CHAPTER XXXVII
“I do not ask if thou art happy,” said Bigiel to Pan Stanislav after his return to Warsaw; “with such a person as thy wife it is not possible to be unhappy.”
“True,” answered Pan Stanislav; “Marynia is such an honest little woman that it would be hard to find a better.” Then, turning to Pani Bigiel, he said, —
“We are both happy, and it cannot be otherwise. You remember, dear lady, our former conversations about love and marriage? You remember how I feared to meet a woman who would try to hide the world from her husband with herself, to occupy all his thoughts, all his feelings, to be the single object of his life? You remember how I proved to you and Pani Emilia that love for a woman could not and should not in any case be for a man everything; that beyond it there are other questions in the world?”
“Yes; but I remember also how I told you that domestic occupations do not hinder me in any way from loving my children; for I know in some fashion, as it seems to me, that these things are not like boxes, for example, of which, when you have put a certain number on a table, there is no room for others.”
“My wife is right now,” said Bigiel. “I have noticed that people often deceive themselves when they transfer feelings or ideas into material conditions. When it is a question of feelings or ideas, space is not to be considered.”
“Oh, stop! Thou art conquered to the country,” said Pan Stanislav, humorously.
“But if the position is pleasant for me?” said Bigiel, promptly. “Moreover, thou, too, wilt be conquered.”
“I?”
“Yes; with honesty, kindness, and heart.”
“That is something different. It is possible to be conquered, and not be a slipper. Do not hinder me in praising Marynia; I have succeeded in a way that could not be improved, and specially for this reason, – that she is satisfied with the feeling which I have for her, and has no wish to be my exclusive idol. For this I love her. God has guarded me from a wife demanding devotion of the whole soul, whole mind, whole existence; and I thank Him sincerely, since I could not endure such a woman. I understand more easily that all may be given of free will, and when not demanded.”
“Believe me, Pan Stanislav,” answered Pani Bigiel, “that in this regard we are all equally demanding; but at first we take frequently that part for the whole which they give us, and then – ”
“And then what?” interrupted Pan Stanislav, rather jokingly.
“Then those who have real honesty in their hearts attain to something which for you is a word without meaning, but for us is often life’s basis.”
“What kind of talisman is that?”
“Resignation.”
Pan Stanislav laughed, and added, “The late Bukatski used to say that women put on resignation frequently, as they do a hat, because it becomes them. A resignation hat, a veil of light melancholy, – are they ugly?”
“No, not ugly. Say what you please; they may be a dress, but in such a dress it is easier to reach heaven than in another.”
“Then my Marynia is condemned to hell, for she will never wear that dress, I think. But you will see her in a moment, for she promised to come here after office hours. She is late, the loiterer; she ought to be here now.”
“Her father is detaining her, I suppose. But you will stay to dine with us, will you not?”
“We will stay to dine. Agreed.”
“And some one else has promised us to-day, so the society will only be increased. I will go now to tell them to prepare places for you.”
Pani Bigiel went out; but Pan Stanislav asked Bigiel, —
“Whom hast thou at dinner?”
“Zavilovski, the future letter-writer of our house.”
“Who is he?”
“That poet already famous.”
“From Parnassus to the desk? How is that?”
“I do not remember, now, who said that society keeps its geniuses on diet. People say that this man is immensely capable, but he cannot earn bread with verses. Our Tsiskovski went to the insurance company; his place was left vacant, and Zavilovski applied. I had some scruples, but he told me that for him this place was a question of bread, and the chance of working. Besides, he pleased me, for he told me at once that he writes in three languages, but speaks well in none of them; and second, that he has not the least conception of mercantile correspondence.”
“Oh, that is nonsense,” answered Pan Stanislav; “he will learn in a week. But will he keep the place long, and will not the correspondence be neglected? Business with a poet!”
“If he is not right, we will part. But when he applied, I chose to give the place to him. In three days he is to begin. Meanwhile, I have advanced a month’s salary; he needed it.”
“Was he destitute?”
“It seems so. There is an old Zavilovski, – that one who has a daughter, a very wealthy man. I asked our Zavilovski if that was a relative of his; he said not, but blushed, so I think that the old man is his relative. But how it is with us? A balance in nothing. Some deny relationship because they are poor; others, because they are rich. All through some fancy, and because of that rascally pride. But he’ll please thee; he pleased my wife.”
“Who pleased thy wife?” asked Pani Bigiel, coming in.
“Zavilovski.”
“For I read his beautiful verses entitled, ‘On the Threshold.’ At the same time he looks as if he were hiding something from people.”
“He is hiding poverty, or rather, poverty was hiding him.”
“No; he looks as if he had passed through some severe disappointment.”
“Thou wert able to see in him a romance, and to tell me that he had suffered much. Thou wert offended when I put forth the hypothesis that it might be from worms in childhood, or scald-head. That was not poetical enough for her.”
Pan Stanislav looked at his watch, and was a little impatient.
“Marynia is not coming,” said he; “what a loiterer!”
But the “loiterer” came at that moment, or rather, drove up. The greeting was not effusive, for she had seen the Bigiels at the railway. Pan Stanislav told his wife that they would stay to dine, to which she agreed willingly, and fell to greeting the children, who rushed into the room in a swarm.
Now came Zavilovski, whom Bigiel presented to Pan Stanislav and Marynia. He was a man still young, – about seven or eight and twenty. Pan Stanislav, looking at him, considered that in every case his mien was not that of a man who had suffered much; he was merely ill at ease in a society with which he was more than half unacquainted. He had a nervous face, and a chin projecting prominently, like Wagner’s, gladsome gray eyes, and a very delicate forehead, whiter than the rest of his face; on his forehead large veins formed the letter Y. He was, besides, rather tall and somewhat awkward.
“I have heard,” said Pan Stanislav to him, “that in three days you will be our associate.”
“Yes, Pan Principal,” answered the young man; “or rather, I shall serve in the office.”
“But give peace to the ‘principal,’” said Pan Stanislav, laughing. “With us it is not the custom to use the words ‘grace,’ or ‘principal’ unless perchance such a title would please my wife by giving her importance in her own eyes. But listen, Pani Principaless,” said he, turning to Marynia, “would it please thee to be called principaless? It would be a new amusement.”
Zavilovski was confused; but he laughed too, when Marynia answered, —
“No; for it seems to me that a principaless ought to wear an enormous cap like this” (here she showed with her hands how big), “and I cannot endure caps.”
It grew pleasanter for Zavilovski in the joyous kindness of those people; but he was confused again when Marynia said, —
“You are an old acquaintance of mine. I have read nothing of late, for we have just returned home; has anything appeared while we were gone?”
“No, Pani,” answered he; “I occupy myself with that as Pan Bigiel does with music, – in free moments, and for my own amusement.”
“I do not believe this,” said Marynia.
And she was right not to believe, for it was not true at all. Zavilovksi’s reply was lacking also in candor, for he wished to let it be known that he desired beyond all to pass as the correspondent of a commercial house, and to be considered an employee, not a poet. He gave a title to Bigiel and Pan Stanislav, not through any feeling of inferiority, but to show that when he had undertaken office work he considered it as good as any other, that he accommodated himself to his position, and would do so in the future. There was in this also something else. Zavilovski, though young, had observed how ridiculous people are, who, when they have written one or two little poems, pose as seers, and insist on being considered such. His great self-esteem trembled before the fear of the ridiculous; hence he fell into the opposite extreme, and was almost ashamed of his poetry. Recently, when suffering great want, this feeling became almost a deformity, and the least reference by any one to the fact that he was a poet brought him to suppressed anger.
But meanwhile he felt that he was illogical, since for him the simplest thing would have been not to write and publish poems; but he could not refrain. His head was not surrounded with an aureole yet, but a few gleams had touched it; these illuminated his forehead at one moment, and then died, in proportion as he created, or neglected. After each new poem the gleam began again to quiver; and Zavilovski, as capable as he was ambitious, valued in his heart those reflections of glory more than aught else on earth. But he wanted people to talk of him only among themselves, and not to his eyes. When he felt that they were beginning to forget him, he suffered secretly. There was in him, as it were, a dualism of self-love, which wanted glory, and at the same time rejected it through a certain shyness and pride, lest some one might say that too much had been given. And many contradictions besides inhered in him, as a man young and impressionable, who takes in and feels exceptionally, and who, amidst his feelings, is not able frequently to distinguish his own personal I. For this reason it is that artists in general seem often unnatural.
Now came dinner, during which conversation turned on Italy, and people whom the Polanyetskis had met there. Pan Stanislav spoke of Bukatski and his last moments, and also of the dead man’s will, by which he became the heir to a fairly large sum of money. By far the greater part was to be used for public objects, and touching this he had to confer with Bigiel. They loved Bukatski, and remembered him with sympathy. Pani Bigiel had even tears in her eyes when Marynia stated that before death he had confessed; and that he died like a Christian. But this sympathy was of the kind that one might eat dinner with; and if Bukatski had, in truth, sighed sometimes for Nirvana, he had what he wanted at present, since he had become for people, even those near him, and who loved him, a memory as slight as it was unenduring. A week longer, a month, or a year, and his name would be a sound without an echo. He had not earned, in fact, the deep love of any one, and had not received it; his life flowed away from him in such fashion that after even a child like Litka, there remained not only a hundred times more sorrow, but also love and memorable traces. His life roused at first the curiosity of Zavilovski, who had not known him; but when he had heard all that Pan Stanislav narrated, he said, after thinking a while, “An additional copy.” Bukatski, who joked at everything, would have been pained by such an epitaph.
Marynia, wishing to give a more cheerful turn to conversation, began to tell of the excursions they had made in Rome and the environs, either alone, with Svirski, or the Osnovskis. Bigiel, who was a classmate of Osnovski, and who from time to time saw him yet, said, —
“He has one love, – his wife; and one hatred, – his corpulence, or rather, his inclination to it. As to other things, he is the best man on earth.”
“But he seems quite slender,” said Marynia.
“Two years ago he was almost fat; but since he began to use a bicycle, fence, follow the Banting system, drink Karlsbad in summer, and go in winter to Italy or Egypt to perspire, he has made himself slender again. But I have not said truly that he has a hatred for corpulence; it is his wife who has, and he does this through regard for her. He dances whole nights, too, at balls, for the same reason.”
“He is a sclavus saltans. “Svirski has told us of this already.”
“I understand that it is possible to love a wife,” said Bigiel; “it is possible to consider her, according to the saying, as the apple of the eye. Very well! But, as I love God, I have heard that he writes verses to his wife; that he opens books with his eyes closed, marks a verse with his finger, and divines to himself from what he reads whether he is loved. If it comes out badly, he falls into melancholy. He is in love like a student, – counts all her glances, strives to divine what this or that word is to mean, kisses not only her feet and hands, but when he thinks that no one is looking, he kisses her gloves. God knows what it is like! and that for whole years.”
“How much in love!” said Marynia.
“Would it be to thy liking were I such?” asked Pan Stanislav.
She thought a while, and answered, “No; for in that case thou wouldst be another man.”
“Oh, that is a Machiavelli,” said Bigiel. “It would be worth while to write down such an answer, for that is at once a praise, and somewhat of a criticism, – a testimony that as it is, is best, and that it would be possible to wish for something still better. Manage this for thyself, man.”
“I take it for praise,” said Pan Stanislav, “though you” (here he turned to Pani Bigiel), “will say surely that it is resignation.”
“The outside is love,” answered Pani Bigiel, laughing; “resignation may come in time, as lining, if cold comes.”
Zavilovski looked on Marynia with curiosity; she seemed to him comely, sympathetic, and her answer arrested his attention. He thought, however, that only a woman could speak so who was greatly in love, and one for whom there was never enough of feeling. He began to look at Pan Stanislav with a certain jealousy; and because he was a great hermit, the words of the song came at once to his head, “My neighbor has a darling wife.”
Meanwhile, since he had been silent a whole hour, or had spoken a couple of words merely, it seemed to him that he ought to engage in the conversation somehow. But timidity restrained him, and, besides, a toothache, which, when the sharpest pain had passed, was felt yet at moments acutely enough. This pain had taken all his courage; but he rallied finally, and asked, —
“But Pani Osnovski?”
“Pani Osnovski,” said Pan Stanislav, “has a husband who loves for two; therefore she has no need to fatigue herself, so Svirski, at least, insists. She has Chinese eyes; she is Aneta by name; has filling in her upper teeth, which is visible when she laughs much, therefore she prefers to smile; in general, she is like a turtle-dove, – she turns in a circle, and cries, ‘Sugar! sugar!’”
“That is a malicious man,” said Marynia. “She is beautiful, lively, witty; and Pan Svirski cannot know how much she loves her husband, for surely he hasn’t mentioned the matter to her. All these are simply suppositions.”
Pan Stanislav thought two things: first, that they were not suppositions; and second, that he had a wife who was as naïve as she was honest.
But Zavilovski said, —
“I am curious to know what would happen were she as much in love with him as he is with her.”
“It would be the greatest double egotism that the world has ever witnessed,” said Pan Stanislav. “They would be so occupied with each other that they would see no other thing or person on earth.”
Zavilovski smiled, and said, “Light does not prevent heat; it produces it.”
“Taking matters strictly, that is rather a poetical than a physical comparison,” said Pan Stanislav.
But Zavilovski’s answer pleased the two ladies, so both supported him ardently; and when Bigiel joined them, Pan Stanislav was outvoted.
After that they talked of Mashko and his wife. Bigiel said that Mashko had taken up an immense case against Panna Ploshovski’s million-ruble will, in which a number of rather distant heirs appeared. Pan Plavitski had written of this to Marynia while she was in Italy; but, considering the whole affair such an illusion as were aforetime the millions resting on the marl of Kremen, she barely mentioned it to her husband, who waved his hand on the whole question at once. Now, as Mashko had taken up the affair, it seemed more important. Bigiel supposed that there must be some informality in the will, and declared that if Mashko won, he might stand on his feet right away, for he had stipulated an immense fee for himself. The whole affair roused Pan Stanislav’s curiosity greatly.
“But Mashko has the elasticity of a cat,” said he; “he always falls on his feet.”
“And this time thou shouldst pray that he may not break his back,” answered Bigiel; “for it is a question of no small amount, both for thee and thy father-in-law. Ploshov alone with all its farms is valued at seven hundred thousand rubles; and, besides, there is much ready money.”
“That would be wonderful, such unexpected gain!” said Pan Stanislav.
But Marynia heard with pain that her father had indeed appeared among the other heirs in the suit against the will. “Stas” was for her a rich man, and she had blind faith that he could make millions if he wished; her father had an income, and, besides, she had given him the life annuity from Magyerovka; hence poverty threatened no one. It would have been pleasant indeed for her to be able to buy Kremen, and take “Stas” there in summer, but not for money got in this way.
“I am only pained by this,” said she, with great animation. “That money was bequeathed so honestly. It is not right to change the will of the dead; it is not right to take bread from the poor, or schools. Panna Ploshovski’s brother’s son shot himself; it may have been for her a question of saving his soul, of gaining God’s mercy. This breaking of the will is not right. People should think and feel differently.”
She grew even flushed somewhat.
“How determined she is!” said Pan Stanislav.
But she pushed forward her somewhat too wide mouth, and called out with the expression of a pouting child, —
“But say that I am right, Stas; say that I am right. ’T is thy duty to say so.”
“Without doubt,” answered Pan Stanislav; “but Mashko may win the case.”
“I wish him to lose it.”
“How determined she is!” repeated Pan Stanislav.
“And how honest, what a noble nature!” thought Zavilovski, framing in his plastic mind conceptions of goodness and nobility in the form of a woman with dark hair, blue eyes, a lithe form, and mouth a trifle too wide.
After dinner Bigiel and Pan Stanislav went for a cigar and black coffee to the office, where they had to hold meanwhile the first consultation concerning the objects for which Bukatski’s property had been bequeathed. Zavilovski, as a non-smoker, remained with the ladies in the drawing-roam. Then Marynia, who, as lady principaless, felt it her duty to give courage to the future employee of the “house,” approached him, and said, —
“I, as well as Pani Bigiel, wish that we should all consider one another as members of one great family; therefore I hope that you will count us too as your good acquaintances.”
“With the greatest readiness, if you permit me,” answered Zavilovski. “As it is, I would have testified my respect.”
“I made the acquaintance of all the gentlemen in the office only at my wedding. We went abroad immediately after; but now it will come to a nearer acquaintance. My husband told me that he should like to have us meet one week at Pan Bigiel’s, and the next week at our house. This is a very good plan, but I make one condition.”
“What is that?” asked Pani Bigiel.
“Not to speak of any mercantile matter at those meetings. There will be a little music, for I hope that Pan Bigiel will attend to that; sometimes we’ll read something, like ‘On the Threshold.’”
“Not in my presence,” said Zavilovski, with a forced smile.
“Why not?” inquired she, looking at him with her usual simplicity. “We have spoken of you more than once in presence of people really friendly, and thought of you before it came to an acquaintance; and why should we not all the more now?”
Zavilovski felt wonderfully disarmed. It seemed to him that he had fallen among exceptional persons, or at least that Pani Polanyetski was an exceptional woman. The fear, which burned him like fire, that he might appear ridiculous with his poetry, his over-long neck, and his pointed elbows, began to decrease. He felt in a manner free in her presence. He felt that she said nothing for the mere purpose of talking, or for social reasons, but only that which flowed from her kindness and sensitiveness. At the same time her face and form delighted him, as they had delighted Svirski in Venice. And since he was accustomed to seek forms for all his impressions, he began to seek them for her too; and he felt that they ought to be not only sincere, but exquisite, charming, and complete, just as her own beauty was exquisite and complete. He recognized that he had a theme, and the artist within him was roused.
She began now to ask with great friendliness about his family relations; fortunately the appearance of Bigiel and Pan Stanislav in the drawing-room freed him from more positive answers, which would have been disagreeable. His father had been a noted gambler and roisterer on a time, and for a number of years had been suffering in an institution for the insane.
Music was to interrupt that dangerous conversation. Pan Stanislav had finished the discussion with Bigiel, who said, —
“That seems to me a perfect project, but it is necessary to think the matter over yet.”
Then, leaning on his violin, he began to meditate really, and said at last, —
“A wonderful thing! When I play, it is as if there were nothing else in my head, but that is not true. A certain part of my brain is occupied with other things; and it is exactly then that the best thoughts come to me.”
Saying this, he sat down, took the violoncello between his knees, closed his eyes, and began the “Spring Song.”
Zavilovski went home that day enchanted with the people and their simplicity, with the “Spring Song,” and especially with Pani Polanyetski.
She did not even suspect that in time she might enrich poetry with a new thrill.