Children of the Soil

“Oh, ho! and you will appear to her in a dream first, and then sit for her, I am sure,” said Marynia. “And that will be well.”

Zavilovski added with a voice somewhat uncertain, —

“She told me, it is true, that that is a tribute which she likes and extorts from good acquaintances; she did not turn to me, however, directly, with this request. Had it not been for Pani Bronich, there would have been no talk of it.”

“Pani Bronich saved the Muse the trouble,” said Pan Stanislav.

“But that will be well,” said Marynia.

“Why?” inquired Zavilovski; and he looked at her with a glance at once submissive and alarmed. The idea that she might push him to another woman purposely, because she divined what was passing in his heart, attracted him, and at the same time filled him with fear.

“Because,” answered Marynia, “I, indeed, am almost unacquainted with Panna Lineta, and judge only from my first impressions and from what I hear of her; but it seems to me that hers is an uncommon nature, and that there is something deep in her heart. It is well, then, that you should become acquainted.”

“I also judge from first impressions,” answered Zavilovski, quieted; “and it is true that Pani Castelli seems to me less shallow than Pani Osnovski. In general, those are beautiful and pleasant ladies; but – maybe I cannot define it, because I am not acquainted enough with society – but, coming away from them, I had a feeling as if I had been travelling on the railway with exceedingly charming foreign ladies, who amused themselves by conversing very wittily – but nothing more. Something foreign is felt in them. Pani Osnovski, for example, is exactly like an orchid, – a flower very peculiar and beautiful, but a kind of foreign flower. Panna Castelli is also that way, and in her there is nothing homelike. With them there is no feeling that one grew up on the same field, under the same rain and same sunshine.”

“What intuition this poet has!” said Pan Stanislav.

Zavilovski became so animated that on his delicate forehead the veins in the form of the letter Y became outlined more distinctly. He felt that his blame of those ladies was also praise for Marynia, and that made him eloquent.

“Besides,” continued he, “there exists a certain instinct which divines the real good wishes of people; it is not divined in that house. They are pleasant, agreeable, but their society has the appearance of form only; therefore I think that an earnest man, who becomes attached to people easily, might experience there many deceptions. It is a bitter and humiliating thing to mistake social tares for wheat. As to me, that is just why I fear people; for though Pan Stanislav says that I have intuition, I know well that at the root of the matter I am simple. And such things pain me tremendously. Simply my nerves cannot endure them. I remember that when still a child I noticed how people acted toward me in one way before my parents, and in another when my parents were absent; that was one of the great vexations of my childhood. It seemed to me contemptible, and pained me, as if I myself had done something contemptible.”

“Because you have an honest nature,” said Pani Bigiel.

He stretched forth his long arms, with which he gesticulated, when, forgetting his timidity, he spoke freely, and said, —

“O sincerity! in art and in life, that is the one thing!”

But Marynia began, in defence of those ladies: “People, and especially men, are frequently unjust, and take their own judgments, or even suppositions, for reality. As to Pani Osnovski and Lineta, how is it possible to suspect them of insincerity? They are joyful, kind, cordial, and whence should that come if not from good hearts?” Then, turning to Zavilovski, she began at him, partly in earnest, partly in jest, “You have not such an honest nature as Pani Bigiel says, for those ladies praise you, and you criticise them – ”

But Pan Stanislav interrupted her with his usual vivacity: “Oh, thou art an innocent, and measurest all things with thy own measure. Wilt thou understand this, that petty cordiality and kindness may flow also from selfishness, which likes to be cosey and comfortable.

“If you,” said he, turning to Zavilovski, “pay such homage to sincerity, it is sitting before you! You have here a real type of it.”

“I know that! I know that!” said Zavilovski, with warmth.

“But is it thy wish to have me otherwise?” inquired Marynia, laughing.

He laughed also, and answered: “No, I would not. But, by the way, what a happiness it is that thou are not too small, and hast no need of heels; for shouldst thou wear them, chronic inflammation of the conscience would strike thee for deceiving people.”

Marynia, seeing that Zavilovski’s eyes were turned toward her feet, hid them under the table involuntarily, and, changing the subject, said, —

“But your volume is coming out these days, I think?”

“It would have been published already, but I added one poem; that causes delay.”

“And may we know what the poem is called?”

“Lilia” (Lily).

“Is it not Lilia-Lineta?”

“No; it is not Lilia-Lineta.”

Marynia’s face grew serious. For her, it was easy to divine from the answer that the poem was to her and about her; hence she felt a sudden vexation, because she alone and one other, Zavilovski, knew this, and that there had arisen between them, for this cause, a sort of secret known to them only. This seemed to her not in accord with that honesty of hers mentioned a moment earlier, and a kind of sin against “Stas.” For the first time, she saw the mental trouble into which a woman may fall, even though she be most in love with her husband and most innocent, if only the not indifferent look of another man fall on her. It seemed to her impossible, in any case, to lead her husband into the secret of her supposition. For the first time, she was seized by a certain anger at Zavilovski, who felt this straightway with his nerves of an artist, just as the barometer reflects a change of atmosphere; and, being a man without experience, he took the matter tragically. He imagined that Marynia would close her doors on him, would hate him, that he would not be able to see her; and the world appeared in mourning colors all at once to him. In his artistic nature there existed a real mixture of selfishness and fantasy with genuine tenderness, well-nigh feminine, which demanded love and warmth. Having become acquainted with Marynia, he cleaved to her with the selfishness of a sybarite, to whom such a feeling is precious, and who thinks of nothing else; next, his fancy raised her to poetic heights, and enhanced her charm a hundredfold, made her a being almost beyond the earth; and, finally, his native sensitiveness, to which loneliness and the want of a near heart caused actual pain, was so moved by the goodness with which he was received, that from all this was produced something having every appearance of love. A physical basis was lacking to this feeling, however. Besides his capacity for impulses, as ideal as the soul itself is, Zavilovski, like most artists, had the thoughts of a satyr. Those thoughts were sleeping at that time. He arrayed Marynia in so many glories and so much sacredness that he did not desire her; and if, against every likelihood, she were to cast herself on his neck unexpectedly, she would cease to be for him æsthetically that which she was, and which he wished her to be in future, – that is, a stainless being. All the more, therefore, did he judge that he could permit himself such a feeling, and all the more was he grieved now to part with that intoxication which had lulled his thought in such a beautiful manner, and filled the void of his life. It had been so pleasant for him, on returning home, to have a womanly figure at whose feet he had placed his soul, – to have one of whom to dream, and to whom he might write verses. Now he understands that if she discovers definitely what is taking place in him, if he does not succeed in hiding this better than hitherto, their relations cannot endure, and the former void, more painful than ever, will surround him a second time. He began then to think how he was to escape this, and how, not only not to lose anything of what he had enjoyed so far, but to see Marynia still oftener. In his quick imagination, there was no lack of methods. When he had made a hasty review, he found and chose one which, as it seemed to him, led directly to his object.

“I will fall in love, as it were, with Panna Castelli,” said he to himself, “and will confess to Pani Polanyetski my torments. That not only will not separate us, but will bring us nearer. I will make her my patroness.”

And straightway he begins to arrange the thing as if he were arranging objects. He imagines that he is in love with that “dreamy queen;” that he is unhappy, and that he will confess his secret to Marynia, who will listen to him willingly, with eyes moist from pity, and, like a real sister, will place her hand on his head. This play of fancy seemed to him so actual, and his sensitiveness was so great, that he composed expressions with which he would confess to Marynia; he found simple and touching ones, and he did this with such occupation that he himself was moved sincerely.

Marynia, returning home with her husband, thought of that poem entitled “Lilia,” which had delayed the issue of the book. Like a real woman, she was somewhat curious about it, and feared it a little. She feared too in general the difficulty which the future might bring in the relation with Zavilovski. And under the influence of these fears she said, —

“Knowest thou of what I am thinking? That Lineta would be a great prize for Zavilovski.”

“Tell me,” answered Pan Stanislav, “what shot this Zavilovski and that girl into thy head.”

“I, my Stas, am not a matchmaker, I say only that it would not be bad. Aneta Osnovski is rather a hot head, it is true; but she is so lively, such a fire spark.”

“Abrupt, not lively; but believe me that she is not so simple as she seems, and that she has her own little personal plan in everything. Sometimes I think that Panna Lineta concerns her as much as she does me, and that at the root of all this something else is hidden.”

“What could it be?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t know, perhaps, because I don’t care much. In general, I have no faith in those women.”

Their conversation was interrupted by Mashko, who was just driving in by the road before their house; and, seeing them, he hastened to greet Marynia, and said then to Pan Stanislav, —

“It is well that we have met, for to-morrow I am going away for a couple of days, and to-day is my time for payment, so I bring thee the money.”

“I have just been at your father’s,” said he, turning to Marynia. “Pan Plavitski seems in perfect health; but he told me that he yearns for the country and land management, therefore he is thinking whether to buy some little place near the city, or not. I told him that if we win the will case he can stay at Ploshov.”

Marynia did not like this conversation, in which there was evident, moreover, a slight irony; hence she did not wish to continue it. After a while Pan Stanislav took Mashko to his study, —

“Then is all going well?” asked he.

“Here is the instalment due on my debt,” answered Mashko; “be so kind as to give a receipt.”

Pan Stanislav sat down at his desk, and wrote a receipt.

“But now there is another affair,” continued Mashko: “I sold some oak in Kremen once, on condition that I might redeem it, returning the price and a stipulated interest. Here is the price and the interest. I trust that thou hast nothing to add; I can only thank thee for a real service rendered, and shouldst thou ever need something of me, I beg thee, – without any ceremony, I beg thee to come to me, service for service. As is known to thee, I like to be grateful.”

“This monkey is beginning to patronize me,” thought Pan Stanislav. And if he had not been in his own house, he might have uttered the silent remark aloud; but he restrained himself and said, —

“I have nothing to add; such was the contract. Besides, I have never considered that as business.”

“All the more do I esteem it,” answered Mashko, kindly.

“Well, what is to be heard in general?” inquired Pan Stanislav. “Thou art moving with all sails, I see. How is it with the will?”

“On behalf of the benevolent institutions a young little advocate is appearing named Sledz (herring). A nice name, isn’t it? If I should call a cat by that name, she would miau for three days. But I’ll pepper that herring and eat him. As to the lawsuit? It stands this way, that at the end of it I shall be able to withdraw from law in all likelihood, which, moreover, is not an occupation befitting me – and I will settle in Kremen permanently.”