though he wished to return it, he intended to take it again with her hand, thus freeing himself from the payments which weighed on him; and finally, to take the matter as it was in reality, neither Pan Stanislav nor any one else had taken Kremen from her, – Plavitski had sold it because he was willing and found a purchaser. But at that moment she looked on the matter in woman fashion, and compared Mashko with Pan Stanislav, exalting the former beyond measure, and condemning the latter beyond his deserts. Mashko’s action touched her so much that if she had not felt for him simply a repulsion, she would have called him back. For a while it seemed to her even that she ought to do so, but strength failed her.
She did not know either that Mashko went down the stairs with rage and despair in his soul; in fact, a precipice had opened before him. All his calculations had deceived him: the woman whom he loved really did not want him, and rejected him; and though she had striven to spare him in words, he felt humbled as never before. Whatever he had undertaken in life hitherto, he had carried through always with a feeling of his own power and reason, with an unshaken certainty of success. Marynia’s refusal had taken that certainty from him. For the first time he doubted himself; for the first time he had a feeling that his star was beginning to pale, and that perhaps an epoch of defeats was beginning for him on all fields on which he had acted hitherto. That epoch had begun even. Mashko had bought Kremen on conditions exceptionally profitable, but it was too large an estate for his means. If Marynia had not rejected him, he would have been able to manage; he would not have needed to think of the life annuity for Plavitski, or the sum which, according to agreement, came to Marynia for Magyerovka. At present he had to pay Marynia, Pan Stanislav, and the debts on Kremen, which must be paid as soon as possible, for, by reason of usurious interest, they were increasing day by day, and threatening utter ruin. For all this he had only credit, hitherto unshaken, it is true, but strained like a chord; Mashko felt that, if that chord should ever snap, he would be ruined beyond remedy.
Hence at moments, besides sorrow for Marynia, besides the pain which a man feels after the loss of happiness, anger measureless, almost mad, bore him away, and also an unbridled desire for revenge. Therefore, when he was entering his residence, he muttered through his set teeth, —
“If thou do not become my wife, I’ll not forgive thee for what thou hast done to me; if thou become my wife, I’ll not forgive thee either.”
Meanwhile Plavitski entered the room in which Marynia was sitting, and said, —
“Thou hast refused him, or he would have come to me before going.”
“I have, papa.”
“Without hope for the future?”
“Without hope. I respect him as no one in the world, but I gave him no hope.”
“What did he answer?”
“Everything that such a high-minded person could answer.”
“A new misfortune. Who knows if thou hast not deprived me of a morsel of bread in my old age? But I knew that no thought of this would come to thee.”
“I could not act otherwise; I could not.”
“I have no wish to force thee; and I go to offer my sufferings there where every tear of an old man is counted.”
And he went to Lour’s to look at men playing billiards. He would have consented to Mashko; but at the root of the matter he did not count him a very brilliant match, and, thinking that Marynia might do better, he did not trouble himself too much over what had happened.
Half an hour later Marynia ran in to Pani Emilia’s.
“One weight at least has fallen from my heart,” began she. “I refused Pan Mashko to-day decisively. I am sorry for him; he acted with me as nobly and delicately as only such a man could act; and if I had for him even a small spark of feeling, I would return to him to-day.”
Here she repeated the whole conversation with Mashko. Even Pani Emilia could not reproach him with anything; she could not refuse a certain admiration, though she had blamed Mashko for a violent character, and had not expected that, in such a grievous moment for himself, he would be able to show such moderation and nobleness. But Marynia said, —
“My Emilka, I know thy friendship for Pan Stanislav, but judge these two men by their acts, not their words, and compare them.”
“Never shall I compare them,” answered Pani Emilia, “comparison is impossible in this case. For me, Pan Stanislav is a nature a hundred times loftier than Mashko, but thou judgest him unjustly. Thou, Marynia, hast no right to say, ‘One took Kremen from me; the other wished to give it back.’ Such was not the case. Pan Stanislav did not take it from thee at any time; but to-day, if he could, he would return it with all his heart. Prepossesion is talking through thee.”
“Not prepossession, but reality, which nothing can change.”
Pani Emilia seated Marynia before her, and said, “By all means, Marynia, prepossession, and I will tell thee why. Thou art not indifferent to Pan Stanislav now.”
Marynia quivered as if some one had touched a wound which was paining her; and after a while she replied, with changed voice, —
“Pan Stanislav is not indifferent to me; thou art right. Everything which in me could be sympathy for him has turned to dislike; and hear, Emilka, what I will tell thee. If I had to choose between those two men, I should choose Mashko without hesitation.”
Pani Emilia dropped her head; after a while Marynia’s arms were around her neck.
“What suffering for me, that I cause thee such pain! but I must tell truth. I know that in the end thou, too, wilt cease to love me, and I shall be all alone in the world.”
And really something like that had begun. The young women parted with embraces and kisses; but still, when they found themselves far from each other, both felt that something between them had snapped, and that their mutual relations would not be so cordial as hitherto.
Pani Emilia hesitated for a number of days whether to repeat Marynia’s words to Pan Stanislav; but he begged her so urgently for the whole truth that at last she thought it necessary, and that she would better tell it. When all had been told, he said, —
“I thank you. If Panna Plavitski feels contempt for me, I must endure it; I cannot, however, endure this, – that I should begin to despise myself. As it is, I have gone too far. My dear lady, you know that if I have done her a wrong, I have tried to correct it, and gain her forgiveness. I do not feel bound to further duties. I shall have grievous moments; I do not hide that from you. But I have not been an imbecile, and am not; I shall be able to bring myself to this, – I shall throw all my feelings for Panna Plavitski through the window, as I would something not needed in my chamber, I promise that sacredly.”
He went home filled with will and energy. It seemed to him that he could take that feeling and break it as he might break a cane across his knee. This impulse lasted a number of days. During that time he did not show himself anywhere, except at his office, where he talked with Bigiel of business exclusively. He worked from morning till evening and did not permit himself even to think about Marynia in the daytime.
But he could not guard himself from sleepless nights. Then came to him the clear feeling that Marynia might love him, that she would be the best wife for him, that he would be happy with her as never with any one else, and that he would love her as his highest good. The regret born of these thoughts filled his whole existence, and did not leave him any more, so that sorrow was consuming his life and his health, as rust consumes iron. Pan Stanislav began to grow thin; he saw that the destruction of a feeling gives one sure result, – the destruction of happiness. Never had he seen such a void before him, and never had he felt, with equal force, that nothing would fill it. He saw, too, that it was possible to love a woman not as she is, but as she might be; therefore his heart-sickness was beyond measure. But, having great power over himself, he avoided Marynia. He knew always when she was to be at Pani Emilia’s, and then he confined himself at home.
It was only when Litka fell ill again that he began to visit Pani Emilia daily, passing hours with the sick child, whom Marynia attended also.
CHAPTER XV
But poor Litka, after a new attack, which was more terrible than any preceding it, could not recover. She spent days now lying on a long chair in the drawing-room; for at her request the doctor and Pani Emilia had agreed not to keep her in bed the whole time. She liked also to have Pan Stanislav sitting near her; and she spoke to him and her mother about everything that passed through her mind. With Marynia she was silent usually; but at times she looked at her long, and then raised her eyes to the ceiling, as if wishing to think out a thought, and give herself an account of something. More than once these meditations took place when she was left alone with her mother. On a certain afternoon she woke as if from a dream, and turning to her mother, said, —
“Mamma, sit near me here on the sofa.”
Pani Emilia sat down; the child put her arms around her neck, and, resting her head on her shoulder, began to speak in a caressing voice, which was somewhat enfeebled.
“I wanted to ask mamma one thing, but I do not know how to ask it.”
“What is thy wish, my dear child?”
Litka was silent a moment, collecting her thoughts; then she said, —
“If we love some one, mamma, what is it?”
“If we love some one, Litus?”
Pani Emilia repeated the question, not understanding well at first what the little girl was asking, but she did not know how to inquire more precisely.
“Then what is it, mamma?”
“It is this, – we wish that one to be well, just as I wish thee to be well.”
“And what more?”
“And we want that person to be happy, want it to be pleasant in the world for that person, and are glad to suffer for that person when in trouble.”
“And what more?”
“To have that one always with us, as thou art with me; and we want that one to love us, as thou lovest me.”
“I understand now,” said Litka, after a moment’s thought; “and I think myself that that is true, – that it is that way.”
“How, kitten?”
“See, mamma, when I was in Reichenhall, mamma remembers? at Thumsee I heard that Pan Stas loves Panna Marynia; and now I know that he must be unhappy, though he never says so.”
Pani Emilia, fearing emotion for Litka, said, —
“Does not this talk make thee tired, kitten?”
“Oh, no, not a bit, not a bit! I understand now: he wants her to love him, and she does not love him; and he wants her to be near him always, but she lives with her father, and she will not marry him.”
“Marry him?”
“Marry him. And he is suffering from that, mamma; isn’t it true?”
“True, my child.”
“Yes, I know all that; and she would marry him if she loved him?”
“Certainly, kitten; he is such a kind man.”
“Now I know.”
The little girl closed her eyes, and Pani Emilia thought for a while that she was sleeping; but after a time she began to inquire again, —
“And if he married Marynia, would he cease to love us?”
“No, Litus; he would love us always just the same.”
“But would he love Marynia?”
“Marynia would be nearer to him than we. Why dost thou ask about this so, thou kitten?”
“Is it wrong?”
“No, there is nothing wrong in it, nothing at all; only I am afraid that thou wilt weary thyself.”
“Oh, no! I am always thinking of Pan Stas anyhow. But mamma mustn’t tell Marynia about this.”
With these words ended the conversation, after which Litka held silence for a number of days, only she looked more persistently than before at Marynia. Sometimes she took her hand and turned her eyes to the young woman, as if wishing to ask something. Sometimes when Marynia and Pan Stanislav were near by, she gazed now on her, now on him, and then closed her lids. Often they came daily, sometimes a number of times in the day, wishing to relieve Pani Emilia, who permitted no one to take her place in the night at Litka’s bedside; for a week she had been without rest at night, sleeping only a little in the day, when Litka herself begged her to do so. Still Pani Emilia was not conscious of the whole danger which threatened the little girl; for the doctor, not knowing what that crisis of the disease would be, whether a step in advance merely, or the end, pacified the mother the more decisively because Pan Stanislav begged him most urgently to do so.
She had a feeling, however, that Litka’s condition was not favorable, and, in spite of assurances from the doctor, her heart sank more than once from alarm. But to Litka she showed always a smiling and joyous face, just as did Pan Stanislav and Marynia; but the little girl had learned already to observe everything, and Pani Emilia’s most carefully concealed alarm did not escape her.
Therefore on a certain morning, when there was no one in her room but Pan Stanislav, who was occupied with inflating for her a great globe of silk, which he had brought as a present, the little girl said, —
“Pan Stas, I see sometimes that mamma is very anxious because I am sick.”
He stopped inflating the globe, and answered, —
“Ai! she doesn’t dream of it. What is working under thy hair? But it is natural for her to be anxious; she would rather have thee well.”
“Why are all other children well, and I alone always sick?”
“Nicely well! Weren’t the Bigiel children sick, one after another, with whooping-cough? For whole months the house was like a sheepfold. And didn’t Yozio have the measles? All children are eternally sick, and that is the one pleasure with them.”
“Pan Stas only talks that way, for children are sick and get well again.” Here she began to shake her head. “No; that is something different. And now I must lie this way all the time, for if I get up my heart beats right away; and the day before yesterday, when they began to sing on the street, and mamma wasn’t in the room, I went to the window a little while, and saw a funeral. I thought, ‘I, too, shall die surely.’”
“Nonsense, Litus!” cried Pan Stanislav; and he began to inflate the globe quickly to hide his emotion, and to show the child how little her words meant. But she went on with her thought, —
“It is so stifling for me sometimes, and my heart beats so – mamma told me to say then ‘Under Thy protection,’ and I say it always, for I am terribly afraid to die! I know that it is nice in heaven, but I shouldn’t be with mamma, only alone in the graveyard; yes, in the night.”
Pan Stanislav laid down the globe suddenly, sat near the long chair, and, taking Litka’s hand, said, —
“My Litus, if thou love mamma, if thou love me, do not think of such things. Nothing will happen to thee; but thy mother would suffer if she knew what her little girl’s head is filled with. Remember that thou art hurting thyself in this way.”
Litka joined her hands: “My Pan Stas, I ask only one thing, not more.”
He bent his head down to her: “Well, ask, kitten, only something sensible.”
“Would Pan Stas be very sorry for me?”
“Ah! but see what a bad girl!”
“My Pan Stas, tell me.”
“I? what an evil child, Litus! Know that I love thee, love thee immensely. God preserve us! there is no one in the world that I should be so sorry for. But be quiet at least for me, thou suffering fly! thou dearest creature!”
“I will be quiet, kind Pan Stas.”
And in the moment when Pani Emilia came, and he was preparing to go, she asked, —
“And Pan Stas is not angry with me?”
“No, Litus,” answered Pan Stanislav.
When he had gone to the antechamber he heard a light knocking at the door; Pani Emilia had given orders to remove the bell. He opened it and saw Marynia, who came ordinarily in the evening. When she had greeted him, she asked, —
“How is Litka to-day?”
“As usual.”
“Has the doctor been here?”
“Yes. He found nothing new. Let me help you!”
Saying this, he wished to take her cloak, but she was unwilling to accept his services, and refused. Having his heart full of the previous talk with Litka, he attacked her most unexpectedly, —
“What I offer you is simple politeness, nothing more; and even if it were something more, you might leave your repugnance to me outside this threshold, for inside is a sick child, whom not only I, but you, profess to love. Your response lacks not merely kindness, but even courtesy. I would take in the same way the cloak of any other woman, and know that at present I am thinking of Litka, and of nothing else.”
He spoke with great passionateness, so that, attacked suddenly, Marynia was a little frightened; indeed, she lost her head somewhat, so that obediently she let her cloak be taken from her, and not only did not find in herself the force to be offended, but she felt that a man sincerely and deeply affected by alarm and suffering might talk so, therefore a man who was really full of feeling and was good at heart. Perhaps, too, that unexpected energy of his spoke to her feminine nature; it is enough that Pan Stanislav gained on her more in that moment than at any time since their meeting at Kremen, and never till then was she so strongly reminded of that active young man whom she had conducted once through the garden. The impression, it is true, was a mere passing one, which could not decide their mutual relations; but she raised at once on him her eyes, somewhat astonished, but not angry, and said, —
“I beg your pardon.”
He had calmed himself, and was abashed now.
“No; I beg pardon of you. Just now Litka spoke of her death to me, and I am so excited that I cannot control myself; pray understand this, and forgive me.”
Then he pressed her hand firmly, and went home.