Children of the Soil

“No; she is too young for that, and she seems to me sincere. It is a great thing if she acknowledges her fault so unconditionally, for it proves that untruth in life has disgusted her.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he added, —

“I remember, for example, that more than once Mashko acknowledged, as it were, that he was going by a wrong and false road; but right away he sought reasons to justify himself: ‘With us it is necessary to do so;’ ‘That is the fault of our society;’ ‘I pay with the money that is current.’ How much of this have I heard! And that was all untrue, too. Meanwhile there is a certain bravery in declaring, It is my fault absolutely. And whoso has that bravery has something left yet.”

“Then do you judge that Pan Ignas would do well to return to her?”

“I do not judge at all, nor do I suppose that it could happen.”

But the living interest roused by news from Rome, together with anxiety for Pan Ignas and Panna Castelli, passed away soon, under the pressure of a more important anxiety, which was hanging over the house of the Polanyetskis.

Toward the end of November Marynia’s health began to fail evidently. It had been failing for some time, but she concealed this fact as long as possible. A painful palpitation of the heart came on her, and weakness so great that there were days when she could not move out of an armchair. Next came pains in her back and giddiness. In the course of a week she changed so much in the eyes, and grew thin to such a degree, that even the doctors, who up to that time had considered those symptoms as the ordinary forerunners of approaching labor, began to be alarmed at them. Her transparent face assumed at times a bluish tinge; and seemed, especially when the sick woman kept her eyes closed, like the face of a dead person. Even Pani Bigiel, the greatest optimist near Marynia, could not at last resist fears; the doctor declared to Pan Stanislav plainly that under such conditions the expected event might be dangerous, both in itself and in sequences. Marynia, though weaker every day and more exhausted, was indeed the only one who did not lose hope now.

But Pan Stanislav lost it. Such a grievous time came on him that all sufferings and misfortunes which hitherto in life he had gone through seemed to him nothing in comparison with his terrible dread, which often and often became utter despair. Formerly after his wedding, in his conceptions of marriage and his hopes of the future, a child was the main thing; now for the first time he felt that he would give not only one, but all the children that he could ever have, to save that one beloved Marynia. And his heart was cut when at times Marynia repeated with her weakened voice the question which before she had asked more than once, “Stas, but if it is a boy?” He would have been glad to fall at her feet, embrace them, and say, “Let the devil take it, boy or girl, if only thou art left;” but he had to smile at her, and assure her calmly that it was all one to him. His former terrors fell upon him again; and that hope, roused by Marynia’s words, that by God’s favor a wave of evil returns as remorse only, was dissipated without a trace. Now, at moments, he had again the feeling that Marynia’s sickness might be just that returning wave. How it might be that wave he could not tell, for in vain did reason say to him that between the offence of Pani Osnovski or of Panna Castelli, for example, and the punishment which met them, there is an immediate connection which there is not in his case. Fear answered him, that evil may filter through life by such secret channels that the reason of man cannot follow it. And at this thought a dread seized him that was simply mysterious. A man in misfortune loses power of accurate reasoning; he lives under the weight of terror, and under such a weight was Pan Stanislav living. He saw only the precipice, and his own helplessness. More than once, while looking at the haggard face of Marynia, he said to himself, “One must be mad to suppose that she may not die;” and he sought desperately on the faces of those surrounding her for even a shade of hope, and with every drop of his blood, with every atom of his brain, with his whole soul and heart, he rose up against her death. It seemed to him an inconceivable injustice that she will have to close her eyes forever before he can show her how he loves her beyond every estimate; before he rewards her for all his carelessness, harsh treatment, egotism, and faithlessness; before he tells her that she has become the soul of his soul, something not only loved above all in his life, but revered. He repeated to himself that if God would not do this for him He ought to do it for her, so that in going from the world she might leave it with a feeling at least of that happiness which she had deserved. From these insolent suggestions to God of how He ought to act, he passed again to compunction, to humility, and to prayer. But meanwhile Marynia was daily more and more dangerously ill, and he, between two despairs, one of which shouted, “This cannot be,” and the other, “It must be,” – he struggled as if in a vice.

Finally, from necessity, from the fear of taking hope from Marynia, he was forced to pretend in her presence that he paid little attention to her sickness. And the doctor and Pani Bigiel warned him daily not to alarm her; his own reason indicated the same to him. And here was a new torture, since it came to his mind that she might look on this as a lack of feeling, and die with the conviction that he had never loved her. Thus everything was changed in him utterly. Sleeplessness, torment, and alarm brought him to a kind of sickly exaltation, in which even the danger, which of itself was too evident, he saw in a still higher degree. It seemed to him that there was no hope, and at times he thought of Marynia as if already dead. For whole days he was thinking over every good point of her character, – her words, her kindness, her calmness. He remembered how all loved her, and he reproached himself desperately, saying that he had never been worthy of her, that he had not loved her sufficiently, that he had not valued her enough, and, to crown all, had broken faith with her; and therefore he must lose her, and lose her deservedly.

And in the feeling that a thing so terrible was also deserved, and that it was too late for any correction, was something simply heart-rending. Even persons who during life were always loved greatly, when they go from this world, leaving their friends in sorrow because they did not love the departed enough, leave behind, of all sorrows, that which is sorest.

At the beginning of December, Svirski and Pan Ignas returned, after two months’ journey, from Italy. Pan Stanislav had grown so thin and haggard in that interval that they hardly knew him; and he, quite sunk in misery, turned scarcely any attention to them, and listened as in a dream to words of hope and consolation from both, as well as narratives, with which the honest artist tried to divert his suffering mind. What did he care now for Pan Ignas, Pani Bronich, Panna Castelli, in face of the fact that Marynia might die any day? Svirski, who had immense friendship for him, wishing to find from some point a little hope, betook himself to Pani Bigiel; but even she had not much hope to offer. The doctors themselves did not know well what the trouble was, for to her condition were added various complications, which could not be defined even. It was only known that the heart of the sick woman acted irregularly; they feared above all that, as a result of defective circulation, some coagulation in the veins might result, which would cause sudden death. Besides, even in case of a happy delivery, they feared a number of things, – exhaustion, loss of strength, and all those results which come only later. Svirski convinced himself that Pani Bigiel did not deceive herself either when, at the end of the conversation, she fell into tears, and said, —

“Poor Marynia! but he, poor man too. If even a child should be left him, he might find strength to bear the blow.”

And when she had dried her tears, she added, —

“As it is, I do not understand how he endures it all.”

That was true; Pan Stanislav did not eat and did not sleep. He had not shown himself at the counting-house for a long time; he went out only for flowers, which Marynia loved always, and the sight of which cheered her. But she was so sick that whenever he went for a bunch of chrysanthemums he returned with the terrible thought that perhaps he was bringing it for her coffin. Marynia’s own eyes opened to this, – that perhaps her death was coming. She did not wish to speak of this to her husband; but before Pani Bigiel she fell to weeping one day in grief for her own life and for “Stas.” She was tortured by the thought, how would he bear it, for she wanted that he should be awfully sorry for her, and at the same time, that he should not suffer much. Before him she pretended yet a long time to feel sure that all would end happily.

But later, when fainting spells came, she summoned courage to talk with him openly; this seemed to her a duty. Therefore one night, when Pani Bigiel, overcome by drowsiness, went to sleep, and he was watching near her as usual, she stretched her hand to him, and said, —

“Stas, I wanted to talk with thee, and beg for one thing.”

“What is it, my love?” asked Pan Stanislav.

She thought for a time evidently how to express her prayer; and then she began to speak, —

“Promise me – I know that I shall recover surely – but promise me that should it be a boy, thou wilt love and be kind.”

Pan Stanislav, by a superhuman effort, restrained the sobbing which seized his breast, and said calmly, —

“My dear love, I will always love thee and him, be sure.”

Thereupon Marynia tried to raise his hand to her lips, but from weakness she was not able to do so; then she smiled at him from thankfulness. And again she said, “Do not think that I suppose for a moment anything terrible, not at all! but I should like to confess.”

A shiver went through Pan Stanislav from head to feet.

“Well, my child,” answered he, with a voice of fear, and as it were not his own voice.

And, recollecting that once her expression “service of God” pleased him, and wishing to let him know that it was not the question of anything else here but the performance of ordinary religious duties, she repeated, with an almost glad smile, —

“The service of God.”

The confession took place next morning. Pan Stanislav was so sure that that was the end that he was almost astonished because Marynia was alive yet, and because she was even a little better in the evening.

He did not dare to admit hope into his soul. But she became brighter, and said that she breathed more easily. About midnight she began the usual warfare with him about his going to rest. Indeed, from trouble of mind and toil he looked not much better than she did. He refused at first, contending that he had slept in the daytime, and that he was refreshed, which was not true; but she insisted absolutely. He yielded all the more that there was a special woman and Pani Bigiel, besides the doctor, who for a week had slept in their house, and who assured him now that for the time there was no reason to expect any turn for the worse.

But when he went out, he did as he did usually; that is, he sat in an armchair at the door, and began to listen to what was happening in the room. In this way the hours of night passed. At the least noise he sprang up; but when the noise ceased he sat down again and began to think hurriedly and chaotically, as people do over whom danger is hanging. But at times his thoughts pressed one another, grew confused from weariness, forming, as it were, a dense crowd in which he was wandering without power to know anything. Sleep also tortured him. He had uncommon strength; but for ten days he knew not how he lived. Only black coffee and feverishness kept him on his feet. He did not yield even then, though his head was as heavy as lead and the crowd of his thoughts changed, as it were, into a black cloud, without a clear spot. He merely repeated to himself yet that Marynia was sick and he ought not to fall asleep; but these words had not the least meaning for him now.

At last toil, exhaustion, and sleepless nights conquered. A stony invincible sleep seized him, – a sleep in which there was no dreaming, in which reality perished, in which the whole world perished, and in which life itself was benumbed.

He was only roused toward morning by a knocking at the door.

“Pan Stanislav!” called the smothered voice of Pani Bigiel.

He sprang to his feet, and, gaining consciousness that moment, ran out of that room. With one glance he took in Marynia’s bed; and at sight of the closed curtains his feet tottered under him.

“What has happened?” whispered he, with whitening lips.

But Pani Bigiel answered with a voice equally low, panting a trifle, —

“You have a son.”

And she put her finger on her lips.

CHAPTER LXV

There were grievous days yet, and very grievous. Such weakness came on Marynia that her life began to quiver, like the flame of a taper. Would it quench, or would it flicker up again? At moments all were convinced that the flame was just, just dying. Still youth, and the relief brought by the coming of a child to the world, turned the scale on the life side. On a certain day the sick woman woke after long sleep, and seemed healthier. The old doctor in attendance, who witnessed the improvement, wished to convince himself more clearly that there was no deception, and asked to call in a physician with whom he had held counsel earlier. Pan Stanislav went to find him, and drove himself out of his mind almost while searching the city half a day for him; he did not dare hope yet that that turn in her sickness and in his misfortune was decisive. When at last he found the hunted doctor and brought him to the house, Pani Bigiel received him in the room adjoining the sick chamber, with moist eyelids, but with a glad face, and said, —

“She is better! decidedly better.”

The woman could not say more, for tears flowed from her eyes. Pan Stanislav grew pale from emotion; but she controlled her delight with an effort, and said, smiling through her tears, —

“She is fighting for food now. A while since she asked to have the child brought. She asked also why you did not come. But now she is fighting for food; and how she is fighting! Ah, praise be to God! Praise be to God!”

And in her excitement she threw her arms around Pan Stanislav; then he kissed her hand and did not take it from his mouth for a long time. He trembled in every limb in the struggle to repress his delight, and also the groans which had gathered in him through many days of dread and torture, and which sought to burst forth now in spite of every effort.

Meanwhile the doctors came to Marynia, and sat rather long at her bedside. When the consultation was over, and they appeared again, satisfaction was evident on their faces. After Pan Stanislav’s feverish inquiry, the doctor in regular attendance, an impetuous old man, with gold-rimmed glasses on his nose, and a golden heart in his breast, happy himself now, but greatly wearied, said, grumbling, —

“How is she? Go and thank God, – that is what!”

And Pan Stanislav went. Even had he been a man without belief, he would have gone at that moment, and thanked God with a heart swollen from tears and thankfulness, for having taken pity on him and let the wave return in the guise of pain and suffering, and not in the guise of death.

Later, when he had calmed himself, he went on tiptoe to his wife’s room, where Pani Bigiel was. Marynia was gazing straight ahead with gladsome eyes, and at the first glance it was evident that she was much better really. When she saw him, she said, —

“Ah, see, Stas – I am well!”

“Well, my love,” answered Pan Stanislav, quietly. It was not time yet for outbursts; therefore he sat down in silence near her bed. But after a while joy and great feeling for her overcame him so far that, bending down, he embraced with both hands her feet covered with the quilt, and, putting his face down to them, remained motionless.