“Knowest thou of what I am thinking? That Lineta would be a great prize for Zavilovski.”
“Tell me,” answered Pan Stanislav, “what shot this Zavilovski and that girl into thy head.”
“I, my Stas, am not a matchmaker, I say only that it would not be bad. Aneta Osnovski is rather a hot head, it is true; but she is so lively, such a fire spark.”
“Abrupt, not lively; but believe me that she is not so simple as she seems, and that she has her own little personal plan in everything. Sometimes I think that Panna Lineta concerns her as much as she does me, and that at the root of all this something else is hidden.”
“What could it be?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t know, perhaps, because I don’t care much. In general, I have no faith in those women.”
Their conversation was interrupted by Mashko, who was just driving in by the road before their house; and, seeing them, he hastened to greet Marynia, and said then to Pan Stanislav, —
“It is well that we have met, for to-morrow I am going away for a couple of days, and to-day is my time for payment, so I bring thee the money.”
“I have just been at your father’s,” said he, turning to Marynia. “Pan Plavitski seems in perfect health; but he told me that he yearns for the country and land management, therefore he is thinking whether to buy some little place near the city, or not. I told him that if we win the will case he can stay at Ploshov.”
Marynia did not like this conversation, in which there was evident, moreover, a slight irony; hence she did not wish to continue it. After a while Pan Stanislav took Mashko to his study, —
“Then is all going well?” asked he.
“Here is the instalment due on my debt,” answered Mashko; “be so kind as to give a receipt.”
Pan Stanislav sat down at his desk, and wrote a receipt.
“But now there is another affair,” continued Mashko: “I sold some oak in Kremen once, on condition that I might redeem it, returning the price and a stipulated interest. Here is the price and the interest. I trust that thou hast nothing to add; I can only thank thee for a real service rendered, and shouldst thou ever need something of me, I beg thee, – without any ceremony, I beg thee to come to me, service for service. As is known to thee, I like to be grateful.”
“This monkey is beginning to patronize me,” thought Pan Stanislav. And if he had not been in his own house, he might have uttered the silent remark aloud; but he restrained himself and said, —
“I have nothing to add; such was the contract. Besides, I have never considered that as business.”
“All the more do I esteem it,” answered Mashko, kindly.
“Well, what is to be heard in general?” inquired Pan Stanislav. “Thou art moving with all sails, I see. How is it with the will?”
“On behalf of the benevolent institutions a young little advocate is appearing named Sledz (herring). A nice name, isn’t it? If I should call a cat by that name, she would miau for three days. But I’ll pepper that herring and eat him. As to the lawsuit? It stands this way, that at the end of it I shall be able to withdraw from law in all likelihood, which, moreover, is not an occupation befitting me – and I will settle in Kremen permanently.”
“With ready money in thy pocket?”
“With ready money in my pocket, and in plenty. I have enough of law. Of course, whoso came from the country is drawn to it. That is inherited with the blood. But enough of this matter, for the present. To-morrow, as I told thee, I am going away; and I recommend my wife to thee, all the more that Pani Kraslavski has gone just now to an oculist in Vienna. I am going besides to the Osnovskis’ to ask them too to remember her.”
“Of course we shall think of her,” said Pan Stanislav. Then the conversation with Marynia occurred to him, and he asked, —
“Thy acquaintance with the Osnovskis is of long standing?”
“Rather long, though my wife knows them better. He is a very rich man; he had one sister who died, and a miserly uncle, after whom he received a great fortune. As to her, what shall I say to thee? she read when still unmarried all that came to her hand; she had pretensions to wit, to art, – in a word, to everything to which one may pretend, – and in her way fell in love with Kopovski: here she is for thee in toto.”
“And Pani Bronich and Panna Castelli?”
“Panna Castelli pleases women rather than men; moreover, I know nothing of her, except that it is said that this same Kopovski tried for her, or is trying now, but Pani Bronich – ”
Here Mashko began to laugh. “Pani Bronich the Khedive conducted in person over the pyramid of Cheops; the late Alphonso of Spain said every day to her in Cannes, ‘Bon jour, Madame la Comtesse.’ In the year 56, Musset wrote verses in her album, and Moltke sat with her on a trunk in Karlsbad, – in one word, she has been at every coronation. Now, since Panna Castelli has grown up, or rather luxuriated up to five feet and some inches, Aunt ‘Sweetness’ makes those imaginary journeys, not on her own account, but her niece’s, in which for some time past Pani Osnovski helps her so zealously that it is difficult to understand what her object is. This is all, unless it is thy wish to know something of the late Pan Bronich, who died six years ago, it is unknown of what disease, for Pani Bronich finds a new one every day for him, adding, besides, that he was the last of the descendants of Rurik, not stating, however, that the second last descendant – that is, his father – was manager for the Rdultovskis, and made his property out of them. Well, I have finished, – ‘Vanity fair!’ Be well, keep well, and in case of need count on me. If I were sure that such a need would come quickly, I would make thee promise to turn to no one but me. Till we meet!”
When he had said this, Mashko pressed his friend’s hand with indescribable kindness; and when he had gone, Pan Stanislav, shrugging his shoulders, said, —
“Such a clever man apparently, and doesn’t see the very same vanity in himself that he is laughing at in others! How different he was such a little while ago! He had almost ceased to pretend; but when trouble passed, the devil gained the upper hand.”
Here he remembered what Vaskovski had said once about vanity and playing a comedy; then he thought, —
“And still such people have success in this country.”
CHAPTER XLIII
Pani Osnovski forgot her “Florentine-Roman” evenings so thoroughly that she was astonished when her husband reminded her once of them. Such evenings are not even in her head now; she has other occupations, which she calls “taming the eagle.” If any one does not see that the eagle and Lineta are created for each other, then, with permission of my husband and lord, he has very short sight; but there is no help for that. In general, men fail to understand many things, for they lack perception. Zavilovski may be an exception in this regard; but if Marynia Polanyetski would tell him, through friendship, to dress with more care and let his beard grow, it would be perfect! “Castelka”9 is so thoroughly æsthetic that the least thing offends her, though on the other hand he carries her away, – nay, more, he hypnotizes her simply. And with her nature that is not wonderful.
Pan Osnovski listened to this chattering, and, dissolving from ecstasy, watched the opportunity to seize his wife’s hands, and cover them, and her arms to the elbow, with kisses; once, however, he put the perfectly natural question, which Pan Stanislav too had put to Marynia, —
“Tell me what concern thou hast in this?”
But Pani Aneta said coquettishly, —
“La reine s’amuse! It is not a trick to write books. If there be only a little talent, that’s enough; but to bring into life that which is described in books is a far greater trick, and, besides, what amusement!”
And after a while she added, —
“I may have some personal object; and if I have, let Yozio guess it.”
“I’ll tell it in thy ear,” answered Osnovski.
She put out her ear with a cunning mien, blinking her violet eyes with curiosity. But Osnovski only brought his lips to her ear to kiss it; for the whole secret he repeated simply, —
“La reine s’amuse!”
And there was truth in this. Pani Aneta might have her own personal object in bringing Zavilovski near “Castelka;” but in its own way that development of a romance in life and the rôle of a little Providence occupied and amused her immensely.
With these providential intentions she ran in often to Marynia, to learn something of the “eagle,” and returned in good spirits usually. Zavilovski, wishing to lull Marynia’s suspicions, spoke more and more of Lineta; his diplomacy turned out so effectual that once, when Pani Aneta inquired of Marynia directly if Zavilovski were not in love with her, she answered, laughing, —
“We must confess that he is in love, my Anetka, but not with me, nor with thee. The apple is adjudged to Lineta, and nothing is left to us but to cry or be comforted.”
On the other hand, feelings and thoughts were talked into and attributed continually to Lineta which self-love itself would not let her deny. From morning till evening she heard that this “eagle” of wide wings was in love with her; that he was at her feet; and that such a chosen one, such an exceptional being, as she was, could not be indifferent to this. It flattered her also too much to make it possible for her to be indifferent. While painting Kopovski, she admired always, it is true, the “splendid plain surfaces” on his face, and liked him because he offered her a field for various successes, which were repeated later as proofs of her wit and cleverness; she liked him for various reasons. Zavilovski, too, was not an ill-looking man, though he did not wear a beard, and did not dress with due care. Besides, so much was said of his wings, and of this, – that a soul such as hers should understand him. All said this, not Pani Aneta only. Pani Bronich, who, on a time, did not understand how any one could avoid falling in love with herself, transferred later on to her niece this happy self-confidence, and accepted the views of Pani Aneta, ornamenting at the same time the canvas of reality with flowers from her own mind. At last Pan Osnovski, too, joined the chorus. Out of love for his wife, he loved “Castelka” and Pani Bronich, and was ready to love whatever had remote or near relation to “Anetka,” hence he took the matter seriously. Zavilovski was for him sympathetic; the information which he collected touching him was favorable. In general, he learned only that he was misanthropic, ambitious, and pursued stubbornly whatever he aimed at; besides, he was secretive, and greatly gifted. Since all this pleased the ladies, Osnovski began to think with perfect seriousness “if that were not well.” Zavilovski justified so far the serious view of affairs, – he had begun for some time to visit more frequently the “common drawing-room,” and to speak oftener with Lineta. The first, it is true, he did always at the cordial invitation of Pani Aneta, but the other flowed from his will. Pani Aneta noticed, also, that his glance rested more and more on the golden hair and the dreamy lids of “Castelka,” and his eyes followed her when she passed through the drawing-room. Indeed, he began to survey her more carefully, a little through diplomacy, a little through curiosity.
The affair became much more important when the first volume of his poetry was issued. The poems had won attention already and were much spoken of; but the effect was weakened through this, – that they had appeared at considerable intervals, and unconnected. Now the book struck people’s eyes; it was brilliant, strong, sincere. The language had freshness and metallic weight, but still bent obediently, and assumed the most subtile forms. The impression increased. Soon the murmur of praise changed to a roar filled with admiration. With the exaggeration usual in such cases, the work was exalted above its value, and in the young poet people began to foresee the coming heir of great glory and authority; his name passed from newspaper offices to publicity. People spoke of him everywhere, were occupied with him, sought him; curiosity became the greater that he was little known personally. The old rich Zavilovski, Panna Helena’s father, who said that the two greatest plagues existing were perhaps the gout and poor relatives, repeated now to every one who asked him, “Mais oui, mais oui, – c’est mon cousin;” and such testimony had also its social weight for many persons, and, among others, weight of first order for Pani Bronich. Pani Aneta and Lineta ceased even to suffer because of the pin of “poor taste” in Zavilovski’s necktie, for now everything about him might pass as original. She was pained yet that his name was Ignatsi. They would have preferred another more in keeping with his fame and his poetry; but when Osnovski, who from Metz had brought home a little Latin, explained to them that it meant “fiery,” they answered that if that were true, it was another thing; and they were reconciled with Ignatsi.
Sincere and great joy reigned at Bigiel’s, at Pan Stanislav’s, and in the counting-house, because the book had won such fame; they were not envious in the counting-house. The old cashier, the agent, and the second book-keeper were proud of their colleague, as if his glory had brightened the counting-house also. The cashier even said, “But we have shown the world what our style is!” Bigiel was thinking for two days whether in view of all this Zavilovski should remain in a modest position in the house of Polanyetski and Bigiel; but Zavilovski, when questioned by him, answered, —
“This is very good of you, kind sir. Because people are talking a little about me, you want to take my morsel of bread from me, and my pleasant associates. I found no publishers; and had it not been for your book-keeper, I could not have published the volume.”
To such an argument there was no answer, and Zavilovski remained in the counting-house. But he was a more frequent guest both at Bigiel’s and at Pan Stanislav’s. At the Osnovskis’ he had not shown himself for a whole week after the volume was published, just as if something had happened. But Pani Bigiel and Marynia persuaded him to go; he had a secret desire, too, – hence one evening he went.
But he found the company just going to the theatre. They wished to remain at home absolutely, but he would not consent; and to the evident delight of Pani Osnovski and Lineta, it ended in this, – that he went with them. “Let Yozio buy a ticket for a chair if he wishes.” And Yozio took a ticket for a chair. During the play Zavilovski sat in the front of the box with Lineta, for Pani Aneta had insisted that Pani Bronich and she would play “mother” for them. “You two can say what you please; and if any one comes, I will so stun him that he’ll not have power to trouble you.” The eyes of people were turned frequently to that box when it was known who were sitting there, and Lineta felt that a kind of halo surrounded her; she felt that people not only were looking at him, but at the same time inquiring, “Whose is that head with golden hair and dreamy lids, to whom he is inclining and speaking?” She, on her part, looking at him sometimes, said to herself, “Were it not for the too prominent chin, he would be perfectly good-looking; his profile is very delicate, and a beard might cover his chin.” Pani Aneta carried out her promise nobly; and when Kopovski appeared, she occupied him so much that he could barely greet Lineta, and say to Zavilovski, —
“Ah, you write verses!”
After this happy discovery he succeeded in adding, but rather as a monologue, “I should like verses immensely; but, a wonderful thing, the moment I read them I think of something else right away.”
Lineta, turning her face, cast a long glance at him; and it is unknown which was stronger in this glance, the maliciousness of the woman, or the sudden admiration of the artist, for that head without brains, which, issuing from the depth of the box, seemed, on the red background of the wall, like some masterly thought of an artist.
After the theatre, Pani Aneta would not let Zavilovski go home; and all went to drink tea. Hardly had they reached the house, when Pani Bronich began to make reproaches.
“You are an evil man; and if anything happens to Lineta, it will be on your conscience. The child doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep; she only reads you, and reads.”
Pani Aneta added immediately, —
“True! I, too, have cause of complaint: she seized your book, and will not give it to any one for an instant; and when we are angry, do you know what she answers? ‘This is mine! this is mine!’”
And Lineta, though she had not the book in her hands at that moment, pressed them to her bosom, as if to defend something, and said in a low, soft voice, —
“For it is mine, mine!”
Zavilovski looked at her and felt that something had, as it were, thrilled in him. But on returning home late he passed by Pan Stanislav’s windows, in which light was still shining. After the theatre and conversation at the Osnovskis’ he felt a certain turning of the head. Now the sight of those windows brought him to himself; he felt suddenly such a pleasant impression as one experiences on thinking of something very good and very dear. His immense, pure homage for Marynia arose in him with its former power: he was possessed by that kind of mild exaltation in which the desires fall asleep, and a man becomes almost entirely a spirit; and he returned home, muttering passages from the poem “Lilia,” the most full of exaltation of any which he had written in his life yet.
There was light at Pan Stanislav’s because something had happened, which seemed to Marynia that mercy of God expected and hoped for.
In the evening, after tea, she was sitting breaking her head, as usual, over daily accounts, when she put the pencil down on a sudden. After a while she grew pale, but her face became clear; and she said, with a voice slightly changed, —
“Stas!”
Her voice surprised him somewhat; therefore he approached her, and asked, —
“What is the matter? Thou art a little pale.”
“Come nearer; I’ll tell thee something.”
And, taking his head with her hands, she whispered into his ear, and he listened; then, kissing her on the forehead, he said, —
“Only be not excited, lest thou hurt thyself.”
But in his words emotion was evident. He walked through the room, looked at her a while, kissed her again on the forehead; at last he said, —
“Usually people wish a son first, but remember that it be a daughter. We’ll call her Litka.”
Neither of them could sleep that night for a long time, and that was why Zavilovski saw light in the windows.
CHAPTER XLIV
In a week, when probability had become certainty, Pan Stanislav gave the news to the Bigiels. Pani Bigiel flew the same day to Marynia, who fell to weeping with gladness on her honest shoulders.
“It seems to me,” said she, “that Stas will love me more now.”
“How more?”
“I wished to say still more,” answered Marynia. “Seest thou, for that matter, I have never enough.”
“He would have to settle with me if there were not enough.”
The tears dried on Marynia’s sweet face, and only a smile remained. After a time she clasped her hands, as if in prayer, and said, —
“Oh, my God, if it is only a daughter! for Stas wants a daughter.”
“And what wouldst thou like?”
“I – but don’t tell Stas – I should like a son; but let it be a daughter.”
Then she grew thoughtful, and asked, —
“But there is no help, is there?”
“There is not,” answered Pani Bigiel, laughing; “for that they have not found yet any remedy.”
Bigiel, on his part, gave the news to every one whom he met; and in the counting-house he said, in Pan Stanislav’s presence, with a certain unction in his voice, —
“Well, gentlemen, it seems that the house will be increased by one member.”
The employees turned inquiring glances on him; he added, —
“Thanks to Pan and Pani Polanyetski.”
Then all hurried to Pan Stanislav with good wishes, excepting Zavilovski, who, bending over his desk, began to look diligently at columns of figures; and only after a while, when he felt that his conduct might arrest attention, did he turn with a changed face to Pan Stanislav, and, pressing his hand, repeat, “I congratulate, I congratulate!”
It seemed to him then that he was ridiculous, that something had fallen on his head; that he felt empty, boundlessly stupid; and that the whole world was fabulously trivial. The worst, however, was the feeling of his own ridiculousness; for the affair was so natural and easily foreseen that even such a man as Kopovski might foresee it. At the same time, he, an intelligent man, writing poetry, pervaded with enthusiasm, grasping everything which happened around, slipped into such an illusion that it seemed to him then as if a thunderbolt had struck him. What overpowering ridiculousness! But he had made the acquaintance of Marynia as Pani Polanyetski, and imagined to himself unconsciously that she had always been, and would be, Pani Polanyetski in the future as she was in the present, and simply it had not occurred to him that any change might supervene. And behold, observing lily tones once on her face, he called her Lily, and wrote lily verses to her. And now that lost sense, which to vexation adds something of ridicule, whispered in his ear, “Ah, a pretty lily!” And Zavilovski felt more and more crushed, more and more ridiculous; he wrote verses, but Pan Stanislav did not write any. In that apposition there was a gnawing bitterness, and something idiotic; he took deep draughts from that cup, so as not to lose one drop in the drinking. If his feelings had been betrayed; if he had made them known to Marynia; if she had repulsed him with utter contempt, and Pan Stanislav had thrown him downstairs, – there would have been something in that like a drama. But such an ending, – “such flatness!” He had a nature feeling everything ten times more keenly than common men; hence the position seemed to him simply unendurable, and those office hours, which he had to sit out yet, a torture. His feeling for Marynia had not sunk in his heart deeply; but it occupied his imagination altogether. Reality now struck its palm on his head without mercy; the blow seemed to him not only painful and heavy, but also given sneeringly. The desperate thought came to his head to seize his cap, go out, and never come back again. Fortunately, the usual hour for ending work came at last, and all began to separate.
Zavilovski, while passing through the corridor, where, at a hat-rack, a mirror was fixed, saw his projecting chin and tall form in it, and said to himself, “Thus looks an idiot.” He did not go to dine that day with the second book-keeper, as usual; he would have been even glad to flee from his own person. Meanwhile he shut himself in at home, and with the exaggeration of a genuine artist, heightened to impossible limits his misfortune and ridiculous position. After some days he grew calm, however; he felt only a strange void in his heart, – precisely as if it were a dwelling vacated by some one. He did not show himself at Pan Stanislav’s for a fortnight; but at the end of that time he saw Marynia at the Bigiels’, and was astonished.
She seemed to him almost ugly. That was by no means his prejudice, for, though it was difficult to notice a change in her form, still she had changed greatly. Her lips were swollen; there were pimples on her forehead; and she had lost freshness of color. She was calm, however, but somewhat melancholy, as if some disappointment had met her. Zavilovski, who, in truth, had a good heart, was moved greatly by her ugliness. Before, it seemed to him that he would disregard her; now that seemed to him stupid.
But her face only had changed, not her kindness or good-will. Nay, feeling safe now from superfluous enthusiasms on his part, she showed him more cordiality than ever. She asked with great interest about Lineta; and when she found that a subject on which he, too, spoke willingly, she began to laugh with her former laughter, full of indescribable sweetness, and said almost joyously, —
“Well, well! People wonder there why you have not visited them for so long a time; and do you know what Aneta and Pani Bronich told me? They told me – ”
But here she stopped, and after a while said, —
“No; I cannot tell this aloud. Let us walk in the garden a little.”
And she rose, but not with sufficient care, so that, stumbling at the first step, she almost fell.
“Be careful!” cried Pan Stanislav, impatiently.
She looked at him with submission, almost with fear.
“Stas,” said she, blushing, “as I love thee, that was inadvertent.”
“But do not frighten her so,“ said Pani Bigiel, quickly.
It was so evident that Pan Stanislav cared more at that moment for the coming child than Marynia, that even Zavilovski understood it.
As to Marynia, this was known to her long before that day; she had passed through a whole mental battle with herself just because of it. Of that battle she had not spoken to any one; and it was the more difficult, the more the state of her health advised against excitement, unquiet, and an inclination to gloomy brooding. She had passed through grievous hours before she said to herself, “It must be as it is.”
Pan Stanislav would have been simply astonished had any one told him that he did not love, and especially that he did not value, his wife as duty demanded. He loved her in his own way, and judged at once that, if ever, it was then that the child should be for both a question beyond every other. Vivacious and impulsive by nature, he pushed this care at moments too far, but he did not account this to himself as a fault; he did not even stop to think of what might take place in the soul of Marynia. It seemed to him that among other duties of hers one of the first was the duty of giving him children; that it was a simple thing, therefore, that she should accomplish this. Hence he was thankful to her, and imagined that, being careful of a child, he was by that very act careful of her, and careful in a degree that few husbands are. If he had considered it proper to call himself to account touching his treatment of her, he would have considered it a thing perfectly natural also that her charm, purely feminine, attracted him now less than it had hitherto. With each day she became uglier, and offended his æsthetic sense sometimes; he fancied that, concealing this from her, and trying to show her sympathy, he was as delicate as a man could well be to a woman.
She, on her part, had the impression that the hope on which she had counted most had deceived her; she felt that she had descended to the second place, that she would descend more and more. And in spite of all her affection for her husband, in spite of the treasures of tenderness which were collecting in her for the future child, rebellion and regret seized her soul at the first moment. But this did not last long; she battled with these feelings also, and conquered. She said to herself that here it was no one’s fault; life is such that this issues from the natural condition of things, which, again, is a result of God’s will. Then she began to accuse herself of selfishness, and crush herself with the weight of this thought: Has she a right to think of herself, not of “Stas,” and not of her future child? What can she bring against “Stas”? What is there wonderful in this, that he, who had loved even a strange child so much, has his soul occupied now, above all, with his own; that his heart beats first for it? Is there not an offence against God in this, – that she permits herself to bring forward first of all rights of her own, happiness of her own, she, who has offended so much? Who is she, and what right has she to an exceptional fate? And she was ready to beat her breast. The rebellion passed; there remained only somewhere in the very depths of her heart a little regret that life is so strange, and that every new feeling, instead of strengthening a previous one, pushes it into the depths. But when that sorrow went from her heart to her eyes, under the form of tears, or began to quiver on her lips, she did not let it have such an escape.
“I shall be calm in a moment,” thought she, in her soul. “Such it is, such it will be, and such is right; for such is life, and such is God’s will, with which we must be reconciled.” And at last she was reconciled.
By degrees she found repose even, not giving an account to herself that the basis of this was resignation and sadness. It was sadness, however, which smiled. Being young, it was almost bitter at times to her, when all at once, in the eyes of her husband, or of even some stranger, she read clearly, “Oh, how ugly thou hast grown!” But because Pani Bigiel had said that “afterward” she would be more beautiful than ever, she said in her soul to them, “Wait!” – and that was her solace.
She answered also something similar to Zavilovski. She was at once glad, and not glad, of the impression she had made on him; for if on the one hand her self-love had suffered a little, on the other she felt perfectly safe, and could speak with him freely. She wished to speak, and speak with full seriousness, for a few days before, Pani Aneta had told her directly that “The Column” was in love to the ears, and that Zavilovski had every chance with her.
This forging the iron while hot disquieted her somewhat; she could not understand why it was so, even taking into consideration the innate impetuosity of Pani Aneta. For Zavilovski, who had become somehow the Benjamin of both houses, she, as well as the Bigiels and Pan Stanislav, had great friendship; and, besides, she was grateful to him, for, be things as they might, he had appreciated her. He had known her truly, hence she would help him with gladness in that which seemed to her a great opportunity; but she thought also, “Suppose it should be bad for him.” She feared responsibility a little, and her own previous diplomacy. Now, therefore, she wishes to learn first what he thinks really, and then give him to understand how things are, and finally advise him to examine and weigh with due care in the given case.