Children of the Soil

“Young Aryans, I suppose, who in hours of freedom draw purses out of pockets?”

“No, they are good souls; but I cannot leave them without care. I must seek out a successor who will live in my place.”

“But who would roast himself here? How dost thou live in such heat?”

“Because I sit without a coat; and wilt thou permit me not to put it on? It is a little warm here; but perspiration is wholesome, and these little feathered creatures crave heat.”

Pan Stanislav looked around. In the room there were at least a dozen and a half of buntings, titmice, finches. Sparrows, accustomed evidently to be fed, looked in in flocks through the window. The professor kept in his room only birds purchased of dealers; sparrows he did not admit, saying that if he did there would be no end to their numbers, and that it would be unjust to receive some and reject others. The chamber birds had cages fastened to the walls and the inner sash of the window, but went into them only at night; during daylight they flew through the chamber freely, filling it with twitter, and leaving traces on books and manuscripts, with which all the corners and the tables were filled.

Some of the birds which had become very tame sat on Vaskovski’s head even. On the floor husks of hemp-seed cracked under one’s feet. Pan Stanislav, who knew that chamber thoroughly, still shrugged his shoulders, and said, —

“All this is very good, but that the professor lets them light and sing on his head; that, God knows, is too much. Besides, it is stifling here.”

“That is the fault of Saint Francis of Assisi,” answered Vaskovski, “for I learned from him to love these little birds. I have even a pair of doves, but they are home-stayers.”

“Thou wilt see Bukatski, of course; I received a letter from him, – here it is.”

“May I read it?”

“I give it to thee for that very purpose.”

Vaskovski read the letter, and said when he had finished, “I have always liked this Bukatski; he is a good soul, but – he has a little something here!” Vaskovski began, to tap his forehead with his fingers.

“This is beginning to amuse me,” exclaimed Pan Stanislav. “Imagine to thyself, Professor, for a certain number of days some one taps himself on the forehead and says of some one of our acquaintance, ‘He has something here!’ A charming society!”

“If it is a little so, it is a little so!” answered Vaskovski, with a smile. “and knowest thou what this is? It is the usual Aryan trouble of soul; and in us, as Slavs, there is more of that than in the west, for we are the youngest Aryans, and therefore neither reason nor heart have settled yet into a balance. We are the youngest Aryans: we feel with more vividness; we take everything to heart more feverishly; and we arrange ourselves to the practice of life with more passion. I have seen much; I have noticed this for a long time. What wonderful natures! Just look, for example, the German students can carouse, – that doesn’t hinder them from either working or fashioning themselves into practical people; but let a Slav take this habit, and he is lost, he will do himself to death! And so with everything. A German will become a pessimist and write volumes on this, – that life is despair; but he will drink beer meanwhile, rear children, make money, cultivate his garden, and sleep under a feather tick. A Slav will hang himself, or ruin himself with mad life, with excess, smother himself in a swamp into which he will wade purposely. My dear, I remember men who Byronized themselves to death. I have seen much; I have seen men who, for example, took a fancy to peasants, and ended with drinking vodka in peasant dramshops. There is no measure with us, and there cannot be, for in us, to the excessive acceptance of every idea, are joined frivolousness and knowest what vanity. O my God, how vain we are! how we wish to push ourselves forward always, so that we may be admired and gazed at! Take this Bukatski: he has sunk in scepticism up to his ears in fact; in pessimism, Buddhism, decadency, and in what else besides – do I know? – and in these too there is a chaos at present. He has sunk so deeply that those miasmas are really poisoning him; but dost thou think that with this he is not posing? What wonderful natures! those who are most sincere, who have the most vivid feelings, taking all things to heart most powerfully, – are at the same time comedians. When a man thinks of this, he loves them, but he wants to laugh and to weep.”

Pan Stanislav recalled how during his first visit to Kremen he had told Marynia of his Belgian times, when, living with some young Belgians, occupying himself with pessimism, he noticed finally that he took all these theories far more to heart than the Belgians, and that, through this, these theories spoiled his life more. Hence he said now, —

“Professor, thy speech is truthful. I have seen such things too, and the devils will take us all.”

Vaskovski fixed his mystic eyes on the frosty window-panes, and said, —

“No; some one else will take us all. That hotness of blood, that capacity for accepting an idea, are the great basis of the mission which Christ has designed for the Slavs.” Here Vaskovski pointed to a manuscript stained by the birds, and said mysteriously, —

“I am going with that; that is the labor of my life. Dost wish I will read from it?”

“As God lives, I haven’t time; it is late already.”

“True. It is growing dark. Then I will tell thee in brief words. Not only do I think, but I believe most profoundly, that the Slavs have a great mission.”

Here Vaskovski halted, began to rub his forehead, and said, —

“What a wonderful number, – ‘three.’ There is some mystery in it.”

“Thou wert going to speak of a mission,” said Pan Stanislav, disquieted.

“Never fear; the one has connection with the other. There are three worlds in Europe: the Roman, the German, and the Slav. The first and second accomplished what they had to do. The future is for that third.”

“And what has that third to do?”

“Social conditions, justice, the relations of man to man, the life of individuals, and that which is called private life, are founded on Christian science, no matter what comes. The incoherence of men has deformed this science, but still everything stands on it. Only the first half of the problem is solved, – the first epoch. There are people who think that Christianity is nearing its end. No; the second epoch is about to begin. Christ is in the life of individuals, but not in history. Dost understand? To bring Him into history, to found on Him the relations of peoples, to create the love of our neighbor in the historical sense, – that is the mission which the Slav world has to accomplish. But the Slavs are deficient in knowledge yet; and the need is to open their eyes to this mission.”

Pan Stanislav was silent, for he had nothing to answer.

Vaskovski continued: “This is what I have been pondering over a lifetime, and have explained in this work.” Here he pointed to a manuscript. “This is the labor of my life. Here this mission is outlined.”

“On which meanwhile the buntings are – ” thought Pan Stanislav. “And surely it will be that way a long time.” But aloud he said, “And it is thy hope, Professor, that when such a work is printed – ”

“No; I hope nothing. I have a little love, but I am a man too insignificant, too weak in mind. This will vanish, as if some one had thrown a stone into water; but there will be a circle. Let some chosen one come later on; for I know that what is predestined will not fail. He will not refuse the mission even if he wishes. There is no use in bending men from their predestination, nor in changing them by force. What is good in a different place may be bad in this, for God made us for another use. The labor is vain. Vainly too wilt thou persuade thyself that thy only wish is to gain money; thou, like others, must follow the voice of predestination and nature.”

“I am following it indeed, for I am going to marry; that is, if I be accepted.”

Vaskovski embraced him.

“I wish thee happiness! This is perfect! May God bless thee! I know that the little maid indicated it to thee. But remember how I told thee that she had something to do, and that she would not die till she had done it. May God give her light, and a blessing to both of you! Besides, Marynia is golden.”

“And to thee, beloved Professor, a happy journey and a successful mission!”

“And to thee, thy wish for thyself.”

“What do I wish?” asked Pan Stanislav, joyfully. “Well, so, half a dozen little missionaries.”

“Ah rogue! thou wert always a rogue!” answered Vaskovski. “But fly off, fly off; I will visit thee once more.”

Pan Stanislav flew out, sat on a droshky, and gave command to take him to the Plavitskis’. On the road he was arranging what to say to Marynia; and he prepared a little speech, partly sentimental, and partly sober, as befits a positive man who has found really that which he was seeking, but who also is marrying through reason. Evidently Marynia looked for him much later; for there was no light in the chamber, though the last gleam of twilight was quenched. Pan Stanislav, for a greeting, began to kiss both her hands, and, forgetting completely his wise introduction, asked in a voice somewhat uncertain and excited, —

“Have you received the flowers and the letter?”

“I have.”

“And did you guess why I sent them?”

Marynia’s heart beat with such force that she could not answer.

Pan Stanislav inquired further, with a still more broken voice, —

“Do you agree to Litka’s wish, – do you want me?”

“I do,” answered Marynia.

Then he, in the feeling that it was proper to thank her, sought words in vain; but he pressed her hands more firmly to his lips, and, holding them both, drew her gently nearer and nearer. Suddenly a flame seized him; he put his arms around her, and began to seek her lips with his own. But Marynia turned away her head so that he could kiss only the hair on her temples. For a while only their hurried breathing was heard in the darkness; at last Marynia wrested herself from his arms.

A few moments later the servant brought a light. Pan Stanislav, recovering himself, was alarmed at his own boldness, and looked into Marynia’s eyes with disquiet. He was sure that he had offended her, and was ready to beg her forgiveness. But he saw with wonder that there were no traces of anger in her face. Her eyes were downcast, her cheeks flushed, her hair disarranged somewhat; it was evident that she was disturbed and, as it were, dazed, but withal only penetrated with the perfect sweetness of that fear which comes to a woman who is loved, and who, in passing over the new threshold, feels that she must yield something there, but who passes over and yields because she wishes. She loves, and she is obliged to yield in view of the rights which she accords to the man.

But a vivid feeling of gratitude passed through Pan Stanislav at sight of her. It seemed to him then that he loved her as he had loved of old, before Litka’s death. He felt also that in that moment he could not be too delicate nor too magnanimous; hence, taking her hand again, he raised it to his lips with great respect, and said, —

“I know that I am not worthy of you; there is no discussion on that point. God knows that I shall always do for you what is in my power.”