Children of the Soil

“But that young woman must have a soul pure as a tear, since God pointed her out and designated her to be the guardian of that fire.”

Svirski’s arrival interrupted further conversation. For Marynia it was not a surprise, as the artist had promised her that either he would come himself or write to inform her what turn his affair had taken. Marynia, seeing him now through the window, was nearly certain that all had ended auspiciously; but when he had entered the room and greeted every one, he looked at her with such a strange face that she did not know what to divine from it. Evidently he wished to speak of the affair, and that immediately; but he did not like to do so before the old professor and Pan Stanislav. So the latter, to whom Marynia had told everything, came to his aid, and, pointing to his wife, said, —

“She needs a walk greatly; take her to the garden, for I know that she and you have some words to say.”

After a while they found themselves in the alley among the white poplars. They walked a time in silence, he swaying on his broad hips of an athlete, and seeking for something from which to begin, she bent somewhat forward, with her kindly face full of curiosity. Both were in a hurry to speak, but Svirski began at another point.

“Have you told all to your husband?” asked he, on a sudden.

Marynia blushed as if caught in a fault, and answered, —

“Yes; for Stas is such a friend of yours, and I do not like to have secrets from him.”

“Of course not,” said Svirski, kissing her hand. “You did well. I am not ashamed of that, just as I am not ashamed of this, that I got a refusal.”

“Impossible! You are joking,” said Marynia, halting.

“I give you my word that I am not.” And, seeing the pain which the news caused her, he began to speak as if with concern. “But don’t take it more to heart than I do. That happened which had to happen. See, I have come; I am standing before you; I have not fired into my forehead, and have no thought of doing so; but that I got a basket[12 - Was rejected.] is undoubted.”

“But why? what did she answer you?”

“Why? what did she answer me?” repeated Svirski. “You see, just in that is hidden something from which there is a bitter taste in my mouth. I confess to you sincerely that I did not love Panna Ratkovski deeply. She pleased me; they all please me. I thought that she would be an honest and grateful heart, and I made a declaration here; but more through calculation, and because it was time for me. Afterward I had even a little burning at the heart. There was even a moment when I said to myself, ‘Thy declaration in Buchynek was not precise enough: better put it forward another corner.’ I grew shamefaced. ‘What the deuce!’ thought I; ‘thou hast crossed the threshold with one foot; go over with the other.’ And I wrote her a letter, this time with perfect precision; and see what she has written as an answer.”

Then he drew a letter from his coat-pocket, and said, before he began to read it, —

“At first there are the usual commonplaces, which you know. She esteems me greatly; she would be proud and happy (but she prefers not to be); she nourishes for me sincere sympathy. (If she will nourish her husband as she does that sympathy, he will not be fat.) But at the end she says as follows: —

“‘I have not the power to give you my heart with such delight as you deserve. I have chosen otherwise; and if I never shall be happy, I do not wish at least to reproach myself hereafter with not having been sincere. In view of what has happened here I cannot write more; but believe me that I shall be grateful to you all my life for your confidence, and henceforth I shall pray daily that God permit you to find a heart worthy of you, and to bless you all your life.’

“That is all.”

A moment of silence followed; then Svirski said, —

“So far as I am concerned, these are empty words; but they mean, I love another.”

“That is the case, I suppose,” replied Marynia, sadly. “Poor girl! for that is an honest letter.”

“An honest letter, an honest letter!” cried Svirski. “They are all honest, too. That is why it is a little bitter for me. She doesn’t want me. All right; that is permitted to every one. She is in love; that, too, is permitted. But with whom is she in love? Not with Osnovski or Pan Ignas, of course. With whom, then? With that head of a walking-stick, that casket, that pretty man, that tailor’s model, – with that ideal of a waiting maid. You have seen such beautiful gentlemen depicted on pieces of muslin? That is he, perfectly. If he should stand in a barber’s window, young women would burst in the glass. When he wishes, he puts on a dress-coat; when not, he goes so, and all right! You remember what I said of him, – that he was a male houri? And this is bitter, and this is ill-tasting” (he spoke with growing irritation, accenting with special emphasis the word is), “and this speaks badly of women; for be thou, O man, a Newton, a Raphael, a Napoleon, and wish thou as thy whole reward one heart, one woman’s head, she will prefer some lacquered Bibisi. That’s how they are.”

“Not all women, not all. Besides, as an artist, you should know what feeling is. Something falls on a person, and that is the end of all reasoning.”

“True,” said Svirski, calmly; “I know that not all women are so. And as to love, you say that something falls, and there is an end. Perhaps so. That is like a disease. But there are diseases by which the more noble kinds of creatures are not affected. There is, for instance, a disease of the hoofs. You will permit me to say that it is needful to have hoofs in order to get this disease. But there has never been a case that a dove fell in love with a hoopoo, though a hoopoo is a very nice bird. You see that doesn’t happen to the dove. Hoopoos fall in love with hoopoos. And let them fall in love for themselves, if only they will not pretend to be doves. That is all I care. Remember how I spoke once against Panna Castelli at Bigiel’s. And still she chose Pan Ignas at last. For me, it is a question of those false aspirations, that insincerity, and those phrases. If thou art a hoopoo’s daughter, have the courage to own it. Do not pretend; do not lie; do not deceive. I, a man of experience, would have wagered my neck on this, that Panna Ratkovski is simply incapable of falling in love with Kopovski; and still she has. I am glad that here it is not a question of me, but of comedy, of that conventional lying, – and not of Panna Ratkovski, but of this, that such a type as Kopovski conquers.”

“True,” said Marynia; “but we ought to find out why all this has become entangled somehow.”

But Svirski waved his hand. “Speaking properly,” said he, “it is rather unravelled. If she had married me! surely I should have carried her at last in my arms. I give you my word. In me immensely much tenderness is accumulated. I should have been kind to her, and it would have been pleasant for both of us. I am also a little sorry for it. Still, she is not the only one on earth. You will find some honest soul who will want me; and soon, my dear lady, for in truth at times I cannot endure as I am. Will you not?”

Marynia began to be amused, seeing that Svirski himself did not take the loss of Panna Ratkovski to heart so very greatly. But, thinking over the letter a little more calmly, she remembered one phrase, to which she had not turned attention at first, being occupied entirely with the refusal, and she was disquieted by the phrase.

“Have you noticed,” asked she, “that in one place, she says, ‘After what has happened here I cannot write more’? Can you think what that may be?”

“Perhaps Kopovski has made a declaration.”

“No; in such a case she would have written more explicitly. If she has become attached to him, she is a poor girl indeed, for likely she has no property, and neither is Pan Kopovski rich, they say; therefore he would hardly decide?”

“True,” said Svirski; “you know that that came to my mind, too. She is in love with him, – that is undoubted; but he will not marry her.” Then he stopped, and said, “In such a case, why is he staying there?”

“They amuse themselves with him, and he amuses himself,” answered Marynia, hurriedly, while turning away her face somewhat, so that Svirski might not notice her confusion.

And she answered untruly. Since Pan Stanislav had shared his views with her touching Kopovski’s relations with Pani Osnovski, she had thought of them frequently; the stay of the young man in Prytulov seemed to her suspicious more than once, and explaining it by the presence of Panna Ratkovski dishonest. This dishonesty was increased, if Panna Ratkovski had fallen in love really with Kopovski. But all those intrigues might come to the surface any moment; and Marynia thought with alarm then whether the words of Panna Ratkovski – “after what has happened here” – had not that meaning precisely. In such a case it would be a real catastrophe for that honest Pan Osnovski and for Panna Steftsia.

Really everything might be involved in a tragic manner.

“I will go to-morrow to Prytulov,” said Svirski; “I wish to visit the Osnovskis, just to show that I cherish no ill-feelings. If anything has happened there really, or if any one has fallen ill, I shall discover it and let you know. Pan Ignas is not there at this moment.”

“No. Pan Ignas is in the city. To-morrow, or after to-morrow surely, he will come here, or go to Yasmen. Stas, too, is preparing for the city to-day. Sister Aniela is ill, and we wish to bring her here. Since I cannot go, Stas is going.”

“Sister Aniela? That one whom your husband calls Pani Emilia, – a Fra Angelico face, a perfectly sainted face, a beautiful face! I saw her perhaps twice at your house. Oh, if she were not a religious!”

“She is sick, the poor thing. She can barely walk. She has disease of the spine, from overwork.”

“Oh, that is bad,” said Svirski. “You will have the professor, and that poor woman? But what kind people you are!”

“That is Stas,” replied Marynia.

At that moment Pan Stanislav appeared at the end of the walk, and approached them with a hurried step.

“I hear that you are going to the city to-day,” said Svirski; “let us go together.”

“Agreed!”

And, turning to his wife, he said, —

“Marynia, hast thou not walked enough? Wilt thou lean on me?”

Marynia took his arm, and they walked to the veranda together; after that she went in to give command to bring the afternoon tea.

“I have received a wonderful despatch,” said Pan Stanislav; “I did not wish to show it before my wife. Osnovski asks me where Ignas is, and asks that I go to the city on his affair. What can that be?”

“It is a wonderful thing,” answered Svirski. “Panna Ratkovski writes me that something has happened there.”

“Has any one fallen ill?”

“They would have sent for Pan Ignas directly. If it were Panna Castelli or Pani Bronich, they would summon him at once.”

“But if Osnovski didn’t wish to frighten him, he would telegraph to me.”

And both looked each other in the eyes with alarm.