Children of the Soil

“They met at public balls. At that time she was to marry Pan Kopovski. There were tears and despair, for her father opposed it. But she succeeded well, did she not? Pan Osnovski was always a very good man.”

“And to her he is the very best. But I did not know that she was to marry Kopovski; and that astonishes me, she is so intelligent.”

“Praise to God, she is happy, if she would think so! Happiness is a rare thing, and should be used well. I have learned now to look at the world quite impartially, as only those can who expect nothing for themselves from it; and knowest thou what comes more than once to my head? That happiness is like eyes, – any little mote, and at once tears will follow.”

Marynia laughed a little sadly, and said, —

“Oi! that’s a great truth.”

A moment of silence ensued; then Pani Emilia, looking attentively at Marynia, laid her transparent hand on her hand mildly, and asked, —

“But thou, Marynia, art happy, art thou not?”

Such a desire to weep seized Marynia on a sudden that she resisted it only with the utmost effort; that lasted, however, one twinkle. Her whole honest soul trembled suddenly at the thought that her tears or sorrow would be a kind of complaint against her husband; therefore she mastered her emotion by strength of will, and said, —

“If only Stas is happy!” And she raised her eyes, now perfectly calm, to Pani Emilia, who said, —

“Litka will obtain that for thee. I inquired only because thou wert in appearance somehow gloomy, as I entered. But I know best how he loved thee, and how unhappy he was when thou wert angry with him because of Kremen.”

Marynia’s face was bright with a smile. So pleasant to her was every word of his former love that she was ready to listen to that kind of narrative, even if it went on forever.

Pani Emilia continued, while touching her hand: “But thou, ugly child, wert so cruel as neither to value nor regard his true attachment, and I was angry at times with thee. At times I feared for the honest Pan Stanislav; I was afraid that he would grow sick of life, lose his mind, or become misanthropic. For seest thou when one wrinkle is made in the depth of the heart, it may not be smoothed for a lifetime.”

Marynia raised her head, and began to blink as if some light had struck her eyes suddenly.

“Emilka, Emilka!” cried she, “how wise thy discourse is!”

Pani Emilia was called now “Sister Aniela;” but Marynia always gave her her old name.

“What! wise? I am just talking of old times. But Litka will implore for thee happiness, which God will grant, for thou and Stas deserve it, both of you.”

And she made ready to go. Marynia tried to detain her till “Stas” came, but in vain, for work was awaiting her in the institution. She chatted, however, at the door, fifteen minutes longer, in the manner of women; at last she went away, promising to visit them again the coming week.

Marynia returned to her armchair at the window, and, resting her head on her hand, fell to meditating on Pani Emilia’s words; after a while she said, in an undertone, —

“The fault is mine.”

It seemed to her that she had the key to the enigma, – she had not known how to respect a power so true and so mighty as love is. And now, in her terrified heart, that love seemed a kind of offended divinity which punishes. In the old time Pan Stanislav had been on his knees in her presence. As often as they met, he had looked into her eyes, watching for forgiveness from her heart, and from those memories, pleasant, departed, but dear, which connected them. If at that time she had brought herself to straightforwardness, to magnanimity; if she had extended her hands to him, as her secret feeling commanded, – he would have been grateful all his life, he would have honored her, he would have honored and loved with the greater tenderness, the more he felt his own fault and her goodness. But she had preferred to swaddle and nurse her feeling of offence, and coquet at the same time with Mashko. When it was necessary to forget, she would not forget; when it was necessary to forgive, she would not forgive. She preferred to suffer herself, provided he suffered also. She had given her hand to Pan Stanislav when she could not do otherwise, when not to give it would have been simply dishonorable and stupid stubbornness. That stifled love, it is true, rose up in its whole irrepressible might then, and she loved, heart and soul, but too late. Love had been injured; something had broken, something had perished. In his heart there had come an ill-omened wrinkle like that of which Pani Emilia had spoken; and now she, Marynia, was harvesting only what she had sown with her own hand.

He is not guilty of anything in this case, and if any one has spoiled another’s life, it is not he who has spoiled her life; it is she who has spoiled his.

Such a terror possessed her at this thought, and such sorrow, that for a moment she looked at the future with perfect amazement. And she wished to weep, too, and weep like a little child. If Pani Emilia had not gone, she would have done so on her shoulder. She was so penetrated with the weight of her own offences that if at that moment some one had come and tried to free her of this weight, if this one had said to her, “Thou art as guilty as a dove,” she would have considered the speech dishonest. The most terrible point in her mental conflict was this, – that at the first moment the loss seemed irreparable, and that in the future it might be only worse and worse, because “Stas” would love her less and less, and would have the right to love her less and less, – in one word, she saw no consolation before her.

Logic said this to her: “To-day it is good in comparison with what it may be to-morrow; after to-morrow, a month, or a year. And here it is a question of a lifetime!”

And she began to exert her poor tortured head to discover, if not a road, at least some path, by which it would be possible to issue from those snares of unhappiness. At last, after a long effort, after God knows how many swallowed tears, it seems to her that she sees a light, and that that light, in proportion as she looks at it, increases.

There is, however, something mightier than the logic of misfortune, mightier than committed offences, mightier than an offended divinity, which knows nothing but vengeance, – and this is the mercy of God.

She has offended; therefore she ought to correct herself. It is needful, then, to love “Stas,” so that he may find all which has perished in his heart; it is needful to have patience, and not only not to complain of her present lot, but to thank God and “Stas” that it is such as it is. If greater griefs and difficulties should come, it is necessary to hide them in her heart in silence, and endure long, very long, even whole years, till the mercy of God comes.

The path began to change then into a highway. “I shall not go astray,” said Marynia to herself. She wanted to weep from great joy then; but she judged that she could not permit that. Besides, “Stas” might return at any moment, and he must find her with dry eyes.

In fact, he returned soon. Marynia wished at the first moment to throw herself on his neck, but she felt such guilt in reference to him that some sudden timidity stopped her; and he, kissing her on the forehead, inquired, —

“Was any one here?”

“Emilia was, but she could not stay longer. She will come next week.”

He was irritated at this.

“But, my God! thou knowest that it is such a pleasure for me to see her; why not let me know? Why didst thou not think of me, knowing where I was?”

She, like a child explaining itself, spoke with a voice in which tears were trembling, but in which there was at the same time a certain trust, —

“No, Stas, on the contrary, as I love, I was thinking all the time of thee.”

CHAPTER XLII

“But you see I was there,” said Zavilovski, joyously, at the Bigiels’. “They looked on me somewhat as they might on a panther, or a wolf, but I turned out a very tame creature; I tore no one, killed no one, answered with more or less presence of mind. No; I have long since considered that it is easier to live with people than it seems, and only in the first moments have I a wish always to run away. But those ladies are indeed very free.”

“I beg you not to put us off, but tell exactly how it was,” said Pani Bigiel.

“How it was? Well, first, I entered the inclosure of the villa, and did not know what to do further, or where the Osnovskis lived, or Pani Bronich; whether to pay them a visit at once, or whether it was necessary to visit both separately.”

“Separately,” said Pan Stanislav; “Pani Bronich has separate apartments, though they have one drawing-room, which they use in common.”

“Well, I found all in that drawing-room; and Pani Osnovski first brought me out of trouble, for she said that she would share me with Pani Bronich, and that I should make two visits at one time. I found Pani Mashko there and Pan Kopovski; and he is such a man, so beautiful that he ought to have on his head one of those velvet-crowned caps which jewellers wear. Who is Kopovski?”

“An idiot!” answered Pan Stanislav. “In that is contained his name, his manner of life, his occupation, and personal marks. Another description of the man would not be needed even in a passport.”

“Now I understand,” said Zavilovski; “and certain words which I heard have become clear for me. That gentleman was sitting, and the young ladies were painting him. Pani Osnovski, his full face in oil; Panna Castelli, his profile in water-colors. Both had print skirts over their dresses, and both were beautiful. Evidently Pani Osnovski is just beginning to paint, but Panna Castelli has had much practice.”

“Of what did they talk?”

Zavilovski turned to Marynia. “First, those ladies asked about your health; I told them that you looked better and better.”

He did not say, however, that on that occasion he had blushed like a student, and that at present he consoled himself only with the thought that all had been so occupied in painting that they did not notice him, in which he was mistaken. He was confused now a little, and, wishing to hide this, continued, —

“Later we spoke of painting, of course, and portraits. I observed that Panna Castelli took something from the head of Kopovski; she answered me, —

“‘It is not I, but nature.’

“She is a witty young lady; she said this in a perfectly audible voice. I began to laugh, all the others too, and with us Kopovski himself. He must have an accommodating character. He declared later on that if he looked worse to-day than usual, it was because he had not slept enough, and that he was in a hurry for the embraces of Orpheus.”

“Orpheus?”

“That’s what he said. Pan Osnovski corrected him without ceremony; but he did not agree to the correction, saying Orpheus at least ten times, and that he remembered well. Those ladies amused themselves a little with him, but he is such a fine-looking fellow that they are glad to paint him. But what an artist Panna Castelli is! When she went to showing me various plain surfaces with the brush, and lines on the portraits of Pan Kopovski, which she had begun, she touched colors, ‘What a line, that is! and what tones these are!’ I must do her the justice to say that she looked at the time like one of the Muses. She told me that it pleases her beyond everything to paint portraits, and that she meditates on a face to begin with, as on a model, and that she dreams of those heads in which there is anything uncommon.”