Children of the Soil

“But Panna Ratkovski?”

“Panna Ratkovski is with Pani Melnitski.”

“Did Pan Ignas feel her absence much?”

“For the first days. Afterward he seemed to forget her.”

“If he does not marry her in a year, I will repeat my proposal. As I love God, I will. Such a woman, when she becomes a wife, grows attached to her husband.”

“I know that in her soul Panna Helena wishes Ignas to marry Panna Ratkovski. But who knows how it will turn out?”

“I am sure that he will marry her; what I say is the imagining of a weak head. I shall not marry.”

“My wife said that you told her that yesterday; but she laughed at the threat.”

“It is not a threat; it is only this, that I have no happiness.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the coming of a carriage, in which were Pani Kraslavski and Pani Mashko. Those ladies were going in the direction of the Alley, wishing evidently to take the air. The day was clear, but cold; and Pani Mashko was so occupied with drawing a warm cloak on her mother that she did not see them, and did not return their salutation.

“I called on them the day before yesterday,” said Svirski. “She is a kindly sort of woman.”

“I hear that she is a very good daughter,” answered Pan Stanislav.

“I noticed that when I was there; but, as is usual with an old sceptic, it occurred to me at once that she finds pleasure also in the rôle of a careful daughter. Do you not see women often doing good of some special sort because they think that it becomes them?”

And Svirski was not mistaken. In fact, Pani Mashko found pleasure in the rôle of a self-sacrificing daughter. But that itself was very much, since such a satisfaction flowed still from real attachment to her mother, and because at sight of her misfortune something was roused in the woman, something quivered. At the same time Svirski did not wish, or did not know how, to draw this further conclusion from his thoughts: that as in the domain of the toilet a woman in addition to a new hat needs a new cloak, a new dress, new gloves, so in the domain of good deeds once she has taken up something she wants to be fitted out anew from head to foot. In this way the rebirth of a woman is never quite impossible.

Meanwhile they arrived at Pan Ignas’s, who received them with delight; because, for some time past, the sight of people gave him pleasure, as it does usually to patients returning to life. When he had learned from Svirski that the latter would go soon to Italy, he began to insist that he should take him.

“Ah, ha!” thought Svirski; “then somehow Panna Ratkovski is not in thy head?”

Pan Ignas declared that he had been thinking long of Italy; that nowhere else would he write as there, under those impressions of art, and those centuries crumbling into ruins entwined with ivy. He was carried away and pleased by that thought; hence the honest Svirski agreed without difficulty.

“But,” said he, “I cannot stay long there this time, for I have a number of portraits to paint in this city; and, besides, I promised Pan Stanislav to return to the christening.” Then he turned to Pan Stanislav, —

“Well, what is it finally, the christening of a son or a daughter?”

“Let it be what it likes,” answered Pan Stanislav, “if only, with God’s will, in good health.”

And while the other two began to plan the journey, he took farewell, and went to his counting-house. He had a whole mail from the previous day to look over, so, shutting himself in, he began to read letters, and dictate to a writer in short-hand those which touched affairs needing immediate transaction. After a while, however, a newly hired servant interrupted his labor by announcing that some lady wished to see him.

Pan Stanislav was disturbed. It seemed to him, it is unknown why, that this could be no other than Pani Mashko; and, foreseeing certain explanations and scenes, his heart began to beat unquietly.

Meanwhile the laughing and glad face of Marynia appeared in the door most unexpectedly.

“Ah, well, haven’t I given a surprise?” inquired she.

Pan Stanislav sprang up at sight of her, with a feeling of sudden and immense delight, and, seizing her hands, began to kiss them, one after the other.

“But, my dear, this is really a surprise!” said he. “Whence did it come to thy head to look in here?”

And thus speaking, he pushed an armchair toward her, and seated her as a dear and honored guest; from his radiant face it was evident what pleasure her presence was giving him.

“I have something curious to show thee,” said Marynia; “and because I must walk a good deal, anyhow, I came in. And thou, what didst thou think? Whom didst thou look for? Own up, right away!”

Thus speaking, she began to threaten him while laughing; but he answered, —

“So much business is done here, in every case I didn’t think it was thou. What hast thou to show?”

“See what a letter I have!”

Dear and Beloved Lady, – It will astonish you perhaps that I turn to you; but you, who are to become a mother soon, are the only person on earth who will understand what must take place in the heart of a mother – even if she is only an aunt – who sees her child’s unhappiness. Believe me it is a question for me of nothing else than bringing even temporary relief to an unhappy child; and it interests me the more, that in all this that has happened I myself am to blame chiefly. Perhaps these words too will astonish you, but it is the case. I am to blame. If a bad and spoilt man, at the moment when Nitechka was tottering and losing her balance, dared to touch her with his unworthy lips, I should not have lost my head and sacrificed the child. Indeed, Yozio Osnovski is to blame too: he put the question of marriage on a sharp knife; he suspected something and wanted to rid his house of Kopovski. May God forgive him, for it is not proper to defend one’s self at the cost of another’s happiness and life. My dear lady! it seemed to me at the first moment that the only issue was marriage with the unworthy Kopovski, and that Nitechka had no longer the right to become the wife of Ignas. I wrote even purposely to Ignas that she followed the impulse of her heart, and that she would give her hand to Kopovski with attachment; and I thought that in this way Ignas would bear the loss of her more easily, and I wanted to decrease his pain. Nitechka for Kopovski! The merciful God did not permit that; and when I too saw that that union would have been death for Nitechka, we were thinking only of this, how to be free of those bonds. It is no longer a question for me of returning to former relations, for Nitechka too has lost faith in people and in life, so that probably she would never be willing to agree to a return. She does not even know that I am writing this letter. If the beloved lady had seen how Nitechka has paid for all this with her health, and how terribly she felt the act of Pan Ignas, she would have pitied her. Pan Ignas should not have done what he has done, even out of regard for Nitechka; alas! men in such cases count only with their own wishes. She is as much to blame in all this as a newly born infant; but I see how she melts before my eyes, and how from morning till evening she is grieving because she was the unconscious cause of his misfortune, and might have broken his life. Yesterday, with tears in her eyes, she begged me in case of her death to be a mother to Ignas, and to watch over him as over my own son. Every day she says that maybe he is cursing her, and my heart is breaking, for the doctor says that he answers for nothing if her condition continues. O God of mercy! but come to the aid of a despairing mother; let me know even from time to time something about Ignas, or rather write to me that he is well, that he is calm, that he has forgotten her, that he is not cursing her, so that I might show her that letter and bring her even a little relief from her torture. I feel that I am writing only in half consciousness, but you will understand what is taking place in me, when I look on that unhappy sacrifice. God will reward you and I will pray every day that your daughter, if God gives you a daughter, be happier than my poor Nitechka.

“What is thy thought about that?” inquired Marynia.

“I think,” said Pan Stanislav, “that news of the change in Pan Ignas’s fortune has spread rather widely; and second, I think that this letter, sent to your address, is directed really to Ignas.”

“That may be. It is not an honest letter; but still they may be very unhappy.”

“It is certain that their position cannot be pleasant. Osnovski was right when he wrote that there is even for Pani Bronich an immense disappointment in all this, and that she is trying vainly to deceive herself. As for Panna Castelli, you know what Svirski told me? I do not repeat to thee his words literally; but he said that now only a fool, or a man without moral value, would marry her. They understand this themselves, and certainly it is not pleasant for them. Perhaps, too, conscience is speaking; but still, see how many dodges there are in that letter. Do not show it to Ignas.”

“No, I will not,” answered Marynia, whose warmest wishes were on the side of Panna Ratkovski.

And Pan Stanislav, following the thought which was digging into him for some time past, repeated to her, word for word almost, what he had repeated to himself, —

“There is a certain logic which punishes, and they are harvesting what they sowed. Evil, like a wave, is thrown back from the shore and returns.”

Hereupon Marynia began to draw figures on the floor with her parasol, as if meditating on something; then, raising her clear eyes to her husband, she said, —

“It is true, my Stas, that evil returns; but it may return, too, as remorse and sorrow. In that case the Lord God is satisfied with such penance, and punishes no further.”

If Marynia had known what was troubling him, and wanted to soften his suffering, and console the man, she could not have found anything better than those few simple words. For some time Pan Stanislav had been oppressed by a foreboding that some misfortune must meet him, and he was in ceaseless fear of it. From her only did he learn that his sorrow and remorse might be that returning wave. Yes, he had had no little remorse, and sorrow had not been wanting in him; he felt, too, that if suffering might and could be a satisfaction, he would be ready to suffer twice as grievously. Now a desire took him to seize in his arms that woman full of simplicity and honesty, from whom so much good came to him; and if he did not do so, it was only from fear of emotions for her, and out of regard for her condition, and that indecision which fettered him in his relations with her. But he raised her hand to his lips, and said, —

“Thou art right, and art very kind.”

She, pleased with the praise, smiled at him, and began to prepare for home.

When she had gone, Pan Stanislav went to the window, and followed her with his eyes. From afar he saw her curved form advancing with heavy step, her dark hair peeping from under her hat; and in that moment he felt with new force, greater than ever, that she was the dearest person in the world to him, and that he loved her only, and would love her till his death.

CHAPTER LXIII

Two days later Pan Stanislav received a note from Mashko, containing a few words of farewell.

“I go to-day,” wrote he. “I shall try absolutely to run in once more to thee; but in every case I bid thee farewell, and thank thee for all proofs of friendship which thou hast shown me. May the Lord God prosper thee better than He has prospered me so far! I should like to see thee, even for a moment; and if I can, I shall run in about four o’clock. Meanwhile I repeat the request to remember my wife, and protect her a little when people drop her. I pray thee also to defend me before her against people’s tongues. I am going to Berlin at nine in the evening, and quite openly. Till we meet again I and in every case, be well, – and once more, thanks for everything.

    “Mashko.”

Pan Stanislav went to the counting-house about four, but he waited beyond an hour in vain. “He will not come,” thought he, at last; “so much the better.” And he went home with the feeling of satisfaction that he had succeeded in avoiding a disagreeable meeting. But in the evening a species of pity for Mashko began to move him: he thought that the man had gone by a bad and feverish road, it is true; but he had had his fill of torment and tearing, and in the end had paid dearly; that all which had happened was to be foreseen long before; and if those who foresaw it had associated with him, and received him at their houses, they ought not to show him contempt in the day of his downfall. He knew, too, that he should give Mashko pleasure by his appearance at the station; and after a moment of hesitation he went.