Children of the Soil

“You say the service of God. Very well! I have time; let us go together.”

Marynia received this offer with great satisfaction.

“I am the happier,” said she, on the way, “the more I love God.”

“That, too, is the mark of a good nature; some persons think of God only as a terror.”

And in the church that came again to his mind of which he had thought during his first visit to Kremen, when he was at the church in Vantory, with old Plavitski: “Destruction takes all philosophies and systems, one after another; but Mass is celebrated as of old.” It seemed to him that in that there was something which passed comprehension. He who, because of Litka, had come in contact with death in a manner most painful, returned to those dark problems whenever he happened to be in a cemetery, or a church at Mass, or in any circumstances whatever in which something took place which had no connection with the current business of life, but was shrouded in that future beyond the grave. He was struck by this thought, – how much is done in this life for that future; and how, in spite of all philosophizing and doubt, people live as if that future were entirely beyond question; how much of petty personal egotisms are sacrificed for it; how many philanthropic deeds are performed; how asylums, hospitals, retreats, churches are built, and all on an account payable beyond the grave only.

He was struck still more by another thought, – that to be reconciled with life really, it is necessary to be reconciled with death first; and that without faith in something beyond the grave this reconciliation is simply impossible. But if you have faith the question drops away, as if it had never existed. “Let the devils take mourning; let us rejoice;” for if this is true, what more can be desired? Is there before one merely the view of some new existence, in the poorest case, wonderfully curious, – even that certainty amounts to peace and quiet. Pan Stanislav had an example of that, then, in Marynia. Because she was somewhat short-sighted, she held her head bent over the book; but when at moments she raised it, he saw a face so calm, so full of something like that repose which a flower has, and so serene, that it was simply angelic. “That is a happy woman, and she will be happy always,” said he to himself. “And, besides, she has sense, for if, on the opposite side, there were at least certainty, there would be also that satisfaction which truth gives; but to torture one’s self for the sake of various marks of interrogation is pure folly.”

On the way home, Pan Stanislav, thinking continually of this expression of Marynia’s, said, —

“In the church you looked like some profile of Fra Angelico; you had a face which was indeed happy.”

“For I am happy at present. And do you know why? Because I am better than I was. I felt at one time offended in heart, and I was dissatisfied; I had no hope before me, and all these put together formed such suffering that it was terrible. It is said that misfortune ennobles chosen souls, but I am not a chosen soul. For that matter, misfortune may ennoble, but suffering, offence, ill-will, destroy. They are like poison.”

“Did you hate me much then?”

Marynia looked at him and answered, “I hated you so much that for whole days I thought of you only.”

“Mashko has wit; he described this once thus to me: ‘She would rather hate you than love me.’”

“Oi! that I would rather, is true.”

Thus conversing, they reached the house. Pan Stanislav had time then to unroll his parchment hour-glass and show it to Marynia; but the idea did not please her. She looked on marriage not only from the point of view of the heart, but of religion. “With such things there is no jesting,” said she; and after a while she confessed to Pan Stanislav that she was offended with Bukatski.

After dinner Bukatski came. During those few months of his stay in Italy he had become still thinner, which was a proof against the efficacy of “chianti” for catarrh of the stomach. His nose, with its thinness, reminded one of a knife-edge; his humorous face, smiling with irony, had become, as it were, porcelain, and was no larger than the fist of a grown man. He was related both to Pan Stanislav and Marynia; hence he said what he pleased in their presence. From the threshold almost, he declared to them that, in view of the increasing number of mental deviations in the world at present, he could only regret, but did not wonder, that they were affianced. He had come, it is true, in the hope that he would be able to save them, but he saw now that he was late, and that nothing was left but resignation. Marynia was indignant on hearing this; but Pan Stanislav, who loved him, said, —

“Preserve thy conceit for the wedding speech, for thou must make one; and now tell us how our professor is.”

“He has grown disturbed in mind seriously,” replied Bukatski.

“Do not jest in that way,” said Marynia.

“And so much without cause,” added Pan Stanislav.

But Bukatski continued, with equal seriousness: “Professor Vaskovski is disturbed in mind, and here are my proofs for you: First, he walks through Rome without a cap, or rather, he walked, for he is in Perugia at present; second, he attacked a refined young English lady, and proved to her that the English are Christians in private life only, – that the relations of England to Ireland are not Christian; third, he is printing a pamphlet, in which he shows that the mission of reviving and renewing history with the spirit of Christ is committed to the youngest of the Aryans. Confess that these are proofs.”

“We knew these ways before his departure; if nothing more threatens the professor, we hope to see him in good health.”

“He does not think of returning.”

Pan Stanislav took out his note-book, wrote some words with a pencil, and, giving them to Marynia, said, —

“Read, and tell me if that is good.”

“If thou write in my presence, I withdraw,” said Bukatski.

“No, no! this is no secret.”

Marynia became as red as a cherry from delight, and, as if not wishing to believe her eyes, asked, —

“Is that true? It is not.”

“That depends on you,” answered Pan Stanislav.

“Ah, Pan Stas! I did not even dream of that. I must tell papa. I must.”

And she ran out of the room.

“If I were a poet, I would hang myself,” said Bukatski.

“Why?”

“For if a couple of words, jotted down by the hand of a partner in the house of Bigiel and Company, can produce more impression than the most beautiful sonnet, it is better, to be a miller boy than a poet.”

But Marynia, in the rapture of her joy, forgot the notebook, so Pan Stanislav showed it to Bukatski, saying, “Read.”

Bukatski read: —

“After the wedding Venice, Florence, Rome, Naples. Is that well?”

“Then it’s a journey to Italy?”

“Yes. Imagine, she has not been abroad in her life; and Italy has always seemed to her an enchanted land, which she has not even dreamed of seeing. That is an immense delight for her; and what the deuce wonder is there, if I think out a little pleasure for her?”

“Love and Italy! O God, how many times Thou hast looked on that! All that love is as old as the world.”

“Not true! Fall in love, and see if thou’lt find something new in it.”

“My beloved friend, the question is not in this, that I do not love yet, but in this, – that I love no longer. Years ago I dug that sphinx out of the sand, and it is no longer a riddle to me.”

“Bukatski, get married.”

“I cannot. My sight is too faint, and my stomach too weak.”

“What hindrance in that?”

“Oh, seest thou, a woman is like a sheet of paper. An angel writes on one side, a devil on the other; the paper is cut through, the words blend, and such a hash is made that I can neither read nor digest it.”

“To live all thy life on conceits!”

“I shall die, as well as thou, who art marrying. It seems to us that we think of death, but it thinks more of us.”

At that moment Marynia came in with her father, who embraced Pan Stanislav, and said, —

“Marynia tells me that ’t is thy wish to go to Italy after the wedding.”