The Story of Life in Modern Poland: Without Dogma, Whirlpools & Children of the Soil E-Book
Henryk Sienkiewicz
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- Herausgeber: e-artnow
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
"Without dogma's" narrative concentrates around the experiences of Leon Płoszowski, a man from a wealthy aristocrat family, who struggles to find the meaning of life in a world without morality by trying to self-analyze his feelings towards the encountered women. The story of "Whirlpools" deals exclusively with conditions of modern life in Poland. It is full of brilliant dialogue and keen dissection of human motives. Children of the Soil's plot centers itself in the career of Pan Stanislas Polanyetski, a man of wealth and education, who at the age of thirty "wanted to marry, and was convinced that he ought to marry."
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The Story of Life in Modern Poland: Without Dogma, Whirlpools & Children of the Soil
Table of Contents
Children of the Soil
CHAPTER I.
It was the first hour after midnight when Pan Stanislav Polanyetski was approaching the residence in Kremen. During years of childhood he had been twice in that village, when his mother, a distant relative of the present owner of Kremen, was taking him home for vacation. Pan Stanislav tried to remember the place, but to do so was difficult. At night, by the light of the moon, everything took on an uncertain form. Over the bushes, fields, and meadows, a white mist was lying low, changing the whole region about into a shoreless lake, as it were,—an illusion increased by choruses of frogs in the mist.
It was a July night, very calm and perfectly bright. At moments, when the frogs became silent, landrails were heard playing in the dew; and at times, from afar, from muddy ponds, hidden behind reeds, the call of the bittern sounded as if coming from under the earth.
Pan Stanislav could not resist the charm of that night. It seemed to him familiar in some way; and that familiarity he felt all the more, since he had returned only the previous year from abroad, where he had spent his first youth and had become engaged afterward in mercantile matters. Now, while entering that sleeping village, he recalled his childhood, memorable through his mother, now five years dead, and because the bitterness and cares of that childhood, compared with the present, seemed perfect bliss to him.
At last the brichka rolled up toward the village, which began with a cross standing on a sand mound. The cross, inclining greatly, seemed ready to fall. Pan Stanislav remembered it because in his time under that mound had been buried a man found hanging from a limb in the neighboring forest, and afterward people were afraid to pass by that spot in the night-time.
Beyond the cross were the first cottages, but the people were sleeping; there was no light in any window. As far as the eye could reach, only roofs of cottages were gleaming on the night background of the sky, lighted up by the moon, and the roofs appeared silvery and blue. Some cottages were washed with lime and seemed bright green; others, hidden in plum orchards, in thickets of sunflowers or pole beans, barely came out of the shadow. In the yards, dogs barked, but in their sleep, as it were, accompanying the croaking of frogs, the calling of landrails and bitterns, and all those sounds with which a summer night speaks, and which strengthen the impression of silence still more.
The brichka, moving slowly along the soft sandy road, entered at last a dark alley, spotted only here and there by the moonlight, which pushed in between the leaves. Beyond the alley, night watches whistled; and in the open was seen a white dwelling, in which some windows were lighted. When the brichka rattled up to the entrance, a serving-man hurried out of the house and began to assist Pan Stanislav to alight; but in addition the night watch appeared and two white dogs, evidently very young and friendly, for, instead of barking, they began to fawn and to spring on the guest, showing such delight at his coming that the watch had to moderate their effusiveness with a stick.
The man took Pan Stanislav’s things from the brichka, and after a moment the guest found himself in a dining-room where tea was waiting. Nothing had changed from the time of his childhood. At one wall was a sideboard in walnut; at one end of this a clock with heavy weights and a cuckoo; at the other were two badly painted portraits of women in robes of the eighteenth century; in the centre of the room stood a table with a white cloth, and surrounded by chairs with high arms. That room, lighted brightly, full of steam rising from a samovar, seemed rather hospitable and gladsome.
Pan Stanislav began to walk along the side of the table; but the squeaking of his boots struck him in that silence, therefore he went to the window and looked through the panes at the yard filled with moonlight. Over this yard the two white dogs, which had greeted him so effusively, were chasing each other.
After a time the door of the next room opened, and a young lady entered in whom Pan Stanislav divined the daughter of the master of Kremen by his second wife; at sight of her he stepped from the window curtains, and, approaching the table in his squeaking boots, bowed, and announced his name. The young lady extended her hand, and said,—
“We learned of your arrival from the despatch. Father is a trifle ill, and was obliged to lie down; but he will be glad to see you in the morning.”
“I am not to blame for coming so late,” answered Pan Stanislav; “the train reaches Chernyov only at eleven.”
“And from Chernyov it is ten miles to Kremen. Father tells me that this is not your first visit.”
“I came here with my mother when you were not in the world yet.”
“I know. You are a relative of my father.”
“I am a relative of Pan Plavitski’s first wife.”
“Father esteems family connections very highly, even the most distant,” said the young lady; and she began to pour out tea, pushing aside from time to time the steam, which, rising from the samovar, veiled her eyes. When conversation halted, only the tick of the clock was heard. Pan Stanislav, who was interested by young ladies, looked at Panna Plavitski carefully. She was a person of medium height, rather slender; she had dark hair, a face calm, but subdued, as it were, a complexion sunburnt somewhat, blue eyes, and a most shapely mouth. Altogether it was the face of a self-possessed and delicate woman. Pan Stanislav, to whom she seemed not ill-looking, but also not beautiful, thought that she was rather attractive; that she might be good; and that under that exterior, not too brilliant, she might have many of those various qualities which young ladies in the country have usually. Though he was young, life had taught him one truth,—that in general women gain on near acquaintance, while in general men lose. He had heard also touching Panna Plavitski, that the whole management in Kremen—a place, by the way, almost ruined—lay on her mind, and that she was one of the most overworked persons on earth. With reference to those cares, which must weigh on her, she seemed calm and unmoved; still he thought that surely she must wish to sleep. This was evident, indeed, by her eyes, which blinked in spite of her, under the light of the hanging lamp.
The examination would have come out on the whole in her favor, were it not that conversation dragged somewhat. This was explained by the fact that they saw each other for the first time in life; besides, she received him alone, which might be awkward for a young lady. Finally, she knew that Pan Stanislav had not come to make a visit, but to ask for money. Such was the case in reality. His mother had given, a very long time before, twelve thousand and some rubles for a mortgage on Kremen, which Pan Stanislav wished to have redeemed,—first, because there were enormous arrears of interest, and second, since he was a partner in a mercantile house in Warsaw, he had entered into various transactions and needed capital. He had promised himself beforehand to make no compromise, and to exact his own absolutely. In affairs of that sort, it was a point with him always to appear unyielding. He was not such by nature, perhaps; but he had made inflexibility a principle, and therewith a question of self-love. In consequence of this, he overshot the mark frequently, as people do who argue something into themselves. Hence, while looking at that agreeable, but evidently drowsy young lady, he repeated to himself, in spite of the sympathy which was roused in him,—
“That is all well, but you must pay.”
After a while he said, “I have heard that you busy yourself with everything; do you like land management?”
“I love Kremen greatly,” answered she.
“I too loved Kremen when I was a boy; but I should not like to manage the place,—the conditions are so difficult.”
“Difficult, difficult. We do what we can.”
“That is it,—you do what you can.”
“I assist father, who is often in poor health.”
“I am not skilled in those matters, but, from what I see and hear, I infer that the greater number of agriculturists cannot count on a future.”
“We count on Providence.”
“Of course, but people cannot send creditors to Providence.”
Panna Plavitski’s face was covered with a blush; a moment of awkward silence followed; and Pan Stanislav said to himself,—
“Since thou hast begun, proceed farther;” and he said,—
“You will permit me to explain the object of my coming.”
The young lady looked at him with a glance in which he might read, “Thou hast come just now; the hour is late. I am barely alive from fatigue: even the slightest delicacy might have restrained thee from beginning such a conversation.” She answered aloud,—
“I know why you have come; but it may be better if you will speak about that with my father.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“But I beg pardon of you. People have a right to mention what belongs to them, and I am accustomed to that; but to-day is Saturday, and on Saturday there is so much work. Moreover, in affairs of this sort, you will understand—sometimes, when Jews come, I bargain with them; but this time I should prefer if you would speak with my father. It would be easier for both.”
“Then till to-morrow,” said Pan Stanislav, who lacked the boldness to say that in questions of money he preferred to be treated like a Jew.
“Perhaps you would permit me to pour you more tea?”
“No, I thank you. Good-night.” And, rising, he extended his hand; but the young lady gave hers far less cordially than at the greeting, so that he touched barely the ends of her fingers. In going, she said,—
“The servant will show you the chamber.”
And Pan Stanislav was left alone. He felt a certain discontent, and was dissatisfied with himself, though he did not wish to acknowledge that fact in his heart. He began even to persuade himself that he had done well, since he had come hither, not to talk politely, but to get money. What was Panna Plavitski to him? She neither warmed nor chilled him. If she considered him a churl, so much the better; for it happens generally that the more disagreeable a creditor, the more people hasten to pay him.
But his discontent was increased by that reasoning; for a certain voice whispered to him that this time it was not merely a question of good-breeding, but also in some degree of compassion for a wearied woman. He felt, besides, that by acting so urgently he was satisfying his pose, not his heart, all the more because she pleased him. As in that sleeping village and in that moonlight night he had found something special, so in that young lady he found something which he had looked for in vain in foreign women, and which moved him more than he expected. But people are often ashamed of feelings which are very good. Pan Stanislav was ashamed of emotions, especially; hence he determined to be inexorable, and on the morrow to squeeze old Plavitski without mercy.
Meanwhile the servant conducted him to the bed-chamber. Pan Stanislav dismissed him at once, and was alone. That was the same chamber which they gave him, when, during the life of Plavitski’s first wife, he came to Kremen with his mother; and remembrances beset him again. The windows looked out on a garden, beyond which lay a pond; the moon was looking into the water, and the pond could be seen more easily than in former times, for it was hidden then by a great aged ash-tree, which must have been broken down by a storm, since on that spot there was sticking up merely a stump with a freshly broken piece at the top. The light of the moon seemed to centre on that fragment, which was gleaming very brightly. All this produced an impression of great calm. Pan Stanislav, who lived in the city amid mercantile labors, therefore in continual tension of his physical and mental powers, and at the same time in continual unquiet, felt that condition of the country around him as he would a warm bath after great toil. He was penetrated by relief. He tried to reflect on business transactions, how were they turning, would they give loss or profit, finally on Bigiel, his partner, and how Bigiel would manage various interests in his absence,—but he could not continue.
Then he began to think of Panna Plavitski. Her person, though it had made a good impression, was indifferent to him, even for this reason, that he saw her for the first time; but she interested him as a type. He was thirty years old and something more, therefore of the age in which instinct, with a force almost invincible, urges a man to establish a domestic hearth, take a wife, and have a family. The greatest pessimism is powerless against this instinct; neither art nor any calling in life protects a man against it. In consequence of this, misanthropes marry in spite of their philosophy, artists in spite of their art, as do all those men who declare that they give to their objects not a half, but a whole soul. Exceptions confirm the principle that, in general, men cannot live a conventional lie and swim against the currents of nature. For the great part, only those do not marry for whom the same power that creates marriage stands in the way of it; that is, those whom love has deceived. Hence, celibacy in advanced life, if not always, is most frequently a hidden tragedy.
Stanislav Polanyetski was neither a misanthrope nor an artist; neither was he a man proclaiming theories against marriage. On the contrary, he wanted to marry, and he was convinced that he ought to marry. He felt that for him the time had arrived; hence he looked around for the woman. From that came the immense interest which women roused in him, especially unmarried ones. Though he had spent some years in France and Belgium, he had not sought love among married women, even among those who were over giddy. He was an active and occupied person, who contended that only idle men can romance with married women, and in general that besieging other men’s wives is possible only where men have very much money, little honor, and nothing to do, consequently in a society where there is a whole class long since enriched, sunk in elegant idleness, and of dishonest life. He was himself, in truth, greatly occupied, hence he wished to love in order to marry; therefore only unmarried women roused in him curiosity of soul and body. When he met a young lady, the first question he asked himself was, “Is she not the woman?” or at least, “Is she not the kind of woman?” At present his thoughts were circling around Panna Plavitski in this manner. To begin with, he had heard much of her from her relative living in Warsaw; and he had heard things that were good and even touching. Her calm, mild face was before his eyes now. He recalled her hands, very shapely, with long fingers, though somewhat sunburnt, her dark blue eyes, then the slight shadow over her mouth. Her voice too pleased him. Notwithstanding all this, he repeated his promise that he would make no compromise and must have his own; still he was angry at the fate which had brought him to Kremen as a creditor. Speaking to himself in mercantile language, he repeated in spirit, “The quality is good, but I will not ‘reflect,’ as I did not come for it.”
Still he “reflected,” and that to such a degree that after he had undressed and lain down, he could not sleep for a long time. The cocks began to crow, the window panes were growing pale and green; but under his closed eyelids he saw yet the calm forehead of Panna Plavitski, the shadow over her mouth, and her hands pouring out the tea. Then, when sleep became overpowering, it seemed to him as though he were holding those hands in his own and drawing her toward him, and she was pulling back and turning her head aside, as if to escape a kiss. In the morning he woke late, and remembering Panna Plavitski, thought, “Ah, she will look like that!”
CHAPTER II.
He was roused by the servant, who brought coffee and took his clothes to be brushed. When the servant brought them back, Pan Stanislav asked if it were not the custom of the house to meet in the dining-room for coffee.
“No,” answered the servant; “because the young lady rises early, and the old gentleman sleeps late.”
“And has the young lady risen?”
“The young lady is at church.”
“True, to-day is Sunday. But does not the young lady go to church with the old gentleman?”
“No; the old gentleman goes to high Mass, and then goes to visit the canon, so the young lady prefers early Mass.”
“What do they do here on Sunday?”
“They sit at home; Pan Gantovski comes to dinner.”
Pan Stanislav knew this Gantovski as a small boy. In those times they nicknamed him “Little Bear,” for he was a thick little fellow, awkward and surly. The servant explained that Pan Gantovski’s father had died about five years before, and that the young man was managing his estate in the neighboring Yalbrykov.
“And does he come here every Sunday?”
“Sometimes he comes on a week day in the evening.”
“A rival!” thought Pan Stanislav. After a while he inquired,—
“Has the old gentleman risen?”
“It must be that he has rung the bell, for Yozef has gone to him.”
“Who is Yozef?”
“The valet.”
“And who art thou?”
“I am his assistant.”
“Go and inquire when it will be possible to see the old gentleman.”
The servant went out and returned soon.
“The old gentleman sends to say that when he dresses he will beg you to come.”
“Very well.”
The servant went out; Pan Stanislav remained alone and waited, or rather was bored, a good while. Patience began to fail him at last; and he was about to stroll to the garden, when Yozef came with the announcement that the old gentleman begged him to come.
Yozef conducted him then to a chamber at the other end of the house. Pan Stanislav entered, and at the first moment did not recognize Pan Plavitski. He remembered him as a person in the bloom of life and very good-looking; now an old man stood before him, with a face as wrinkled as a baked apple,—a face to which small blackened mustaches strove in vain to lend the appearance of youth. Hair as black as the mustaches, and parted low at the side of the head, indicated also pretensions as yet unextinguished.
But Plavitski opened his arms: “Stas! how art thou, dear boy? Come hither!” And, pointing to his white shirt, he embraced the head of Pan Stanislav, and pressed it to his bosom, which moved with quick breathing.
The embrace continued a long time, and for Pan Stanislav, much too long. Plavitski said at last,—
“Let me look at thee, Anna, drop for drop! My poor beloved Anna!” and Plavitski sobbed; then he wiped with his heart finger[1] his right eyelid, on which, however, there was not a tear, and repeated,—
“As like Anna as one drop is like another! Thy mother was always for me the best and the most loving relative.”
Pan Stanislav stood before him confused, also somewhat stunned by a reception such as he had not expected, and by the odor of wax, powder, and various perfumes, which came from the face, mustaches, and shirt of the old man.
“How is my dear uncle?” asked he at last, judging that this title, which moreover he had given in years of childhood to Plavitski, would answer best to the solemn manner of his reception.
“How am I?” repeated Plavitski. “Not long for me now, not long! But just for this reason I greet thee in my house with the greater affection,—I greet thee as a father. And if the blessing of a man standing over the grave, and who at the same time is the eldest member of the family, has in thy eyes any value, I give it thee.”
And seizing Pan Stanislav’s head a second time, he kissed it and blessed him. The young man changed still more, and constraint was expressed on his face. His mother was a relative and friend of Plavitski’s first wife: to Plavitski himself no affectionate feelings had ever attracted her, so far as he could remember; hence the solemnity of the reception, to which he was forced to yield, was immensely disagreeable to him. Pan Stanislav had not the least family feeling for Plavitski. “This monkey,” thought he, “is blessing me instead of talking money;” and he was seized by a certain indignation, which might help him to explain matters clearly.
“Now sit down, dear boy,” said Plavitski, “and be as if in thy own house.”
Pan Stanislav took a seat, and began, “Dear uncle, for me it is very pleasant to visit uncle. I should have done so surely, even without business; but uncle knows that I have come also on that affair which my mother—”
Here the old man laid his hand on Pan Stanislav’s knee suddenly. “But hast thou drunk coffee?” asked he.
“I have,” answered Pan Stanislav, driven from his track.
“Marynia goes to church early. I beg pardon, too, that I have not given thee my room; but I am old, I am accustomed to sleep here. This is my nest.” Then, with a circular sweep of the hand, he directed attention to the chamber.
Unconsciously Pan Stanislav let his eyes follow the motion of the hand. On a time this chamber had been to him a ceaseless temptation, for in it had hung the arms of Plavitski. The only change in it was the wall, which in the old time was rose-colored, and represented, on an endless number of squares, young shepherdesses, dressed à la Watteau, and catching fish with hooks. At the window stood a toilet-table with a white cover, and a mirror in a silver frame. On the table was a multitude of little pots, vials, boxes, brushes, combs, nail files, etc. At one side, in the corner, was a table with pipes and pipe-stems with amber mouth-pieces; on the wall, above the sofa, was the head of a wild boar, and under it two double-barrelled guns, a hunting-bag, horns, and, in general, the weapons of hunting; in the depth was a table with papers, open shelves with a certain number of books. Everywhere the place was full of old furniture more or less needed and ornamental, but indicating that the occupant of the chamber was the centre around which everything turned in that house, and that he cared greatly for himself. In one word, it was the chamber of an old single man,—an egotist full of petty anxiety for his personal comfort, and full of pretensions. Pan Stanislav did not need long reflection to divine that Plavitski would not give up his chamber for anything, nor to any man.
But the hospitable host inquired further, “Was it comfortable enough for thee? How didst thou spend the night?”
“Perfectly; I rose late.”
“But thou wilt stay a week or so with me?”
Pan Stanislav, who was very impulsive, sprang up from his chair.
“Doesn’t uncle know that I have business in Warsaw, and a partner, who at present is doing all our work alone? I must go at the earliest; and to-day I should like to finish the business on which I have come.”
To this Plavitski answered with a certain cordial dignity, “No, my boy. To-day is Sunday; and besides, family feeling should go before business. To-day I greet thee, and receive thee as a blood relative; to-morrow, if thou wish, appear as a creditor. That is it. To-day my Stas has come to me, the son of my Anna. Thus will it be till to-morrow; thus should it be, Stas. This is said to thee by thy eldest relative, who loves thee, and for whom thou shouldst do this.”
Pan Stanislav frowned a little, but after a while he answered, “Let it be so till to-morrow.”
“Anna spoke through thee then. Dost smoke a pipe?”
“No, only cigarettes.”
“Believe me, thou doest ill. But I have cigarettes for guests.”
Further conversation was interrupted by the rattle of an equipage at the entrance.
“That is Marynia, who has come from early Mass,” said Plavitski.
Pan Stanislav looked out through the window, and saw a young lady in a straw hat stepping out of the equipage.
“Hast made the acquaintance of Marynia?” asked Plavitski.
“I had the pleasure yesterday.”
“She is a dear child. I need not tell thee that I live only for her—”
At that moment the door opened, and a youthful voice asked, “May I come in?”
“Come in, come in; Stas is here!” answered Plavitski.
Marynia entered the chamber quickly, with her hat hanging by ribbons over her shoulder; and when she had embraced her father, she gave her hand to Pan Stanislav. In her rose-colored muslin, she looked exceedingly graceful and pretty. There was about her something of the character of Sunday, and with it the freshness of that morning, which was bright and calm. Her hair had been ruffled a little by her hat; her cheeks were blooming; and youth was breathing from her person. To Pan Stanislav, she seemed more joyous and more shapely than the previous evening.
“High Mass will be a little later to-day,” said she to her father; “for immediately after Mass the canon went to the mill to prepare Pani Siatkovski; she is very ill. Papa will have half an hour yet.”
“That is well,” said Plavitski; “during that time thou wilt become more nearly acquainted with Stas. I tell thee, drop for drop like Anna! But thou hast never seen her. Remember, too, Marynia, that he will be our creditor to-morrow, if he wishes; but to-day he is only our relative and guest.”
“Very well,” answered the young lady; “we shall have a pleasant Sunday.”
“You went to sleep so late yesterday,” said Pan Stanislav, “and to-day you were at early Mass.”
She answered merrily, “The cook and I go to early Mass that we may have time afterward to think of dinner.”
“I forgot to mention,” said Pan Stanislav, “that I bring you salutations from Pani Emilia Hvastovski.”
“I have not seen Emilia for a year and a half, but we write to each other often. She is about to visit Reichenhall, for the sake of her little daughter.”
“She was ready to start when I saw her.”
“But how is the little girl?”
“She is in her twelfth year; she has grown beyond measure, and is pale. It does not seem that she is very healthy.”
“Do you visit Emilia often?”
“Rather often. She is almost my only acquaintance in Warsaw. Besides, I like Pani Emilia very much.”
“Tell me, my boy,” inquired Plavitski, taking a pair of fresh gloves from the table, and putting them into a breast-pocket, “what is thy particular occupation in Warsaw?”
“I am what is called an ‘affairist;’ I have a commission house in company with a certain Bigiel. I speculate in wheat and sugar, sometimes in timber; in anything that gives profit.”
“I have heard that thou art an engineer?”
“I have my specialty. But on my return I could not find occupation at any factory, and I began at mercantile transactions, all the more readily that I had some idea of them. But my specialty is dyeing.”
“How dost thou say?” inquired Plavitski.
“Dyeing.”
“The times are such now that one must take up anything,” said Plavitski, with dignity. “I am not the man to take that ill of thee. If thou wilt only retain the honorable old traditions of the family, no occupation brings shame to a man.”
Pan Stanislav, to whom the appearance of the young lady had brought back his good nature, and who was amused by the sudden “grandezza” of the old man, showed his sound teeth in a smile, and answered,—
“Praise God for that!”
Panna Plavitski smiled in like manner, and said, “Emilia, who likes you very much, wrote to me once that you conduct your business perfectly.”
“The only difficulty in this country is with Jews; still competition is easy. And with Jews it is possible to get on by abstaining from anti-Semitic manifestoes. As to Pani Emilia, however, she knows as much about business as does her little Litka.”
“Yes; she has never been practical. Had it not been for her husband’s brother, Pan Teofil Hvastovski, she would have lost all she has. But Pan Teofil loves Litka greatly.”
“Who doesn’t love Litka? I, to begin with, am dying about her. She is such a marvellous child, and such a favorite; I tell you that I have a real weakness for her.”
Panna Marynia looked attentively at his honest, vivacious face, and thought, “He must be a little whimsical, but he has a good heart.”
Plavitski remarked, meanwhile, that it was time for Mass, and he began to take farewell of Marynia in such fashion as if he were going on a journey of some months; then he made the sign of the cross on her head, and took his hat. The young lady pressed Pan Stanislav’s hand with more life than at the morning greeting; he, when sitting in the little equipage, repeated in his mind, “Oh, she is very nice, very sympathetic.”
Beyond the alley, by which Pan Stanislav had come the night before, the equipage rolled over a road which was beset here and there with old and decayed birches standing at unequal distances from one another. On one side stretched a potato-field, on the other an enormous plain of wheat, with heavy bent heads, which seemed to sleep in the still air and in the full light of the sun. Before the carriage, magpies and hoopoes flew among the birches. Moving along paths through the yellow sea of wheat, and hidden in it to their shoulders, went village maidens with red kerchiefs on their heads, which resembled blooming poppies.
“Good wheat,” said Pan Stanislav.
“Not bad. What is in man’s power is done, and what God gives He gives. Thou art young, my dear, so I give thee a precept, which in future will be of service to thee more than once, ‘Do always that which pertains to thee, and leave the rest to the Lord God.’ He knows best what we need. The harvest will be good this year; I know that beforehand, for when God is going to touch me with anything, He sends a sign.”
“What is it?” asked Pan Stanislav, with astonishment.
“Behind my pipe-table—I do not know whether thou hast noted where it stands—a mouse shows himself to me a number of days in succession when any evil is coming.”
“There must be a hole in the floor.”
“There is no hole,” said Plavitski, closing his eyes, and shaking his head mysteriously.
“One might bring in a cat.”
“I will not bring in a cat, for if it is the will of God that that mouse should be a sign to me, or forewarning, I shall not go against that will. Nothing has appeared to me this year. I mentioned this to Marynia; maybe God desires in some way to show that He is watching over our family. Listen, my dear; people will say, I know, that we are ruined, or at least in a very bad state. Here it is; judge for thyself: Kremen and Skoki, Magyerovka and Suhotsin, contain about two hundred and fifty vlokas of land; on that there is a debt of thirty thousand rubles to the society, not more, and about a hundred thousand mortgage, including thy sum. Therefore we have about a hundred and thirty thousand. Let us estimate only three thousand rubles a vloka; that will make seven hundred and fifty thousand,—altogether eight hundred and eighty thousand—”
“How is that?” asked Pan Stanislav, with astonishment; “uncle is including the debt with the property.”
“If the property were worth nothing, no one would give me a copper for it, so I add the debt to the value of the property.”
Pan Stanislav thought, “He is a lunatic, with whom it is useless to talk;” and he listened further in silence.
“I intend to parcel out Magyerovka. The mill I will sell; but in Skoki and Suhotsin I have marl, and knowest thou at how much I have estimated it? At two million rubles.”
“Has uncle a purchaser?”
“Two years ago a certain Shaum came and looked at the fields. He went away, it is true, without speaking of the business; but I am sure that he will come again, otherwise the mouse would have appeared behind the pipe-table.”
“Ha! let him come again.”
“Knowest thou another thing that comes to my head? Since thou art an ‘affairist,’ take up this business. Find thyself partners, that is all.”
“The business is too large for me.”
“Then find me a purchaser; I will give ten per cent of the proceeds.”
“What does Panna Marynia think of this marl?”
“Marynia, how Marynia? She is a golden child, but still a child! She believes that Providence watches over our family.”
“I heard that from her yesterday.”
Meanwhile they had drawn near Vantory and the church, on a hill among linden-trees. Under the hill stood at number of peasant-wagons with ladder-like boxes, some brichkas and carriages. Pan Plavitski made the sign of the cross, and said, “This is our little church, which thou must remember. All the Plavitskis lie here, and I, too, shall be lying here soon. I never pray better than in this place.”
“There will be many people, I see,” said Pan Stanislav.
“Gantovski’s brichka, Zazimski’s coach, Yamish’s carriage, and a number of others are there. Thou must remember the Yamishes. She is an uncommon woman; he pretends to be a great agriculturist and a councillor, but he is an old dotard, who never did understand her.”
At that moment the bell began to sound in the church tower.
“They have seen us, and are ringing the bell,” said Plavitski; “Mass will begin this moment. I will take thee, after Mass, to the grave of my first wife; pray for her, since she was thy aunt. She was an honest woman; the Lord light her.”
Here Plavitski raised his finger again to rub his right eye. Pan Stanislav therefore asked, wishing to change the conversation,—
“But was not Pani Yamish once very beautiful? or is this the same one?”
Plavitski’s face gleamed suddenly. He thrust out for one moment the end of his tongue from his blackened little mustaches, and patting Pan Stanislav on the thigh, said,—
“She is worth a sin yet,—she is, she is.”
Meanwhile they drove in, and after walking around the church, entered the sacristy at the side; not wishing to push through the crowd, they sat on side seats near the altar. Plavitski occupied the collator’s place, in which were also the Yamishes. Yamish was a man very old in appearance, with an intelligent face, but weighed down; she was a woman well toward sixty, dressed almost like Panna Marynia,—that is, in a muslin robe and a straw hat. The bows, full of politeness, which Pan Plavitski made to her, and the kind smiles with which she returned them, showed that between those two reigned intimate relations founded on mutual adoration. After a while the lady, raising her glasses to her eyes, began to observe Pan Stanislav, not understanding apparently who could have come with Pan Plavitski. In the seat behind them one of the neighbors, taking advantage of the fact that Mass had not begun yet, was finishing some narrative about hunting, and repeated a number of times to another neighbor, “My dogs, well—” then both stopped their conversation, and began to speak to Plavitski and Pani Yamish so audibly that every word reached the ears of Pan Stanislav. The priest came out to the altar then.
At sight of the Mass and that little church, Pan Stanislav’s memory went back to the years of his childhood, when he was there with his mother. Wonder rose in him involuntarily when he thought how little anything changes in the country, except people. Some are placed away in consecrated earth; others are born. But the new life puts itself into the old forms; and to him who comes from afar, after a long absence, all that he saw long ago seems of yesterday. The church was the same; the nave was filled, as of old, with flaxen-colored heads of peasants, gray coats, red and yellow kerchiefs with flowers on the heads of the maidens; it had precisely the same kind of odor of incense, of sweet flag, and the exhalations of people. Outside one of the windows grew the same birch-tree, whose slender branches, thrown against the panes by the wind as it rose, cast shade which gave a green tinge to light in the church. But the people were not the same: some of the former ones were crumbling quietly into dust, or had made their way from beneath the earth in the form of grass; those who were left yet were somehow bent, as if going under ground gradually. Pan Stanislav, who plumed himself on avoiding all generalizing theories, but who in reality had a Slav head, which, as it were, had not emerged yet from universal existence, occupied himself with them involuntarily; and all the time he was thinking that there is still a terrible precipice between that passion for life innate in people and the absoluteness of death. He thought, also, that perhaps for this reason all systems of philosophy vanish, like shadows; but Mass is celebrated, as of old, because it alone promises further and unbroken continuity.
Reared abroad, he did not believe in it greatly; at least, he was not certain of it. He felt in himself, as do all people of to-day, the very newest people, an irrestrainable repugnance to materialism; but from it he had not found an escape yet, and, what is more, it seemed to him that he was not seeking it. He was an unconscious pessimist, like those who are looking for something which they cannot find. He stunned himself with occupations to which he was habituated; and only in moments of great excess in that pessimism did he ask himself, What is this all for? Of what use is it to gain property, labor, marry, beget children, if everything ends in an abyss? But that was at times, and did not become a fixed principle. Youth saved him from this, not the first youth, but also not a youth nearing its end, a certain mental and physical strength, the instinct of self-preservation, the habit of work, vivacity of character, and finally that elemental force, which pushes a man into the arms of a woman. And now from the recollections of childhood, from thoughts of death, from doubts as to the fitness of marriage, he came to this special thought, that he had no one to whom he could give what was best in him; and then he came to Panna Marynia Plavitski, whose muslin robe, covering a young and shapely body, did not leave his eyes. He remembered that when he was leaving Warsaw, Pani Emilia, a great friend of his and of Panna Marynia’s, had said laughingly,—
“If you, after being in Kremen, do not fall in love with Marynia, I shall close my doors against you.” He answered her with great courage that he was going only to squeeze out money, not to fall in love, but that was not true. If Panna Plavitski had not been in Kremen, he would surely have throttled Plavitski by letter, or by legal methods. On the way he had been thinking of Panna Marynia and of how she would look, and he was angry because he was going for money, too. Having talked into himself great decision in such matters, he determined above all to obtain what belonged to him, and was ready rather to go beyond the mark than not to reach it. He promised this to himself, especially the first evening, when Marynia, though she had pleased him well enough, had not produced such a great impression as he had expected, or rather had produced a different one; but that morning she had taken his eye greatly. “She is like the morning herself,” thought he; “she is nice and knows that she is nice,—women always know that.”
This last discovery made him somewhat impatient, for he wished to return as soon as possible to Kremen, to observe the young woman further. In fact, Mass was over soon. Plavitski went out immediately after the blessing, for he had two duties before him,—the first, to pray on the graves of his two wives who were lying under the church; the second, to conduct Pani Yamish to her carriage. Since he wished to neglect neither of these, he had to count with time. Pan Stanislav went with him; and soon they found themselves before the stone slabs, erected side by side in the church wall. Plavitski kneeled and prayed awhile with attention; then he rose, and wiping away a tear, which was hanging really on his lids, took Pan Stanislav by the arm, and said, “Yes, I lost both; still I must live.”
Meanwhile Pani Yamish appeared before the church door in the company of her husband, of those two neighbors who had spoken to her before Mass, and of young Gantovski. At sight of her Pan Plavitski bent to Pan Stanislav’s ear and said,—
“When she enters the carriage, take notice what a foot she has yet.”
After a while both joined the company; bows and greetings began. Pan Plavitski presented Pan Polanyetski; then, turning to Pani Yamish, he added, with the smile of a man convinced that he says something which no common person could have hit upon,—
“My relative, who has come to embrace his uncle, and squeeze him.”
“We will permit only the first; otherwise he will have an affair with us,” said the lady.
“But Kremen[2] is hard,” continued Plavitski; “he will break his teeth on it, though he is young.”
Pani Yamish half closed her eyes. “That ease,” said she, “with which you scatter sparks, c’est inoui! How is your health to-day?”
“At this moment I feel healthy and young.”
“And Marynia?”
“She was at early Mass. We wait for you both at five. My little housekeeper is breaking her head over supper. A beautiful day.”
“We shall come if neuralgia lets me, and my lord husband is willing.”
“How is it, neighbor?” asked Plavitski.
“I am always glad to go,” answered the neighbor, with the voice of a crushed man.
“Then, au revoir.”
“Au revoir,” answered the lady; and turning to Pan Stanislav, she reached her hand to him. “It was a pleasure for me to make your acquaintance.”
Plavitski gave his arm to the lady, and conducted her to the carriage. The two neighbors went away also. Pan Stanislav remained a while with Gantovski, who looked at him without much good-will. Pan Stanislav remembered him as an awkward boy; from the “Little Bear,” he had grown to be a stalwart man, somewhat heavy perhaps in his movements, but rather presentable, with a very shapely, light-colored mustache. Pan Stanislav did not begin conversation, waiting till the other should speak first; but he thrust his hands into his pockets, and maintained a stubborn silence.
“His former manners have remained with him,” thought Pan Stanislav, who felt now an aversion to that surly fellow.
Meanwhile Plavitski returned from Yamish’s carriage.
“Hast taken notice?” asked he of Pan Stanislav, first of all. “Well, Gantos,” said he then, “thou wilt go in thy brichka, for in the carriage there are only two places.”
“I will go in the brichka, for I am taking a dog to Panna Marynia,” answered the young man, who bowed and walked off.
After a while Pan Plavitski and Pan Stanislav found themselves on the road to Kremen.
“This Gantovski is uncle’s relative, I suppose?” asked Pan Stanislav.
“The tenth water after a jelly. They are very much fallen. This Adolph has one little farm and emptiness in his pocket.”
“But in his heart there is surely no emptiness?”
Pan Plavitski pouted. “So much the worse for him, if he imagines anything. He may be good, but he is simple. No breeding, no education, no property. Marynia likes him, or rather she endures him.”
“Ah, does she endure him?”
“See thou how it is: I sacrifice myself for her and stay in the country; she sacrifices herself for me and stays in the country. There is no one here; Pani Yamish is considerably older than Marynia; in general, there are no young people; life here is tedious: but what’s to be done? Remember, my boy, that life is a series of sacrifices. There is need for thee to carry that principle in thy heart and thy head. Those especially who belong to honorable and more prominent families should not forget this. But Gantovski is with us always on Sunday for dinner; and to-day, as thou hast heard, he is bringing a dog.”
They dropped into silence, and drove along the sand slowly. The magpies flew before them from birch to birch, this time in the direction of Kremen. Behind Plavitski’s little carriage rode in his brichka Pan Gantovski, who, thinking of Pan Stanislav, said to himself,—
“If he comes as a creditor to squeeze them, I’ll break his neck; if he comes as a rival, I’ll break it too.”
From childhood, he had cherished hostile feelings toward Polanyetski. In those days they met once in a while. Polanyetski used to laugh at him; and, being a couple of years older, he even beat him.
Plavitski and his guest arrived at last, and, half an hour later, all found themselves at table in the dining-room, with Panna Marynia. The young dog, brought by Gantovski, taking advantage of his privilege of guest, moved about under the table, and sometimes got on the knees of those present with great confidence and with delight, expressed by wagging his tail.
“That is a Gordon setter,” said Gantovski. “He is simple yet; but those dogs are clever, and become wonderfully attached.”
“He is beautiful, and I am very grateful to you,” answered Marynia, looking at the shining black hair and the yellow spots over the eyes of the dog.
“Too friendly,” added Plavitski, covering his knees with a napkin.
“In the field, too, they are better than common setters.”
“Do you hunt?” asked Pan Stanislav of the young lady.
“No; I have never had any desire to do so. And you?”
“Sometimes. But I live in the city.”
“Art thou much in society?” inquired Plavitski.
“Almost never. My visits are to Pani Emilia, my partner Bigiel, and Vaskovski, my former professor, an oddity now,—those are all. Of course I go sometimes to people with whom I have business.”
“That is not well, my boy. A young man should have and preserve good social relations, especially when he has a right to them. If a man has to force his way, the question is different; but as Polanyetski, thou hast the right to go anywhere. I have the same story, too, with Marynia. The winter before last, when she had finished her eighteenth year, I took her to Warsaw. Thou’lt understand that the trip was not without cost, and that for me it required certain sacrifices. Well, and what came of it? She sat for whole days with Pani Emilia, and they read books. She is born a recluse, and will remain one. Thou and she might join hands.”
“Let us join hands!” cried Pan Stanislav, joyously.
“I cannot, with a clear conscience,” answered Marynia; “for it was not altogether as papa describes. I read books with Emilia, it is true; but I was much in society with papa, and I danced enough for a lifetime.”
“You have no fault to find?”
“No; but I am not yearning.”
“Then you did not bring away memories, it seems?”
“Evidently there remained with me only recollections, which are something different.”
“I do not understand the difference.”
“Memory is a magazine, in which the past lies stored away, and recollection appears when we go to the magazine to take something.”
Here Panna Marynia was alarmed somewhat at that special daring with which she had allowed herself this philosophical deduction as to the difference between memory and recollection; therefore she blushed rather deeply.
“Not stupid, and pretty,” thought Pan Stanislav; aloud he said, “That would not have come to my head, and it is so appropriate.”
He surveyed her with eyes full of sympathy. She was in fact very pretty; for she was laughing, somewhat confused by the praise, and also delighted sincerely with it. She blushed still more when the daring young man said,—
“To-morrow, before parting, I shall beg for a place,—even in the magazine.”
But he said this with such joyousness that it was impossible to be angry with him; and Marynia answered, not without a certain coquetry,—
“Very well; and I ask reciprocity.”
“In such case, I should have to go so often to the magazine that I might prefer straightway to live in it.”
This seemed to Marynia somewhat too bold on such short acquaintance; but Plavitski broke in now and said,—
“This Stanislav pleases me. I prefer him to Gantos, who sits like a misanthrope.”
“Because I can talk only of what may be taken in hand,” answered the young man, with a certain sadness.
“Then take your fork, and eat.”
Pan Stanislav laughed. Marynia did not laugh: she was sorry for Gantovski; therefore she turned the conversation to things which were tangible.
“She is either a coquette, or has a good heart,” thought Pan Stanislav again.
But Pan Plavitski, who recalled evidently his last winter visit in Warsaw, continued, “Tell me, Stas, dost thou know Bukatski?”
“Of course. By the way, he is a nearer relative to me than to uncle.”
“We are related to the whole world,—to the whole world literally. Bukatski was Marynia’s most devoted dancer. He danced with her at all the parties.”
Pan Stanislav began to laugh again; “And for all his reward he went to the magazine, to the dust-bin. But at least it is not necessary to dust him, for he is as careful of his person as uncle, for instance. He is the greatest dandy in Warsaw. What does he do? He is manager of fresh air, which means that when there is fair weather he walks out or rides. Besides, he is an original, who has peculiar little closets in his brain. He observes various things of such kind as no other would notice. Once, after his return from Venice, I met him and asked what he had seen there. ‘I saw,’ said he, ‘while on the Riva dei Schiavoni, half an egg-shell and half a lemon-rind floating: they met, they struck, they were driven apart, they came together; at last, paf! the half lemon fell into the half egg-shell, and away they went sailing together. In this see the meaning of harmony.’ Such is Bukatski’s occupation, though he knows much, and in art, for instance, he is an authority.”
“But they say that he is very capable.”
“Perhaps he is, but capable of nothing. He eats bread, and that is the end of his service. If at least he were joyous, but at bottom he is melancholy. I forgot to say that besides he is in love with Pani Emilia.”
“Does Emilia receive many people?” inquired Marynia.
“No. Vaskovski, Bukatski, and Mashko, an advocate, the man who buys and sells estates, are her only visitors.
“Of course she cannot receive many people; she has to give much time to Litka.”
“Dear little girl,” said Pan Stanislav, “may God grant at least that Reichenhall may help her.”
And his joyous countenance was covered in one moment with genuine sadness. Marynia looked at him with eyes full of sympathy, and in her turn thought a second time, “Still he must be kind really.”
But Plavitski began to talk as if to himself. “Mashko, Mashko—he too was circling about Marynia. But she did not like him. As to estates, the price now is such that God pity us.”
“Mashko is the man who declares that under such conditions it is well to buy them.”
Dinner came to an end, and they passed into the drawing-room for coffee; while at coffee Pan Plavitski, as his wont was in moments of good-humor, began to make a butt of Gantovski. The young man endured patiently, out of regard for Marynia, but with a mien that seemed to say, “Ei! but for her, I would shake all the bones out of thee.” After coffee Marynia sat down at the piano, while her father was occupied with patience. She played not particularly well, but her clear and calm face was outlined pleasantly over the music-board. About five Pan Plavitski looked at the clock and said,—
“The Yamishes are not coming.”
“They will come yet,” answered Marynia.
But from that moment on he looked continually at the clock, and announced every moment that the Yamishes would not come. At last, about six, he said with a sepulchral voice,—
“Some misfortune must have happened.”
Pan Stanislav at that moment was near Marynia, who in an undertone said,—
“Here is a trouble! Nothing has happened, of course; but papa will be in bad humor till supper.”
At first Pan Stanislav wished to answer that to make up he would be in good-humor to-morrow after sleeping; but, seeing genuine anxiety on the young lady’s face, he answered,—
“As I remember, it is not very far; send some one to inquire what has happened.”
“Why not send some one over there, papa?”
But he answered with vexation, “Too much kindness; I will go myself;” and ringing for a servant, he ordered the horses, then stopping for a moment he said,—
“Enfin, anything may happen in the country; some person might come and find my daughter alone. This is not a city. Besides, you are relatives. Thou, Gantovski, may be necessary for me, so have the kindness to come with me.”
An expression of the greatest unwillingness and dissatisfaction was evident on the young man’s face. He stretched his hand to his yellow hair and said,—
“Drawn up at the pond is a boat, which the gardener could not launch. I promised Panna Marynia to launch it; but last Sunday she would not let me, for rain was pouring, as if from a bucket.”
“Then run and try. It is thirty yards to the pond; thou wilt be back in two minutes.”
Gantovski went to the garden in spite of himself. Plavitski, without noticing his daughter or Pan Stanislav, repeated as he walked through the room,—
“Neuralgia in the head; I would bet that it is neuralgia in the head; Gantovski in case of need could gallop for the doctor. That old mope, that councillor without a council, would not send for him surely.” And needing evidently to pour out his ill humor on some one, he added, turning to Pan Stanislav, “Thou’lt not believe what a booby that man is.”
“Who?”
“Yamish.”
“But, papa!” interrupted Marynia.
Plavitski did not let her finish, however, and said with increasing ill humor, “It does not please thee, I know, that she shows me a little friendship and attention. Read Pan Yamish’s articles on agriculture, do him homage, raise statues to him; but let me have my sympathies.”
Here Pan Stanislav might admire the real sweetness of Marynia, who, instead of being impatient, ran to her father, and putting her forehead under his blackened mustaches, said,—
“They will bring the horses right away, right away, right away! Maybe I ought to go; but let ugly father not be angry, for he will hurt himself.”
Plavitski, who was really much attached to his daughter, kissed her on the forehead and said, “I know thou hast a good heart. But what is Gantovski doing?”
And he called through the open gate of the garden to the young man, who returned soon, wearied out, and said,—
“There is water in the boat, and it is drawn up too far; I have tried, and I cannot—”
“Then take thy cap and let’s be off, for I hear the horses have come.”
A moment later the young people were alone.
“Papa is accustomed to society a little more elegant than that in the country,” said Marynia; “therefore he likes Pani Yamish, but Pan Yamish is a very honorable and sensible man.”
“I saw him in the church; to me he seemed as if crushed.”
“Yes; for he is sickly, and besides has much care.”
“Like you.”
“No, Pan Yamish manages his work perfectly; besides, he writes much on agriculture. He is really the light of these parts. Such a worthy man! She too is a good woman, only to me she seems rather pretentious.”
“An ex-beauty.”
“Yes. And this unbroken country life, through which she has become rather rusty, increases her oddness. I think that in cities oddities of character and their ridiculous sides efface one another; but in the country, people turn into originals more easily, they grow disused to society gradually, a certain old-fashioned way is preserved in intercourse, and it goes to excess. We must all seem rusty to people from great cities, and somewhat ridiculous.”
“Not all,” answered Pan Stanislav; “you, for example.”
“It will come to me in time,” answered Marynia, with a smile.
“Time may bring changes too.”
“With us there is so little change, and that most frequently for the worse.”
“But in the lives of young ladies in general changes are expected.”
“I should wish first that papa and I might come to an agreement about Kremen.”
“Then your father and Kremen are the main, the only objects in life for you?”
“True. But I can help little, since I know little of anything.”
“Your father, Kremen, and nothing more,” repeated Pan Stanislav.
A moment of silence came, after which Marynia asked Pan Stanislav if he would go to the garden. They went, and soon found themselves at the edge of the pond. Pan Stanislav, who, while abroad, had been a member of various sporting clubs, pushed to the water’s edge the boat, which Gantovski could not manage; but it turned out that the boat was leaky, and that they could not row in it.
“This is a case of my management,” said Marynia, laughing; “there is a leak everywhere. And I know not how to find an excuse, since the pond and the garden belong to me only. But before it is launched I will have the boat mended.”
“As I live, it is the same boat in which I was forbidden to sail when a boy.”
“Quite possibly. Have you not noticed that things change less by far, and last longer than people? At times it is sad to think of this.”
