Children of the Soil

These words moved Plavitski again. He was indeed some sort of a distant relative of Panna Ploshovski, and even had seen her two or three times in his life; but there remained to him merely the remembrance of fear, for she had told him the bitter truth each time without circumlocution, or rather, speaking simply, had scolded him as much as he could hold. For this reason, in the further course of his life he avoided her most carefully, and all communication between them was stopped, though on occasions he liked to say a word in society of his relationship with a family so well known and important. He belonged to that category of people, numerous in our country, who are convinced that the Lord God created for their special use an easy road to fortune through inheritance, and who consider every hope of that kind as certain. He cast a solemn glance, therefore, on the assembly, and said, —

“Perhaps, too, Providence decided that those properties should pass to other hands, which are able to make better use of them.”

“I met Ploshovski abroad once,” said Pan Stanislav; “and on me he made the impression of a man altogether uncommon. I remember him perfectly.”

“He was so brilliant and sympathetic,” added Pani Bigiel.

“May God show him mercy!” said Professor Vaskovski. “I too knew him; he was a genuine Aryan.”

“Azoryan,” said Plavitski.

“Aryan,” repeated the professor.

“Azoryan,” corrected Plavitski, with emphasis and dignity.

And the two old men looked at each other with astonishment, neither knowing what the other wanted, and this to the great delight of Bukatski, who, raising his monocle, said, —

“How is that, Aryan or Azoryan?”

Pan Stanislav put an end to the misunderstanding by explaining that Azorya was the name of the family escutcheon of the Ploshovskis, that therefore it was possible to be at once an Aryan and an Azoryan; to which Plavitski agreed unwillingly, making the parenthetical remark that whoso bears a decent name, need not be ashamed of it, nor modify it.

Bukatski, turning to Pani Emilia, began to converse in his usual frigid tone, —

“One kind of suicide alone do I consider justifiable, suicide for love; therefore I am persuading myself for a number of years to it, but always in vain.”

“They say that suicide is cowardice,” put in Marynia.

“This is a reason too why I do not take my life: I am excessively brave.”

“Let us not speak of death, but of life,” said Bigiel, “and of that which is best in it, health. To the health of Pani Emilia!”

“And Litka,” added Pan Stanislav.

Then he turned to Marynia and said, “To the health of our mutual friends!”

“Most willingly,” answered Marynia.

Then he lowered his voice and continued, “For see, I consider them not only as friends of mine, but also – how is it to be expressed? – as advocates. Litka is a child yet, but Pani Emilia knows to whom friendship may be offered. Therefore if a certain person had a prejudice against me, even justly; if I had acted with that person not precisely as I should, or simply ill, and if that person knew me to be suffering from my act, – that person ought to think that I am not the worst of men, since Pani Emilia has sincere good-will for me.”

Marynia was confused at once; she was sorry for him. He finished in a still lower voice, —

“But in truth I am suffering. This is a great question for me.”

Before she had answered, Plavitski raised a health to Pani Bigiel, and made a whole speech, the substance of which was that the Queen of Creation is no other than woman; therefore all heads should incline before woman, as the queen, and, for this reason, he had bowed down all his life before woman in general, and at present he bowed before Pani Bigiel in particular.

Pan Stanislav from his soul wished him to choke, for he felt that he might have received some kind word from Marynia, and he felt that the moment had passed. In fact, Marynia went to embrace Pani Bigiel; on her return she did not resume the interrupted conversation, and he dared not ask her directly for an answer.

Immediately after dinner came Pani and Panna Kraslavski: the mother, a woman about fifty years old, animated, self-confident, talkative; the daughter, the complete opposite of her mother, formal, dry, cold, pronouncing “tek,” instead of “tak,” but for the rest with a full, though pale face, reminding one somewhat of the faces of Holbein’s Madonnas.

Pan Stanislav began out of malice to entertain her; but, looking from time to time at the fresh face and blue eyes of Marynia, he said to himself, “If thou hadst given even one kind word! thou, – thou, the pitiless.” And he grew more and more angry, so that when Panna Kraslavski said “memme” instead of “mamma,” he inquired harshly, —

“Who is that?”

“Memme,” however, displayed her whole supply of facts, or rather suppositions, concerning the suicide of Ploshovski.

“Imagine,” said she, with warmth, “it came to my head at once that he shot himself because of the death of Pani Krovitski. Lord light her soul! she was a coquette, and I never liked her. She coquetted with him so that I was afraid to take Terka to any place where they were together, because her conduct was simply a bad example for such a young girl. What is true, is true! Lord light her soul! Terka, too, had no sympathy for her.”

“Ah, Pani,” said Pani Emilia, “I have always heard that she was an angel.”

And Bukatski, who had never seen Pani Krovitski in his life, turned to Pani Kraslavski and said phlegmatically, —

“Madame, je vous donne ma parole d’honneur that she was an archangel.”

Pani Kraslavski was silent a moment, not knowing what to answer; then, flushing up, she would have answered something sharp, were it not that Bukatski, as a man of wealth, might in a given event be a good match for Terka. Pan Stanislav enjoyed the same consideration in her eyes; and for these two exclusively she kept up summer relations with the Bigiels, whom she did not recognize when they met her by chance on the street.

“With gentlemen,” said she, “every presentable woman is an angel or an archangel. I do not like this, even when they say it to me about Terka. Pani Krovitski might be a good person, but she had no tact; that is the whole question.”

In this way conversation about Ploshovski dropped, the more since the attention of Pani Kraslavski was turned exclusively to Pan Stanislav, who was entertaining Panna Terka. He was entertaining her a little out of anger at himself, a little out of anger at Marynia, and he tried to convince himself that it was pleasant for him near her; he tried even to find in her a charm, and discovered that her neck was too slender and her eyes as it were quenched eyes, which grew lively and turned inquiringly at him when there was no place for a question. He observed, too, that she might be a quiet despot, for when the mother began to talk too loudly, Panna Terka put her glasses to her eyes and looked at her attentively; and under the influence of that look the mother lowered her voice, or grew silent altogether. In general, Panna Terka annoyed him immensely; and if he occupied himself more with her than he ever had before, he did so from sheer desperation, to rouse at least a shade of jealousy in Marynia. Even people of sound sense grasp at such vain methods when the misery of their feelings presses them too keenly. These methods produce usually results opposite to those intended, for they increase the difficulty of subsequent approach and explanations; besides, they merely strengthen the feeling cherished in the heart of the person using them. Toward the end Pan Stanislav longed so much for Marynia that he would have agreed to listen even to an unpleasant word from her, if he could only approach her and speak; and still it seemed to him more difficult now than an hour before. He drew a deep breath when the visit was over, and the guests were preparing to go. Before that, however, Litka approached her mother, and, putting her arms around her neck, whispered. Pani Emilia nodded, and then approached Pan Stanislav, —

“Pan Stanislav,” said she, “if you do not think of spending the night here, ride with us. Marynia and I will take Litka between us, and there will be room enough.”

“Very well. I cannot pass the night here; and I am very thankful,” answered he; and, divining easily who the author of this plan was, he turned to Litka and said, —

“Thou, my best little kitten, thou.”

She, holding to her mother’s dress, raised to him her eyes, half sad, half delighted, asking quietly, —

“Is that good, Pan Stas?”

A few minutes later they started. After a fine day there came a night still finer, a little cool, but all bright and silvery from the moon. Pan Stanislav, for whom the day had passed grievously and in vain, breathed now with full breast, and felt almost happy, having before him two beings whom he loved very deeply, and one whom he loved beyond everything on earth. By the light of the moon he saw her face, and it seemed to him mild and peaceful. He thought that Marynia’s feelings must be like her face in that moment; that perhaps her dislike of him was softening amid that general quiet.

Litka dropped into the depth of the seat, and appeared to be sleeping. Pan Stanislav threw a shawl, taken from Pani Emilia, over her feet, and they rode on a while in silence.

Pani Emilia began to speak of Ploshovski, the news of whose death had impressed her deeply.

“There is hidden in all that some unusually sad drama,” said Pan Stanislav; “and Pani Kraslavski may be right in some small degree when she insists that these two deaths are connected.”

“There is in suicide,” said Marynia, “this ghastly thing, that one feels bound to condemn it; and while condemning there is an impression that there should be no sympathy for the misfortune.”

“Sympathy,” answered Pan Stanislav, “should be had for those who have feeling yet, – hence for the living.”

The conversation ceased, and they went on again for some time in silence. After a while Pan Stanislav pointed to the lights in the windows of a house standing in the depth of a forest park, and said, —

“That is Pani Kraslavski’s villa.”

“I cannot forgive her for what she said of that unfortunate Pani Krovitski,” said Pani Emilia.

“That is simply a cruel woman,” added Pan Stanislav; “but do you know why? It is because of her daughter. She looks on the whole world as a background which she would like to make as black as possible, so that Panna Terka might be reflected on it the more brightly. Perhaps the mother had designs sometime on Ploshovski; perhaps she considered Pani Krovitski a hindrance, – hence her hatred.”