Children of the Soil

But Marynia, as if roused from a dream, inquired, while blinking, “What dost thou say?”

“I say, dreaming head, that Mashko’s wedding is over.”

She rested her head on his shoulder, and, looking into his eyes, inquired, —

“What is Mashko to me? I have my Stas.”

Pan Stanislav smiled like a man who kindly permits himself to be loved, but does not wonder that he is loved; then he kissed his wife on the forehead, with a certain distraction, for the letter had begun to occupy him, and read on. All at once he sprang up, as if something had pricked him, and cried, —

“Oh, that is a real catastrophe!”

“What has happened?”

“Panna Kraslavski has a life annuity of nine thousand rubles, which her uncle left her; beyond that, not a copper.”

“But that is a good deal.”

“A good deal? Hear what Mashko writes: —

“‘In view of this, my bankruptcy is an accomplished fact, and the declaration of my insolvency a question of time.’

“They deceived each other; dost understand? He counted on her property, and she on his.”

“At least they have something to live on.”

“They have something to live on; but Mashko has nothing with which to pay his debts, and that concerns us a little, – me, thee, and thy father. All may be lost.”

Here Marynia was alarmed in earnest. “My Stas,” said she, “perhaps thy presence is needed there; let us return, then. What a blow this will be to papa!”

“I will write Bigiel immediately to take my place, and save what is possible. Do not take this business to heart too much, my child. I have enough to buy a bit of bread for us both, and for thy father.”

Marynia put her arms around his neck. “Thou, my good – With such a man one may be at rest.”

“Besides, something will be saved. If Mashko finds credit, he will pay us; he may find a purchaser, too, for Kremen. He writes me to ask Bukatski to buy Kremen, and to persuade him to do so. Bukatski is going to Rome this evening, and I have invited him to lunch. I will ask him. He has a considerable fortune, and would have something to do. I am curious to know how Mashko’s life will develop. He writes at the end of the letter:

“‘I discovered the condition of affairs to my wife; she bore herself passively, but her mother is wild with indignation.’

“Finally he adds that at last he has fallen in love with his wife, and that if they should separate, it would be the greatest unhappiness in life for him. That lyric tale gives me little concern; but I am curious as to how all this will end.”

“She will not desert him,” said Marynia.

“I do not know; I thought myself once that she would not, but I like to contradict. Wilt thou bet?”

“No; for I do not wish to win. Thou ugly man, thou hast no knowledge of women.”

“On the contrary, I know them; and I know them because all are not like this little one who is sailing now in a gondola.”

“In a gondola in Venice, with her Stas,” answered Marynia.

They were now at the church. When they went from Mass to the hotel, they found Bukatski, dressed for the road, in a cross-barred gray suit, – which, on his frail body, seemed too large, – in yellow shoes and a fantastic cravat, tied as fancifully as carelessly.

“I am going to-day,” said he, after he had greeted Marynia. “Do you command me to prepare a dwelling in Florence for you? I can engage some palace.”

“Then you will halt on the road to Rome?”

“Yes. First, to give notice in the gallery of your coming, and to put a sofa on the stairs for you; second, I halt for black coffee, which is bad throughout Italy in general, but in Florence, at Giacosa’s, Via Tornabuoni, it is exceptionally excellent. That, however, is the one thing of value in Florence.”

“What pleasure is there for you in always saying something different from what you think?”

“But I am thinking seriously of engaging nice lodgings on Lung-Arno for you.”

“We shall stop at Verona.”

“For Romeo and Juliet? Of course; of course! Go now; later you would shrug your shoulders if you thought of them. In a month it would be too late for you to go, perhaps.”

Marynia started up at him like a cat; then, turning to her husband, said, —

“Stas, don’t let this gentleman annoy me so!”

“Well,” answered Pan Stanislav, “I will cut his head off, but after lunch.”

Bukatski began to declaim: —

“It is not yet near day:
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierc’d the fearful hollow of thine ear.”

Then, turning to Marynia, he inquired, “Has Pan Stanislav written a sonnet for you?”

“No.”

“Oh, that is a bad sign. You have a balcony on the street; has it never come once to his head to stand under your balcony with a guitar?”

“No.”

“Oh, very bad!”

“But there is no place to stand here, for there is water.”

“He might go in a gondola. With us it is different, you see; but here in Italy the air is such that if a man is in love really, he either writes sonnets, or stands under a balcony with a guitar. It is a thing perfectly certain, resulting from the geographical position, the currents of the sea, the chemical make-up of the air and the water: if a man does not write sonnets, or stand out of doors with a guitar, surely he is not in love. I can bring you very famous books on this subject.”

“It seems that I shall be driven to cut his head off before lunch,” said Pan Stanislav.

The execution, however, did not come, for the reason that it was just time for lunch. They sat down at a separate table, but in the same hall was a general one, which for Marynia, whom everything interested, was a source of pleasure, too, for she saw real English people. This made on her such an impression as if she had gone to some land of exotics; for since Kremen is Kremen, not one of its inhabitants had undertaken a similar journey. For Bukatski, and even Pan Stanislav, her delight was a source of endless jokes, but also of genuine pleasure. The first said that she reminded him of his youth; the second called his wife a “field daisy,” and said that one was not sorry to show the world to a woman like her. Bukatski noticed, however, that the “field daisy” had much feeling for art and much honesty. Many things were known to her from books or pictures; not knowing others, she acknowledged this openly, but in her expressions there was nothing artificial or affected. When a thing touched her heart, her delight had no bounds, so that her eyes became moist. At one time Bukatski jested with her unmercifully; at another he persuaded her that all the connoisseurs, so called, have a nail in the head, and that she, as a sensitive and refined nature, and so far unspoiled, was for him of the greatest importance in questions of art; she would be still more important if she were ten years of age.

At lunch they did not talk of art, because Pan Stanislav remembered his news from Warsaw, and said, —

“I had a letter from Mashko.”