Children of the Soil

“If my future lady will consent.”

“Thy future lady will not only consent,” answered Marynia, “but she has lost her head from delight, and wants to jump through the room, as if she were ten years of age.”

To which Plavitski answered, “If the cross of a solitary old man can be of use in your distant journey, I will bless you.”

And he raised his eyes and his hand toward heaven, to the unspeakable delight of Bukatski; but Marynia drew down the raised hand, and, kissing it, said with laughter, —

“There will be time for that, papa; we are going away only after the wedding.”

“And, speaking plainly,” added Bukatski, “then there will be a buying of tickets, and giving baggage to be weighed, and starting, – nothing more.”

To this Plavitski turned to the cynic, and said, with a certain unction, —

“Have you come to this, – that you look on the blessing of a lonely old man and a father as superfluous?”

Bukatski, instead of an answer, embraced Plavitski, kissed him near the waistcoat, and said, —

“But would the ‘lonely old man’ not play piquet, so as to let those two mad heads talk themselves out?”

“But with a rubicon?” asked Plavitski.

“With anything you like.” Then he turned to the young couple: “Hire me as a guide to Italy.”

“I do not think of it,” answered Pan Stanislav. “I have been in Belgium and France, no farther. Italy I know not; but I want to see what will interest us, not what may interest thee. I have seen men such as thou art, and I know that through over-refinement they go so far that they love not art, but their own knowledge of it.”

Here Pan Stanislav continued the talk with Marynia.

“Yes, they go so far that they lose the feeling of great, simple art, and seek something to occupy their sated taste, and exhibit their critical knowledge. They do not see trees; they search simply for knots. The greatest things which we are going to admire do not concern them, but some of the smallest things, of which no one has heard; they dig names out of obscurity, occupy themselves in one way or another, persuade themselves and others that things inferior and of less use surpass in interest the better and more perfect. Under his guidance we might not see whole churches, but we might see various things which would have to be looked at through cracks. I call all this surfeit, abuse, over-refinement, and we are simply people.”

Marynia looked at him with pride, as if she would say, “Oh, that is what is called speaking!” Her pride increased when Bukatski said, —

“Thou art quite right.”

But she was indignant when he added, —

“And if thou wert not right, I could not win before the tribunal.”

“I beg pardon,” said Marynia; “I am not blinded in any way.”

“But I am not an art critic at all.”

“On the contrary, you are.”

“If I am, then, I declare that knowledge embraces a greater number of details, but does not prevent a love of great art; and believe not Pan Stanislav, but me.”

“No; I prefer to believe him.”

“That was to be foreseen.”

Marynia looked now at one, now at the other, with a somewhat anxious face. Meanwhile Plavitski came with cards. The betrothed walked through the rooms hand in hand; Bukatski began to be wearied, and grew more and more so. Toward the end of the evening the humor which animated him died out; his small face became still smaller, his nose sharper, and he looked like a dried leaf. When he went out with Pan Stanislav, the latter inquired, —

“Somehow thou wert not so vivacious?”

“I am like a machine: while I have fuel within, I move; but in the evening, when the morning supply is exhausted, I stop.”

Pan Stanislav looked at him carefully. “What is thy fuel?”

“There are various kinds of coal. Come to me: I will give thee a cup of good coffee; that will enliven us.”

“Listen! this is a delicate question, but some one told me that thou hast been taking morphine this long time.”

“For a very short time,” answered Bukatski; “if thou could only know what horizons it opens.”

“And it kills – Fear God!”

“And kills! Tell me sincerely, has this ever occurred to thee, that it is possible to have a yearning for death?”

“No; I understand just the opposite.”

“But I will give thee neither morphine nor opium,” said Bukatski, at length; “only good coffee and a bottle of honest Bordeaux. That will be an innocent orgy.”

After some time they arrived at Bukatski’s. It was the dwelling of a man of real wealth, seemingly, somewhat uninhabited, but full of small things connected with art and pictures and drawings. Lamps were burning in a number of rooms, for Bukatski could not endure darkness, even in time of sleep.

The “Bordeaux” was found promptly, and under the machine for coffee a blue flame was soon burning. Bukatski stretched himself on the sofa, and said, all at once, —

“Perhaps thou wilt not admit, since thou seest me such a filigree, that I have no fear of death.”

“This one thing I have at times admitted, that thou art jesting and jesting, deceiving thyself and others, while really the joke is not in thee, and this is all artificial.”

“The folly of people amuses me somewhat.”

“But if thou think thyself wise, why arrange life so vainly?” Here Pan Stanislav looked around on bric-à-brac, on pictures, and added, “In all this surrounding thou art still living vainly.”

“Vainly enough.”

“Thou art of those who pretend. What a disease in this society! Thou art posing, and that is the whole question.”

“Sometimes. But, for that matter, it becomes natural.”

Under the influence of “Bordeaux” Bukatski grew animated gradually, and became more talkative, though cheerfulness did not return to him.

“Seest thou,” said he, “one thing, – I do not pretend. All which I myself could tell, or which another could tell me, I have thought out, and said long since to my soul. I lead the most stupid and the vainest life possible. Around me is immense nothingness, which I fear, and which I fence out with this lumber which thou seest in this room; I do this so as to fear less. Not to fear death is another thing, for after death there are neither feelings nor thoughts. I shall become, then, a part also of nothingness; but to feel it, while one is alive, to know of it, to give account to one’s self of it, as God lives, there can be nothing more abject. Moreover, the condition of my health is really bad, and takes from me every energy. I have no fuel in myself, therefore I add it. There is less in this of posing and pretending than thou wilt admit. When I have given myself fuel, I take life in its humorous aspect; I follow the example of the sick man, who lies on the side on which he lies with most comfort. For me there is most comfort thus. That the position is artificial, I admit; every other, however, would be more painful. And see, the subject is exhausted.”

“If thou would undertake some work.”

“Give me peace. To begin with, I know a multitude of things, but I don’t understand anything; second, I am sick; third, tell a paralytic to walk a good deal when he cannot use his legs. The subject is exhausted! Drink that wine there, and let us talk about thee. That is a good lady, Panna Plavitski; and thou art doing well to marry her. What I said to thee there in the daytime does not count. She is a good lady, and loves thee.”

Here Bukatski, enlivened and roused evidently by the wine, began to speak hurriedly.