Children of the Soil

“You are an old acquaintance of mine. I have read nothing of late, for we have just returned home; has anything appeared while we were gone?”

“No, Pani,” answered he; “I occupy myself with that as Pan Bigiel does with music, – in free moments, and for my own amusement.”

“I do not believe this,” said Marynia.

And she was right not to believe, for it was not true at all. Zavilovksi’s reply was lacking also in candor, for he wished to let it be known that he desired beyond all to pass as the correspondent of a commercial house, and to be considered an employee, not a poet. He gave a title to Bigiel and Pan Stanislav, not through any feeling of inferiority, but to show that when he had undertaken office work he considered it as good as any other, that he accommodated himself to his position, and would do so in the future. There was in this also something else. Zavilovski, though young, had observed how ridiculous people are, who, when they have written one or two little poems, pose as seers, and insist on being considered such. His great self-esteem trembled before the fear of the ridiculous; hence he fell into the opposite extreme, and was almost ashamed of his poetry. Recently, when suffering great want, this feeling became almost a deformity, and the least reference by any one to the fact that he was a poet brought him to suppressed anger.

But meanwhile he felt that he was illogical, since for him the simplest thing would have been not to write and publish poems; but he could not refrain. His head was not surrounded with an aureole yet, but a few gleams had touched it; these illuminated his forehead at one moment, and then died, in proportion as he created, or neglected. After each new poem the gleam began again to quiver; and Zavilovski, as capable as he was ambitious, valued in his heart those reflections of glory more than aught else on earth. But he wanted people to talk of him only among themselves, and not to his eyes. When he felt that they were beginning to forget him, he suffered secretly. There was in him, as it were, a dualism of self-love, which wanted glory, and at the same time rejected it through a certain shyness and pride, lest some one might say that too much had been given. And many contradictions besides inhered in him, as a man young and impressionable, who takes in and feels exceptionally, and who, amidst his feelings, is not able frequently to distinguish his own personal I. For this reason it is that artists in general seem often unnatural.

Now came dinner, during which conversation turned on Italy, and people whom the Polanyetskis had met there. Pan Stanislav spoke of Bukatski and his last moments, and also of the dead man’s will, by which he became the heir to a fairly large sum of money. By far the greater part was to be used for public objects, and touching this he had to confer with Bigiel. They loved Bukatski, and remembered him with sympathy. Pani Bigiel had even tears in her eyes when Marynia stated that before death he had confessed; and that he died like a Christian. But this sympathy was of the kind that one might eat dinner with; and if Bukatski had, in truth, sighed sometimes for Nirvana, he had what he wanted at present, since he had become for people, even those near him, and who loved him, a memory as slight as it was unenduring. A week longer, a month, or a year, and his name would be a sound without an echo. He had not earned, in fact, the deep love of any one, and had not received it; his life flowed away from him in such fashion that after even a child like Litka, there remained not only a hundred times more sorrow, but also love and memorable traces. His life roused at first the curiosity of Zavilovski, who had not known him; but when he had heard all that Pan Stanislav narrated, he said, after thinking a while, “An additional copy.” Bukatski, who joked at everything, would have been pained by such an epitaph.

Marynia, wishing to give a more cheerful turn to conversation, began to tell of the excursions they had made in Rome and the environs, either alone, with Svirski, or the Osnovskis. Bigiel, who was a classmate of Osnovski, and who from time to time saw him yet, said, —

“He has one love, – his wife; and one hatred, – his corpulence, or rather, his inclination to it. As to other things, he is the best man on earth.”

“But he seems quite slender,” said Marynia.

“Two years ago he was almost fat; but since he began to use a bicycle, fence, follow the Banting system, drink Karlsbad in summer, and go in winter to Italy or Egypt to perspire, he has made himself slender again. But I have not said truly that he has a hatred for corpulence; it is his wife who has, and he does this through regard for her. He dances whole nights, too, at balls, for the same reason.”

“He is a sclavus saltans. “Svirski has told us of this already.”

“I understand that it is possible to love a wife,” said Bigiel; “it is possible to consider her, according to the saying, as the apple of the eye. Very well! But, as I love God, I have heard that he writes verses to his wife; that he opens books with his eyes closed, marks a verse with his finger, and divines to himself from what he reads whether he is loved. If it comes out badly, he falls into melancholy. He is in love like a student, – counts all her glances, strives to divine what this or that word is to mean, kisses not only her feet and hands, but when he thinks that no one is looking, he kisses her gloves. God knows what it is like! and that for whole years.”

“How much in love!” said Marynia.

“Would it be to thy liking were I such?” asked Pan Stanislav.

She thought a while, and answered, “No; for in that case thou wouldst be another man.”

“Oh, that is a Machiavelli,” said Bigiel. “It would be worth while to write down such an answer, for that is at once a praise, and somewhat of a criticism, – a testimony that as it is, is best, and that it would be possible to wish for something still better. Manage this for thyself, man.”

“I take it for praise,” said Pan Stanislav, “though you” (here he turned to Pani Bigiel), “will say surely that it is resignation.”

“The outside is love,” answered Pani Bigiel, laughing; “resignation may come in time, as lining, if cold comes.”

Zavilovski looked on Marynia with curiosity; she seemed to him comely, sympathetic, and her answer arrested his attention. He thought, however, that only a woman could speak so who was greatly in love, and one for whom there was never enough of feeling. He began to look at Pan Stanislav with a certain jealousy; and because he was a great hermit, the words of the song came at once to his head, “My neighbor has a darling wife.”

Meanwhile, since he had been silent a whole hour, or had spoken a couple of words merely, it seemed to him that he ought to engage in the conversation somehow. But timidity restrained him, and, besides, a toothache, which, when the sharpest pain had passed, was felt yet at moments acutely enough. This pain had taken all his courage; but he rallied finally, and asked, —

“But Pani Osnovski?”

“Pani Osnovski,” said Pan Stanislav, “has a husband who loves for two; therefore she has no need to fatigue herself, so Svirski, at least, insists. She has Chinese eyes; she is Aneta by name; has filling in her upper teeth, which is visible when she laughs much, therefore she prefers to smile; in general, she is like a turtle-dove, – she turns in a circle, and cries, ‘Sugar! sugar!’”

“That is a malicious man,” said Marynia. “She is beautiful, lively, witty; and Pan Svirski cannot know how much she loves her husband, for surely he hasn’t mentioned the matter to her. All these are simply suppositions.”

Pan Stanislav thought two things: first, that they were not suppositions; and second, that he had a wife who was as naïve as she was honest.

But Zavilovski said, —

“I am curious to know what would happen were she as much in love with him as he is with her.”

“It would be the greatest double egotism that the world has ever witnessed,” said Pan Stanislav. “They would be so occupied with each other that they would see no other thing or person on earth.”

Zavilovski smiled, and said, “Light does not prevent heat; it produces it.”

“Taking matters strictly, that is rather a poetical than a physical comparison,” said Pan Stanislav.

But Zavilovski’s answer pleased the two ladies, so both supported him ardently; and when Bigiel joined them, Pan Stanislav was outvoted.

After that they talked of Mashko and his wife. Bigiel said that Mashko had taken up an immense case against Panna Ploshovski’s million-ruble will, in which a number of rather distant heirs appeared. Pan Plavitski had written of this to Marynia while she was in Italy; but, considering the whole affair such an illusion as were aforetime the millions resting on the marl of Kremen, she barely mentioned it to her husband, who waved his hand on the whole question at once. Now, as Mashko had taken up the affair, it seemed more important. Bigiel supposed that there must be some informality in the will, and declared that if Mashko won, he might stand on his feet right away, for he had stipulated an immense fee for himself. The whole affair roused Pan Stanislav’s curiosity greatly.

“But Mashko has the elasticity of a cat,” said he; “he always falls on his feet.”

“And this time thou shouldst pray that he may not break his back,” answered Bigiel; “for it is a question of no small amount, both for thee and thy father-in-law. Ploshov alone with all its farms is valued at seven hundred thousand rubles; and, besides, there is much ready money.”

“That would be wonderful, such unexpected gain!” said Pan Stanislav.

But Marynia heard with pain that her father had indeed appeared among the other heirs in the suit against the will. “Stas” was for her a rich man, and she had blind faith that he could make millions if he wished; her father had an income, and, besides, she had given him the life annuity from Magyerovka; hence poverty threatened no one. It would have been pleasant indeed for her to be able to buy Kremen, and take “Stas” there in summer, but not for money got in this way.

“I am only pained by this,” said she, with great animation. “That money was bequeathed so honestly. It is not right to change the will of the dead; it is not right to take bread from the poor, or schools. Panna Ploshovski’s brother’s son shot himself; it may have been for her a question of saving his soul, of gaining God’s mercy. This breaking of the will is not right. People should think and feel differently.”

She grew even flushed somewhat.

“How determined she is!” said Pan Stanislav.

But she pushed forward her somewhat too wide mouth, and called out with the expression of a pouting child, —

“But say that I am right, Stas; say that I am right. ’T is thy duty to say so.”

“Without doubt,” answered Pan Stanislav; “but Mashko may win the case.”

“I wish him to lose it.”

“How determined she is!” repeated Pan Stanislav.

“And how honest, what a noble nature!” thought Zavilovski, framing in his plastic mind conceptions of goodness and nobility in the form of a woman with dark hair, blue eyes, a lithe form, and mouth a trifle too wide.

After dinner Bigiel and Pan Stanislav went for a cigar and black coffee to the office, where they had to hold meanwhile the first consultation concerning the objects for which Bukatski’s property had been bequeathed. Zavilovski, as a non-smoker, remained with the ladies in the drawing-roam. Then Marynia, who, as lady principaless, felt it her duty to give courage to the future employee of the “house,” approached him, and said, —

“I, as well as Pani Bigiel, wish that we should all consider one another as members of one great family; therefore I hope that you will count us too as your good acquaintances.”

“With the greatest readiness, if you permit me,” answered Zavilovski. “As it is, I would have testified my respect.”

“I made the acquaintance of all the gentlemen in the office only at my wedding. We went abroad immediately after; but now it will come to a nearer acquaintance. My husband told me that he should like to have us meet one week at Pan Bigiel’s, and the next week at our house. This is a very good plan, but I make one condition.”

“What is that?” asked Pani Bigiel.

“Not to speak of any mercantile matter at those meetings. There will be a little music, for I hope that Pan Bigiel will attend to that; sometimes we’ll read something, like ‘On the Threshold.’”