Children of the Soil

“Through such women!”

But Vaskovski, sitting near, said in a low voice, —

“Leave them to the mercy of God.”

“Is it possible?” said Bigiel, turning to Pan Stanislav; “and thou hadst no suspicion?”

“It did not come to my head even that he would shoot himself. I saw clearly that he was struggling with his feelings. For a while, when we were riding, his chin trembled, as if he wished to burst into weeping; but he is a brave soul. He restrained himself at once, and to appearance was calm. He deceived me mainly by his promise to come next day.”

“Do you know what seems to me?” continued he, after a while; “the last drop which overflowed the cup was Pani Bronich’s letter. Ignas gave it to me to read. She wrote that what had happened was the will of God; that the fault was on his side; that he was an egotist; but that they were obeying the voice of conscience and justice; that they forgave him, and begged God to forgive him too, – in a word, unheard of things! I saw that that made a desperate impression on him, and I imagine what must have taken place in a man so injured and of such spirit, when he saw that in addition to everything else injustice was attributed to him; when he understood that it is possible for people to set everything at naught and distort it, to trample on reason, truth, and the simplest principles of justice, and then shield themselves behind the Lord God. For that matter I was not concerned; but when I saw the cynicism, the want of moral understanding, as God lives, I asked myself this question: Am I mad, and are truth and honesty mere illusions on earth?”

Here Pan Stanislav was so indignant at Pani Bronich’s letter that he tugged at his beard feverishly, and Svirski said, —

“I understand that even a believer may spit upon life in such moments.”

Here Vaskovski rubbed his forehead with his hand, and then said to himself, —

“Yes; I have seen that kind, too. For there are people who believe, not through love, but as it were because atheism is bankrupt, as it were from despair, who imagine to themselves that somewhere, off behind phenomena, there is not a merciful Father, who places his hand on every unfortunate head, but some kind of He, unapproachable, inscrutable, indifferent; it is all one, in such case, whether that He is called the Absolute, or Nirvana. He is only a concept, not love. It is impossible to love this He; and when misfortune comes, people spit on life.”

“That is well,” answered Svirski, testily; “but meanwhile Pan Ignas is lying with a broken skull, and they have gone to the seashore, and it is pleasant for them.”

“Whence do you know that it is pleasant for them?” answered Vaskovski.

“The deuce fire them!” said Svirski.

“But I say to you that they are unhappy. No one may trample on truth and go unpunished. They will talk various things into each other, but one thing they will not be able to talk into each other, – that is, self-respect; they will begin to despise themselves in secret, and at last even that attachment which they had for each other will be turned into secret dislike. That is inevitable.”

“The deuce fire them!” repeated Svirski.

“The mercy of God is for them, not for the good,” concluded Vaskovski.

Meanwhile Bigiel talked with Pan Stanislav, admiring the kindness and courage of Panna Helena.

“For there will be a fabulous amount of gossip from this,” said he.

“She does not care for that,” answered Pan Stanislav. “She does not count with society, for she wants nothing of it. She, too, is a resolute soul. She showed Pan Ignas always exceptional attachment, and his act must have shocked her tremendously. Do you know the history of Ploshovski?”

“I knew him personally,” said Svirski. “His father was the first man in Rome to predict success to me. Of Panna Helena they say, I think, that she was betrothed to Ploshovski.”

“No, she was not; but in her secret heart perhaps she loved him greatly. Such was his fortune. It is certain that since his death she has become different altogether. For a woman so religious as she is, his suicide must in truth have been dreadful, for just think, not to be able even to pray for a man whom one has loved. And now again Pan Ignas! If any one, it is she who is doing everything to save him. Yesterday I was there; she came out to me barely alive, pale, weary, without having slept. And there is some one else to watch with her. Panna Ratkovski told me of her, that for four days she hadn’t slept one hour, perhaps.”

“Panna Ratkovski?” inquired Svirski, quickly; and he began mechanically to seek with his hand in the coat pocket where he had her letter.

He remembered then her words: “I have chosen otherwise, and if I shall never be happy, I do not wish at least to reproach myself afterwards with insincerity.” “Now for the first time I understand the meaning and real tragedy of those words. Now, in spite of all social appearances, without regard to the tongues of people, this young girl has gone to watch over that suicide. What could this mean? The case is clear as the sun. It is true that Kopovski went abroad with another; but she had expressed always openly what she thought of Kopovski, and if she had cared nothing for Pan Ignas, she would not have gone this time to watch at his bedside. It seems to me that I am an ass,” muttered Svirski.

But that was not the only conclusion to which he came after mature consideration. All at once a yearning for Panna Ratkovski took hold of him, and sorrow that that had not happened which might have happened, as well as immense pity for her. “Thou hast become a poodle again, old fellow,” said he to himself, “and it serves thee right! A good man would have felt sorrow, but thou didst begin to be angry and condemn her for loving a fool and pretending to aspiration, and for having a low nature; thou didst talk ill of her before Pani Polanyetski and before him; didst do injustice to a kind and unfortunate person, not because her refusal pained thee too greatly, but through thy own self-love. Served thee right, right! thou art an ass; thou art not worthy of her; and thou wilt be knocking around alone till death, like a mandrill, behind a menagerie grating.”

In these reproaches there was a portion of truth. Svirski had not fallen in love decidedly with Panna Ratkovski; but her refusal pained him more deeply than he acknowledged, and, not being able to master his vexation, he gave way to general conclusions about women, citing Panna Ratkovski as an example, and to her disadvantage.

Now he saw the whole vanity of such conclusions. “These stupid syntheses have ruined me always,” thought he. “Women are individuals like all people; and the general concept woman explains nothing whatever. There is a Panna Castelli, there is a Pani Osnovski, in whom I admit various rascalities, without, however, having proof of them; but on the other hand there is a Pani Polanyetski, a Pani Bigiel, a Sister Aniela, a Panna Helena, and a Panna Stefania. Poor child! and so it serves me right. She was there suffering in silence, and I was gnashing my teeth. If that girl isn’t worth ten times more than I, then that sun isn’t worth my pipe. She had a sacred reason in giving a refusal to such a buffalo. I will go to the Orient, and that is the end of the matter. Such light as there is in Egypt, there is nowhere else on earth. And what an honest woman! Moreover, she has done me good, even with her refusal, for through her I have convinced myself that my theory about women should be broken on the back of a dog. But if Panna Helena puts a whole regiment of dragoons before her door, I must see that poor girl and say what I think to her.”

In fact, he went on the following morning to Panna Helena’s. They did not wish to admit him, but he insisted so much that at last he was admitted. Panna Helena, judging that friendship and anxiety alone had brought him, conducted him even to the chamber in which the wounded man was lying. There, in the gloom of fastened blinds, he saw Pan Ignas, from whom came the odor of iodine, his head bound, his jaw protruding; and with him those two wearied out women, the fever of sleeplessness on their faces, and really like two shadows. The wounded man lay with open lips; he was changed, and resembled himself in nothing. He was as if incomparably older; his eyelids were swollen, and protruding from under the bandage. Svirski had liked him greatly, and with his sensitiveness had not less sympathy for him than had Pan Stanislav and Osnovski; he was struck, however, this time by his deformity. “He has fixed himself,” thought he; then, turning to Panna Helena, he asked in an undertone, —

“Has he not regained consciousness?”

“No,” answered she, in a whisper.

“What does the doctor say?”

Panna Helena moved her thin hand in sign that all was uncertain yet.

“This is the fifth day,” whispered she again.

“And the fever decreases,” said Panna Ratkovski.

Svirski wished to offer his services in watching the sick man; but Panna Helena indicated with her eyes a young doctor, whom he was not able to distinguish at once in the darkness, but who, sitting in an armchair near the table, with a basin and pile of iodine wadding, was dozing from weariness, waiting till another should relieve him.

“We have two,” said Panna Ratkovski, “and besides people from the hospital, who know how to nurse the sick.”

“But you ladies are wonderfully wearied.”

“It is a question here of the sick man,” answered she, looking toward the bed.

Svirski followed her glance. His eyes were better accustomed now to the gloom, and saw distinctly the face, motionless, with lips almost black. The long body was motionless also, only the fingers of his emaciated hand, lying on the coverlet, stirred with a monotonous movement, as if scratching.

“They will take him out in a couple of days, as God is in Heaven!” thought he, remembering his colleague, that “Slav” with whom Bukatski had disputed in his time, and who, when he had shot himself in the head, died only after two weeks of torture.

Wishing, however, to give comfort to the women, he said, in spite of that of which he was certain, —

“Wounds of this kind are either mortal at once, or are cured.”

Panna Helena made no answer, but her face contracted nervously, and her lips grew pale. Evidently there was a terrible thought in her soul, that he also might die, and she did not wish to admit that she had had enough with that other suicide, and at the same time it was for her a question of something more than saving his life for Pan Ignas.

Svirski began to take farewell. He entered with a speech prepared for Panna Ratkovski, to whom he had resolved to acknowledge that he had judged her unjustly, and to express all the homage which he felt for her, and to beg for her friendship; but in presence of the real tragedy of those two women, and of the danger of death, and of that half corpse, he saw at once that everything which he intended to say would be poor and petty, and that it was not the time for such empty and personal matters.

He merely pressed to his lips in silence the hand of Panna Helena, and then that of Panna Ratkovski; and, going out of that room filled with misfortune and permeated with iodine, he drew a deep breath. In his artistic imagination was represented distinctly the changed Pan Ignas, ten years older, with bound head and black lips. And in spite of all the sympathy which he had for the man, indignation seized him all at once.

“He made a hole in his skull,” muttered he; “he made a hole in his talent, – and doesn’t care! and those souls there are dragging themselves to death and trembling like leaves.”

Then a feeling, as it were of jealousy, took hold of him, as if he were sorry for himself, and he began to speak in a monologue, —

“Well, old man! but if thou, for example, were to pack a bit of lead into thy talent, no one would walk at thy bedside on tiptoe.”

Further meditation was interrupted by Pan Plavitski; who, meeting him at the cross-street, stopped him, and began conversation, —

“I am just from Karlsbad,” said he. “O Lord, how many elegant women! I am going to Buchynek to-day. I have just seen Stanislav, and know that my daughter is well; but he has grown thin somehow.”

“Yes for he has had trouble. Have you heard of Pan Ignas?”