Children of the Soil

“You will make their acquaintance first at our house,” said Marynia.

“I shall escape from the entrance,” said he, clasping his hands.

“Why?” asked Pan Stanislav. “It is needful to have the courage not only of one’s convictions, but of one’s verses.”

“Evidently,” said Pani Bigiel. “What is there to be ashamed of? I should look people in the eyes boldly and say: I write; yes, I write.”

“I write; yes, I write,” repeated Zavilovski, raising his head and laughing.

But Marynia continued: “You will make their acquaintance at our house; then you will leave your card with them, and after that we will visit them some evening.”

“I cannot hide my head in snow,” said he, “because there is none; but I’ll find some place of hiding.”

“But if I entreat you greatly?”

“Then I will go,” answered Zavilovski, after a while, blushing slightly; and he looked at her.

Her face, somewhat pale after protracted lying in bed, had become more delicate, and looked like the face of a maiden of sixteen. She seemed so wonderful to the young man that he could refuse her nothing.

In the evening, Pan Stanislav was to take him back to the city; but before that Marynia said to him, —

“Now you must be constrained, for you have not seen Panna Lineta Castelli; but as soon as you have seen her, you will fall in love.”

“I, Pani?” cried Zavilovski, putting his hand on his breast; “I, with Panna Castelli?”

And there was so much sincerity in his question that he was confused again; but this time Marynia herself was confused somewhat.

Meantime Pan Stanislav has finished his conversation with Bigiel about the dangers of investing capital in land, and they drive away. Marynia remembers how once she returned with her father, Pani Emilia, Litka, and Pan Stanislav from the Bigiels, in a moonlight night such as this; how “Pan Stanislav” was in love with her then; how unhappy he was; how severe she was with him; and her heart begins to beat with pity for that “Pan Stanislav,” who suffered so much on a time. She wants to nestle up to him and implore pardon for those evil moments of the past; and but for the presence of Zavilovski, she would do so.

But that old-time Pan Stanislav is sitting there calm and self-confident at her side, and smoking his cigar. Moreover, she is his; he has taken her and has her; all is over.

“Of what art thou thinking, Stas?” inquired she.

“Of the business of which I was talking with Bigiel.”

And, shaking the ashes from his cigar, he replaced it in his mouth, and drew so vigorously that a ruddy gleam lighted his mustache and a part of his face.

Zavilovski, looking at Marynia’s face, thought in his young soul that if she were his wife he would not smoke a cigar, nor think of business of which he had been talking with Bigiel, but might kneel before her and adore her on his knees.

And gradually, under the influence of the night and that sweet womanly face, which he glorified, exaltation possessed him. After a time he began to declaim, at first in silence, as if to himself, then more audibly, his verses entitled, “Snows on the Mountains.” There was in that poem, as it were, an immense yearning for something unapproachable and immaculate. Zavilovski himself did not know when they arrived in the city, and when lamps began to gleam on both sides of the street. At Pan Stanislav’s house Marynia said, —

“To-morrow, then, to a five o’clock.”

“Yes,” answered he, kissing her hand.

Marynia was sunk somewhat in revery under the influence of the ride, the night, and maybe the verses. But from the time of their stay in Rome, she and her husband had repeated the rosary together. And after these prayers a great tenderness possessed her suddenly, – as it were, an influx of feeling, hidden for a time by other impressions. Approaching him, she put her arms around his neck, and whispered, —

“My Stas, but we feel so pleasant together, do we not?”

He drew her toward him, and answered with a certain careless boastfulness, —

“But do I complain?”

And it did not occur to him that there was in her question something like a shade of doubt and sorrow, which she did not like to admit to her soul, and desired him to calm and convince her.

Next morning in the office Zavilovski gave Pan Stanislav a cutting from some paper of “Snows on the Mountains;” he read it during dinner, but with the sound of forks the verses seemed less beautiful than amid the night stillness and in moonlight.

“Zavilovski told me,” said Pan Stanislav, “that a volume would be issued soon; but he has promised to collect first everything printed in various journals, and bring it to thee.”

“No,” said Marynia; “he should keep them for Lineta.”

“Ah, they are to meet to-morrow for the first time. Ye wish absolutely to make an epoch in Zavilovski’s life?”

“We do,” answered Marynia, with decisiveness. “Aneta astonished me at first; but why not?”

Indeed, the meeting took place. The Osnovskis, Pani Bronich, and Panna Castelli came very punctually at five; Zavilovski had come still earlier, to avoid entering a room in presence of a whole society. But as it was he was not only frightened, but more awkward than usual, and never had his legs seemed so long to him. There was, however, a certain distinction even in his awkwardness; and Pani Aneta was able to see that. The first scenes of the human comedy began, in which those ladies, as well-bred persons, guarding against every rudeness and staring at Zavilovski, did not, however, do anything else; he, feigning not to see this, was not thinking of anything else than how they were looking at him and judging him. This caused him great constraint, which he strove to hide by artificial freedom; he had so much self-love, however, that he was interested in having the judgment favorable. But the ladies were so attuned previously that the decision could not be unfavorable; and even had Zavilovski turned out flat and dull it would have been taken for wisdom and poetic originality: More indifferent was the bearing of Lineta, who was somewhat astonished that for the moment, not she was the sun, and Zavilovski the moon, but the contrary. The first impression which he made on her was: “What comparison with that stupid Kopovski!”

And the incomparable, wonderful face of that “stupid” stood before her eyes as if living; therefore her lids became dreamier still, and the expression of her face called to mind a sphinx in porcelain more than ever. She is irritated, however, that Zavilovski turns almost no attention to her form of a Juno, nor to that something “mysterious and poetic,” which, as Pani Bronich insists, fetters one from the first glance. She begins to observe him gradually; and, having, besides her poetic inclination, the sense of social observation developed powerfully, she sees that he has much expression indeed, but that his coat fits badly, that he dresses, of course, at a poor tailor’s, and that the pin in his cravat is mauvais genre simply. Meanwhile he casts occasional glances at Marynia, as the one near and friendly soul, and converses with Pani Aneta, who considers it as the highest tact not to mention poetry on first acquaintance, and, knowing that Zavilovski had passed the early years of his childhood in the country, begins to chatter about her inclinations for rural life. Her husband prefers the city always, having his friends and pleasures in the city, but as to her! – “Oh, I am sincere, and I confess at once that I cannot endure land management and accounts; for this I have been scolded more than once. Besides, I am a trifle lazy; therefore I should like work in which I could be lazy. What should I like, then?”

Here she spreads out her extended fingers so as to count more easily the occupations which would suit her taste:

“First, I should like to herd geese!”

Zavilovski laughs; she seems to him natural, and, besides, the picture of Pani Osnovski herding geese amuses him.

Her violet eyes begin to laugh also; and she falls into the tone of a free and joyous maiden, who talks of everything which runs through her head.

“And you would like that?” inquires she of Zavilovski.

“Passionately.”

“Ah, you see! What else? I should like to be a fisherman. The morning dawn must be reflected beautifully in the water. Then the damp nets before the cottage, with films of water between the meshes of the net. If not a fisherman, I should like to be at least a heron, and meditate in the water on one leg, or a lapwing in the fields. But no! the lapwing is a sad kind of bird, as if in mourning.”

Here she turned to Panna Castelli, —

“Lineta, what wouldst thou like to be in the country?”

Panna Lineta raised her lids, and answered after a while, —

“A spider-web.”

The imagination of Zavilovski as a poet was touched by this answer. Suddenly a great yellow sweep of stubble stood before his eyes, with silver threads floating in the calm blue and in the sun.

“Ah, what a pretty picture!” said he.

He looked more carefully at Lineta; and she smiled, as if in thankfulness that he had felt the beauty of the image.

But at that moment the Bigiels came. Pani Bronich took Zavilovski into her sphere of influence, and so hemmed him in with her chair that he had no chance to escape. It was easy to divine the subject of their dialogue, for Zavilovski raised his eyes from time to time to Lineta, as if to convince himself that he was looking at that about which he was hearing. At last, though the conversation was conducted in subdued tones, those present heard these words, spoken as if through sugar, —

“Do you know that Napoleon – that is, I wanted to say Victor Hugo – blessed her?”

In general, Zavilovski had heard so many uncommon things that he might look at Lineta with a certain curiosity. She had been, according to those narratives, the most marvellous child in the world, always very gentle, and not strong. At ten years she had been very ill; sea air was prescribed, and those ladies dwelt a long time on Stromboli.

“The child looked at the volcano, at the sea, and clapped her little hands, repeating, ‘Beautiful, beautiful!’ We went there by chance, wandered in on a hired yacht, without object; it was difficult to stay long, for that is an empty island. There was no proper place to live in, and not much to eat; but she, as if with foreknowledge that she would regain her health there, would not leave for anything. In fact, in a month, and if not in a month, in two, she began to be herself, and see what a reed she is.”

In fact, Lineta, though shapely and not too large, in stature was somewhat taller than Pani Aneta. Zavilovski looked at her with growing interest. Before the guests separated, when he was freed at last from imprisonment, he approached her, and said, —

“I have never seen a volcano, and I have no idea what impression it may make.”

“I know only Vesuvius,” answered she; “but when I saw it there was no eruption.”

“But Stromboli?”

“I do not know it.”

“Then I have heard incorrectly, for – your aunt – ”

“Yes,” answered Lineta, “I don’t remember; I was small, I suppose.”

And on her face displeasure and confusion were reflected.

Before she took leave, Pani Aneta, without destroying her rôle of charming prattler, invited Zavilovski for some evening, “without ceremony and without a dress-coat, for such a spring might be considered summer, and in summer freedom is the most agreeable. That such a man as you does not like new acquaintances, I know, but for that there is a simple remedy: consider us old acquaintances. We are alone most generally. Lineta reads something, or tells what passes through her head; and such various things pass through her head that it is worth while to hear her, especially for a person who beyond others is in a position to feel and understand her.”

Panna Lineta pressed his hand at parting with unusual heartiness, as if confirming the fact that they could and should understand each other. Zavilovski, unused to society, was a little dazed by the words, the rustle of the robes, the eyes of those ladies, and by the odor of iris which they left behind. He felt besides some weariness, for that conversation, though free and apparently natural, lacked the repose which was always found in the words of Pani Polanyetski and Pani Bigiel. For a time there remained with him the impression of a disordered dream.

The Bigiels were to stay to dinner. Pan Stanislav therefore kept Zavilovski. They began to talk of the ladies.

“Well, and Panna Castelli?” asked Marynia.

“They have much imagination,” answered Zavilovski, after a moment’s hesitation. “Have you noticed how easy it is for them to speak in images?”

“But really, what an interesting young lady Lineta is!”

Lineta had not made a great impression on Pan Stanislav; besides, he was hungry and in a hurry for dinner, so he said somewhat impatiently, —

“What do you see in her? Interesting until she becomes an every-day subject.”

“No; Lineta will not become an every-day person,” said Marynia. “Only those ordinary, simple beings become every-day subjects who know how to do nothing but love.”

To Zavilovski, who looked at her that moment, it seemed that he detected a shade of sadness. Perhaps, too, she was weak, for her face had lily tones.

“Are you wearied?” inquired he.

“A little,” answered she, smiling.

His young, impressionable heart beat with great sympathy for her. “She is in truth a lily,” thought he; and in comparison with her sweet charm Pani Osnovski stood before him as a chattering nut-cracker, and Panna Castelli as the inanimate head of a statue. At first, after sight of Marynia, he was dreaming of a woman like her; this evening he began to dream, not of one like her, but of her. And since he was quickly aware of everything that happened in him, he noticed that she was beginning to be a “field flower,” but a beloved one.

Pan Stanislav, meeting him next day in the counting-room, asked, —

“Well, did the dreamy queen come to you in a vision?”

“No,” answered Zavilovski, blushing.

Pan Stanislav, seeing that blush, laughed, and said, —

“Ha! it’s difficult! Every one must pass that; I, too, have passed it.”

CHAPTER XLI

Marynia did not complain even to herself of her husband. So far there had not been the least misunderstanding between them. But she was forced to confess that genuine, very great happiness, and especially very great love, such as she had imagined when Pan Stanislav was her betrothed, she had imagined as different. Of this each day convinced her: her hopes had been of one kind; reality proved to be of another. Marynia’s honest nature did not rebel against this reality; but a shade of sadness came over her, and the feeling that that shade might in time be the basis of her life. With a soul full of good-will, she tried to explain to herself at the beginning that those were her own fancies. What was lacking to her, and in what could Pan Stanislav have disappointed her? He had never caused her pain purposely; as often as it occurred to him that a given thing might please her, he tried to obtain it; he was liberal, careful of her health; at times he covered her face and hands with kisses, – in a word, he was rather kind than ill-natured. Still there was something lacking. It was difficult for Marynia to describe this in one word, or in many; but her mind was too clear not to understand what her heart felt every day more distinctly, every day with more sadness. Something was wanting! After a great and solemn holiday of love, a series of common days had set in, and she regretted the holiday; she would have it last all her life; she saw now, with sorrow, that to her husband this common life seemed precisely what was normal and wished for. It was not bad, such as it was; but it was not that high happiness which “such a man” should be able to feel, create, and impart. But there was a question of other things also. She felt, for example, that she was more his than he was hers; and that though she gave him her whole soul, he returned to her only that part of his which he had designed in advance for home use. It is true that she said to herself, “He is a man; besides me he has a whole world of work and thought.” But she had hoped once that he would take her by the hand and lead her into that world, – that in the house, at least, he would share it with her; at present she could not even flatter herself that he would do so. And the reality was worse than she had imagined. Pan Stanislav, as he expressed himself, took her, and had her; and when their mutual feeling became at the same time a simple mutual obligation, he judged that it was not needful otherwise to care for her, or otherwise to be occupied with her than with any duty of every-day life. It did not come to his head simply that to such a fire it was not enough to bring common fuel, such as is put in a chimney, but that there was need to sprinkle on it frankincense and myrrh, such as is sprinkled before an altar. If a man were to tell him something like this, he would shrug his shoulders, and look on him as a sentimentalist. Hence there was in him the carefulness of a husband, perhaps, but not the anxiety of a lover, – concern, watching, or awe of that kind which, in the lower circles of earthly feelings, corresponds to fear of God in religion. On a time when, after the sale of Kremen, Marynia was indifferent to him, he felt and passed through all this; but now, and even beginning with Litka’s death, when he received the assurance that she was his property, he thought no more of her than was necessary to think of property. His feeling, resting pre-eminently on her physical charm, possessed what it wanted, and was at rest; while time could only vulgarize, cool, and dull it.

Even now, though still vivid, it lacks the alert and careful tenderness which existed, for example, in his feeling for Litka. And Marynia noticed this. Why was it so? To this she could not answer; but still she saw clearly that she was for this man, to whom she wished to be everything, something more common and less esteemed than the dead Litka.

It did not occur to her, and she could not imagine by any means, that the only reason was this, – that that child was not his, while she had given him soul and body. She judged that the more she gave, the more she ought to receive and have. But time brought her in this regard many disappointments. She could not but notice, too, that all are under a certain charm of hers; that all value her, praise her; that Svirski, Bigiel, Zavilovski, and even Pan Osnovski, look on her, not only with admiration, but with enthusiasm almost; while “Stas” regards her distinguishing traits less than any man. It had not occurred to her for a moment that he could be incapable of seeing in her and valuing that which others saw and valued so easily. What was the cause, then, of this? These questions tormented her night and day now. She saw that Pan Stanislav feigned to have in all cases a character somewhat colder and more serious than he had in reality, but to her this did not seem a sufficient answer. Unfortunately only one answer remained: “He does not love me as he might, and therefore does not value me as others do.” There was in this as much truth as disappointment and sadness.

The instinct of a woman, which, in these cases, never deceives her, warned Marynia that she had made an uncommon impression on Zavilovski; that that impression increased with every meeting. And this thought did not make her indignant; she did not burst out with the angry question, “How dare he?” since, for that matter, he had not dared anything, – on the contrary, it gave her a certain comfort, certain confidence in her own charm, which at moments she had begun to lose, but withal it roused the greater sorrow that such honor, such enthusiasm, should be shown her by some stranger, and not by “Stas.” As to Zavilovski, she felt nothing for him save a great sympathy and good-will; hence her thoughts remained pure. She was incapable of amusing herself through vanity by the suffering of another; and for that reason, not wishing him to go too far, she associated herself willingly with the plan of Pani Aneta of bringing him into more intimate relations with Panna Castelli, though that plan seemed to her as abrupt as it was unintelligible. Moreover, her heart and mind were occupied thoroughly with the questions: Why does that kind, wise, beloved “Stas” not go to the heights with her? why does he not value her as he might? why does he only love her, but is not in love with her? why does he consider her love as something belonging to him, but not as something precious? whence is this, and where lies the cause of it?

Every common, selfish nature would have found all the fault in him; Marynia found it in herself. It is true that she made the discovery through foreign aid; but she was always so eager to remove from “Stas” every responsibility, and take it on herself, that though it caused fear, this discovery brought her delight almost.

Once, on an afternoon, she was sitting by herself, with her hands on her knees, lost in thoughts and questions to which she could find no answer, when the door opened, and in it appeared the white head-dress and dark robe of a Sister of Charity.

“Emilka!” cried Marynia, with delight.

“Yes; it is I,” said the Sister. “This is a free day for me, and I wished to visit thee. Where is Pan Stanislav?”

“Stas is at the Mashkos, but he will return soon. Ah, how glad he will be! Sit down and rest.”

Pani Emilia sat down and began to talk. “I should run in oftener,” said she, “but I have no time. Since this is a free day, I was at Litka’s. If you could see how green the place is, and what birds are there!”

“We were there a few days ago. All is blooming; and such rest! What a pity that Stas is not at home!”

“True; besides, he has a number of Litka’s letters. I should like to ask him to lend them to me. Next week I’ll run in again and return them.”

Pani Emilia spoke calmly of Litka now. Maybe it was because there remained of herself only the shadow of a living person, which was soon to be blown away; but for the time there was in it undisturbed calm. Her mind was not absorbed so exclusively now by misfortune, and that previous indifference to everything not Litka had passed. Having become a Sister of Charity, she appeared again among people, and had learned to feel everything which made their fortune or misfortune, their joy or their sorrow, or even pleasure or suffering.

“But how nice it is in this house! After our naked walls, everything here seems so rich to me. Pan Stanislav was very indolent at one time: he visited the Bigiels and us, never wished to be elsewhere; but now I suppose he bestirs himself, and you receive many people?”

“No,” answered Marynia; “we visit only the Mashkos, Pani Bronich, and the Osnovskis.”

“But wait! I know Pani Osnovski; I knew her before she was married. I knew the Broniches, too, and their niece; but she had not grown up then. Pan Bronich died two years ago. Thou seest how I know every one.”

Marynia began to laugh. “Really, more people than I do. I made the acquaintance of the Osnovskis in Rome only.”

“But I lived so many years in Warsaw, and everything came to my ears. I was in the house apparently, but the world occupied me. So frivolous was I in those days! For that matter, thy present Pan Stas knew Pani Osnovski.”

“He told me so.”

“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, —