Children of the Soil

“Panna Marynia is well,” answered Pan Stanislav.

“But the old man?”

“A few days ago a distant relative of his died, – a very wealthy woman; he is counting, therefore, on an inheritance. He told me so yesterday; but I hear that she has left all her property for benevolent purposes. The will is to be opened to-day or to-morrow.”

“May God have inspired her to leave something to Marynia! But let us come to our affair. I need not tell you, gentlemen, that it is our duty to finish it amicably, if we can.”

Kresovski bowed. Introductions like this, which he had heard in his life God knows how often, annoyed him.

“We are profoundly convinced of this duty.”

“So I had hoped,” answered Yamish, benevolently. “I confess myself that Pan Gantovski had not the least right to act as he did. I recognize even as just that he should be punished for it; hence I shall persuade him to all, even very considerable, concessions, fitted to assure proper satisfaction to Pan Mashko.”

Kresovski took from his pocket the folded paper, and gave it, with a smile, to Pan Yamish, saying, —

“Pan Mashko demands nothing more than that Pan Gantovski should read this little document, to begin with, in presence of his own and Pan Mashko’s seconds, as well as in presence of Pan Mashko’s subordinates, who were present at the scene, and then write under it his own respected name.”

Pan Yamish, finding his spectacles among his papers, put them on his nose, and began to read. But as he read, his face grew red, then pale; after that he began to pant. Pan Stanislav and Kresovski could scarcely believe their eyes that that was the same Pan Yamish who a moment before was ready for every concession.

“Gentlemen,” said he, with a broken voice, “Pan Gantovski has acted like a water-burner, like a thoughtless man; but Pan Gantovski is a noble, and this is what I answer in his name to Pan Mashko.”

When he said this, he tore the paper in four pieces, and threw them on the floor.

The thing had not been foreseen. Kresovski began to meditate whether Yamish had not offended his dignity of a second by this act, and in one moment his face began to grow icy, and contract like that of an angry dog; but Pan Stanislav, who loved Pan Yamish, was pleased at his indignation.

“Pan Mashko is injured in such an unusual degree that he cannot ask for less; but Pan Kresovski and I foresaw your answer, and it only increases the respect which we have for you.”

Pan Yamish sat down, and, being somewhat asthmatic, breathed rather heavily for a time; then he grew quiet, and said, —

“I might offer you an apology on the part of Pan Gantovski, but in other expressions altogether; I see, however, that we should be losing time merely. Let us talk at once of satisfaction, weapon in hand. Pan Vilkovski, Pan Gantovski’s other second, will be here soon; and if you can wait, we will fix the conditions immediately.”

“That is called going straight to the object,” said Kresovski, who quite agreed with Pan Yamish.

“But from necessity, – and sad necessity,” replied Yamish.

“I must be in my office at eleven,” said Pan Stanislav, looking at his watch; “but, if you permit, I will run in here about one o’clock, to look over the conditions and sign them.”

“That will do. We cannot draw up conditions that will rouse people’s laughter, that I understand and inform you; but I count on this, – that you, gentlemen, will not make them too stringent.”

“I have no thought, I assure you, of quarrelling to risk another man’s life.” So saying, Pan Stanislav started for his office, where, in fact, a number of affairs of considerable importance were awaiting him, and which, in Bigiel’s absence, he had to settle alone. In the afternoon he signed the conditions of the duel, which were serious, but not too stringent. He went then to dinner, for he hoped to find Mashko in the restaurant. Mashko had gone to Pani Kraslavski’s; and the first person whom Pan Stanislav saw was Plavitski, dressed, as usual, with care, shaven, buttoned, fresh-looking, but gloomy as night.

“What is my respected uncle doing here?” asked Pan Stanislav.

“When I have trouble, I do not dine at home usually, and this to avoid afflicting Marynia,” answered Plavitski. “I go somewhere; and as thou seest, the wing of a chicken, a spoonful of preserve, is all that I need. Take a seat with me, if thou hast no pleasanter company.”

“What has happened?”

“Old traditions are perishing; that has happened.”

“Bah! this is not a misfortune personal to uncle.”

Plavitski glanced at him gloomily and solemnly. “To-day,” said he, “a will has been opened.”

“Well, and what?”

“And what? People are saying now throughout Warsaw: ‘She remembered her most distant relatives!’ Nicely did she remember them! Marynia has an inheritance, has she? Knowest thou how much? Four hundred rubles a year for life. And the woman was a millionnaire! An inheritance like that may be left to a servant, not to a relative.”

“But to uncle?”

“Nothing to me. She left fifteen thousand rubles to her manager, but mentioned no syllable about me.”

“What is to be done?”

“Old traditions are perishing. How many people gained estates formerly through wills, and why was it? Because love and solidarity existed in families.”

“Even to-day I know people on whose heads thousands have fallen from wills.”

“True, there are such, – there are many of them; but I am not of the number.”

Plavitski rested his head on his hand, and from his mouth issued something in the style of a monologue.

“Yes, always somewhere somebody leaves something to somebody.” Here he sighed, and after a while added, “But to me no one leaves anything, anywhere, at any time.”

Suddenly an idea equally cruel and empty occurred to Pan Stanislav on a sudden to cheer up Plavitski; therefore he said, —

“Ai! she died in Rome; but the will here was written long ago, and before that one there was another altogether different, as people tell me. Who knows that in Rome a little codicil may not be found, and that my dear uncle will not wake up a millionnaire some day?”

“That day will not come,” answered Plavitski. Still the words had moved him; he began to gaze at Polanyetski, to squirm as if the chair on which he was sitting were a bed of torture, and said, at last, “And you think that possible?”

“I see in it nothing impossible,” answered Pan Stanislav, with real roguish seriousness.

“If the wish of Providence.”

“And that may be.”

Plavitski looked around the hall; they were alone. He pushed back his chair on a sudden, and, pointing to his shirt-bosom, said, —

“Come here, my boy!”

Pan Stanislav inclined his head, which Plavitski kissed twice, saying at the same time, with emotion, —

“Thou host consoled me; thou hast strengthened me. Let it be as God wills, but thou hast strengthened me. I confess to thee now that I wrote to Panna Ploshovski only to remind her that we were living. I asked her when the rent term of one of her estates would end; I had not, as thou knowest, the intention to take that place, but the excuse was a good one. May God reward thee for strengthening me! The present will may have been made before my letter. She went to Rome later; on the way she must have thought of my letter, and therefore of us; and, to my thinking, that is possible. God reward thee!”

After a while his face cleared up completely; all at once he laid his hand on Pan Stanislav’s knee, and, clicking with his tongue, cried, —

“Knowest what, my boy? Perhaps in a happy hour thou hast spoken; and might we not drink a small bottle of Mouton-Rothschild on account of this codicil?”

“God knows that I cannot,” said Pan Stanislav, who had begun to be a little ashamed of what he had said to the old man. “I cannot, and I will not.”