Children of the Soil

CHAPTER LVII

Next day, half an hour after Pan Stanislav’s arrival, Osnovski rang at his house. At the sound of the bell, Pan Stanislav, who had been in great alarm since the day before, went himself to the door. He had admitted for some time that a bomb might burst in Prytulov any day; but he struggled in vain with his thoughts, to discover what connection the explosion might have with Pan Ignas.

Osnovski pressed his hand at greeting with special force, as is done in exceptional circumstances; and when Pan Stanislav invited him to his study, he asked on the way, —

“Are you living in Buchynek?”

“I am; we are perfectly alone.”

In the study, Osnovski, when he had sat in the armchair pointed out to him, bent his head and was silent for a while, breathing hurriedly meantime; for in consequence of excessive exercise he was affected somewhat with distention of the lungs. At present emotion, and the steps, obstructed his breath still more. Pan Stanislav waited patiently for some time; at last his inborn curiosity conquered, and he asked, —

“What has happened?”

“A misfortune has happened,” said Osnovski, in deep sorrow. “Ignas’s marriage is broken off.”

“Why?”

“Those are things so disagreeable that it would be better for Ignas perhaps not to know the reasons. For a time, I even hesitated to mention them. But he ought to know all; for this is a question of more importance than his self-love. Indignation and disgust may help him to bear the misfortune. The marriage is broken, for Panna Castelli is not worthy of such a man as Pan Ignas; and if to-day there could be a talk of renewing the relation, I would be the first to veto it decisively.”

Here Osnovski began to catch breath again; but Pan Stanislav, who had been listening as if fixed to the floor, burst out suddenly, —

“By the dear God, what has happened?”

“This has happened, that those ladies went abroad three days ago, with Kopovski as the betrothed of Panna Castelli.”

Pan Stanislav, who a moment before had sprung up from the chair, sat down again. On his face, with all its emotion and alarm, was reflected unspeakable astonishment. He looked for some time at Osnovski, and then, as if unable to collect his thoughts, said, —

“Kopovski? – and has Panna Castelli gone too?”

But Osnovski was too much occupied with the affair itself to turn attention to the particular form of Pan Stanislav’s inquiry.

“It is unfortunate,” said he; “you know that I am related to those ladies: my mother was a sister of Pani Bronich, and also of Lineta’s mother; and for a time we were reared together. You will understand that I would rather spare them. But let that go. Our relations are broken; and, besides, if Lineta were my own sister, I would say what I say now. As to Pan Ignas, since my wife and I are going, and that to-day I may not find him, I will even say openly that I lack courage to talk with him; but I will tell you what I saw. You, as his near friend, may be able to soften the blow; he should know everything, for in a misfortune of this kind, there is no better cure than disgust.”

Here he began to tell Pan Stanislav what he had seen in the conservatory. Excited himself, he lost breath at moments, but was unable to resist a certain astonishment at sight of the feverishness with which Pan Stanislav listened. He had hoped for cool blood in the man; he could not, of course, divine that Pan Stanislav had personal reasons, in virtue of which a narrative of that sort acted more powerfully on his nerves than would news even of the death of Pan Ignas or Panna Castelli.

“At the first moment I lost my head,” continued Osnovski; “I am not hasty, but how I avoided breaking his bones, I know not. Perhaps I remembered that he was my guest; perhaps, since it is a question here of something more important than he, I thought of Ignas; perhaps I thought of nothing. I lost my head, and went out. After a time I returned, and told him to follow me. I saw that he was pale, but decided. In my own room I told him that he had acted unworthily; that he had abused the hospitality of an honorable house; and that Lineta was a wretch, for whom I had not sufficient words of contempt; that, by this same act, her marriage with Pan Ignas was broken, – but that I would force him to marry her, though I had to go to extremities. Here it turned out that they must have taken counsel during the interval in which I left them alone; for he told me that he had been in love with Lineta a long time, and that he was ready to marry her at any moment. As to Pan Ignas, I felt that Kopovski was repeating words which Lineta had dictated, for he told me that which he could not have come at himself. He said that he was ready to give every satisfaction, but that he was not bound to count with Pan Ignas, for he had no obligations touching him: ‘Panna Lineta has chosen me finally; that,’ said he, ‘is all the worse for him, but it is her affair.’ What was going on meanwhile between aunt and Lineta, I cannot tell; it is enough that before I had finished with Kopovski, Aunt Bronich rushed in like a fury, with reproaches, saying that I and my wife had not permitted Lineta to follow the natural impulse of her heart; that we had thrust her on Pan Ignas, whom she had never loved; that Lineta had cried whole nights, and that she would have paid for that marriage with her life; that what happened now was by the express will of God, – and so for a whole hour. We are to blame; Pan Ignas is to blame, – they alone are faultless.”

Here Osnovski rubbed his forehead with his hand, and said, —

“I am thirty-six years of age; but before this affair I could not even imagine what woman’s perversity may be. I cannot understand yet such an inconceivable power of perverting things, of placing them bottom upward. I understand what the situation was; I understand that they thought everything finished with Pan Ignas, even for this alone, that I hindered, and that there was no one left for them save Kopovski. But the ease with which white was made black, and black white; that lack of moral sense, that absence of truth and justice, – that egotism without bound or bottom. The deuce might take them were it not for Ignas. He would have been most unhappy with them; but what a blow for a man of such nature, and so much in love; what a deception! But Lineta! Who could have supposed? Kopovski, such a fool, such a fool! And that young woman thought to be so full of impulses; she who a few weeks before exchanged rings, and gave her word! And she the betrothed of Pan Ignas! As God lives, a man might lose his senses.”

“A man might lose his senses,” repeated Pan Stanislav, as an echo.

A moment of silence followed.

“But is it long since this happened?” asked Pan Stanislav, at last.

“Three days ago they went to Scheveningen together. They started that very day; Kopovski had a passport. See how a supreme ass may still have some cunning. He had a passport ready, for he pretended to pay court to Panna Ratkovski, my cousin, and to be ready to go abroad with us; he pretended to be courting this one, so as to have the chance of turning the other one’s head. Ai, poor Pan Ignas, poor man! I give you my word, that if he had been my brother, I should not have had more sympathy for him. Better, better, that he had not bound himself to such a Lineta; but what a crash!”

Here Osnovski took out a handkerchief and rubbed his glasses, blinking meanwhile with a suffering and helpless expression of face.

“Why did you not inform us earlier?” inquired Pan Stanislav.

“Why did I not inform you earlier? Because my wife fell ill. Nervous attacks – God knows what! You will not believe how she took it to heart. And no wonder! Such a woman as she is – and in our house! With her sensitiveness, that was a blow, for it was a deception on the part of Lineta, whom she loved so much; and her sorrow for Ignas, and that contact with evil, and her disgust! On such a pure and sensitive nature as hers is, that was more than was needed. At the first moments I thought that she would be dangerously ill, and even now I say, God grant that it have no fatal effect on her nerves! We simply cannot give an account to ourselves of what takes place in a soul like hers at the very sight of evil.”

Pan Stanislav looked carefully at Osnovski, bit his mustache, and was silent.

“I sent for the doctor,” continued Osnovski, after a while, “and lost my head a second time. Happily, Stefania Ratkovski was there, and that worthy Pani Mashko. Both occupied themselves with Anetka so earnestly that I shall be grateful to them for a lifetime. Pani Mashko seems cold, but she is such a cordial person – ”

“I judge simply,” said Pan Stanislav, wishing to turn the conversation from Pani Mashko, “that if old Zavilovski had left his property to Ignas, all this would not have happened.”

“Perhaps not; but for me again it is not subject to doubt that if Lineta had married Ignas, and even if he owned all Pan Zavilovski’s property, her instinct would attract her toward as many Kopovskis as she might chance to meet in her lifetime; she is that kind of soul. But I understand some points; I have said that it is possible to lose one’s mind at the thought that things are as they are, but I give a partial account to myself of what has happened. Hers is too common a nature to love really such a man as Pan Ignas; she needs Kopovskis. But they talked into her various lofty impulses, and finally she talked into herself that which did not exist. They seized on Ignas through vanity, through self-love, because of public opinion, and because they had no true knowledge of themselves; but what is insincere cannot last. From the moment when their vanity was satisfied, Ignas ceased to interest those ladies. Then they were afraid that with him, perhaps, they would not have such a life as alone is of worth to them; perhaps he, with his too lofty style, began to weary them. Add to this the story of the will, which, without being certainly the main cause of the catastrophe, diminished Pan Ignas in their eyes; add, before all, the instincts of Lineta’s nature; add Kopovski, and you have an answer to all. There are women like Pani Polanyetski or my Anetka; there are women, also, like Lineta and her aunt.”

Here Osnovski was silent again for a time; then he said, —

“I see the regret and indignation of your wife, and I am sorry that you have not seen how this affected mine – or even Pani Mashko. Yes, there are women and women; but I tell you that we ought to thank God every day on our knees for having given us such wives as we have.” And his voice trembled with emotion.

Pan Stanislav, though for him it was a question mainly of Pan Ignas, was simply astounded that a man who, some minutes before, understood things so profoundly and well, could be so naïve. A bitter smile came on him, too, at mention of Pani Mashko’s indignation. In general, he was seized by a feeling of a certain crushing irony of life, the whole immensity of which he had never seen before so distinctly.

“Will you not see Ignas?” asked he, after a while.

“I tell you plainly that I do not feel sufficient courage; to-day I return to Prytulov, and to-day we will go from our station. I must take my wife abroad, – first, because she herself begged me tearfully to do so, and second, perhaps her health will be restored by change of air. We will go somewhere to the seaside, only not to Scheveningen, where they went with Kopovski. But I have a great request to make of you. You know how I love and value Ignas? Let me know by letter how the poor man receives the news, and what happens to him. I would ask the favor of Svirski, but I may not see him.”

Then Osnovski covered his face and said, —

“Ai! how sad all this is, how sad!”

“Very well,” said Pan Stanislav; “send me your address, and I will report to you how matters turn. But since the grievous mission falls to me of telling Ignas what has happened, lighten it for me. It is necessary that he receive information not from a third person, or a fourth, but from some one who saw everything. If he hears of the event from me, he may think that I represent the affair inaccurately. In such cases a man grasps at every shadow of a hope. Sit down and write to him. I will give him your letter in support of what I tell him; otherwise he may be ready to fly after them to Scheveningen. I consider such a letter indispensable.”

“Will he not come here soon?”

“No; his father is sick, and he is with him. He thinks that I shall be here only in the afternoon. Write to him surely.”

“You are right, perfectly right,” said Osnovski. And he sat down at the writing-desk.

“Irony of life, irony of life!” thought Pan Stanislav; “bloody irony is this which has met Pan Ignas. What is such a person as Panna Castelli, with her bearing of a swan, and her instincts of a chambermaid, – that ‘chosen of God,’ as Vaskovski said only yesterday? What is Pani Bronich, and Osnovski, with faith in his wife, and the nervous attacks of that wife, caused by the mere contact with evil, of such a pure soul, and the indignation of Pani Mashko? Nothing but a ridiculous human comedy, in which some are deceiving others, and others deceiving themselves; nothing but deceived and deceivers; nothing but mistakes, blindness, and errors, and lies of life, and victims of error, victims of deceit, victims of illusions; a complication without issue; a ridiculous, farcical, and desperate irony, covering the feelings, the passions, and hopes of people, just as snow covers fields in winter – and that is life.”

These thoughts were for Pan Stanislav more grievous because, rising on a basis purely personal, they became at once a kind of reckoning with his conscience. He was enough of an egoist to refer everything to himself; and he was not fool enough not to see that in that most ironical human comedy he was playing a rôle immensely abject. His position was of that sort that he wished with all the power of his breath to hiss that Panna Castelli; and still he understood that if there was any one who was not free to judge her, it was he. In what was he better? In what was he less vile? She had betrayed a man for a fool; he had betrayed his wife for a brainless puppet. She had followed her instincts of a milliner; he had followed his instincts of an ape. But she had trampled on artificial phrases merely, with which she deceived herself and others; he had trampled on principles. She had betrayed confidence, and broken her word; he had betrayed confidence also, and broken more than a word, – he had broken an oath. And in view of this what can he say? Has he the right to condemn her? If there is no way to justify her, if he is ready to acknowledge that it would be unjust and deserving of indignation for a person like her to become the wife of Pan Ignas, with what right is he the husband of Marynia? If he can find even one word of condemnation for Panna Castelli, – and it is impossible not to find it, – and he wishes to be consistent, he should separate from Marynia, which he will never have either the will or the power to do. There is a vicious circle for you. Pan Stanislav had passed many bitter moments because of his success; but this moment was so grievous that it even filled him with amazement. By degrees it became simply a torture. At last, through the simple instinct of self-preservation, he began to seek for something to give him even momentary relief. But in vain did he say to himself that such people as Kopovski would not have taken his position to heart so. That was the same consolation to him as if he had thought that a cat or a horse would not have taken it to heart so either. In vain he remembered the words of Balzac: “Infidelity, when undiscovered, is nothing; when discovered, it is a trifle.” “That’s a lie,” repeated he, gritting his teeth, “a pleasant nothing, which burns so!” He understood, it is true, that behind the fact itself there may be something which heightens or lessens its criminality; and he understood also that in his case all the circumstances are of a kind to make the fault immense and unpardonable. “Here,” thought he, “it takes from me the right of judging, the right of serving with may conscience. Those women sacrificed a man of the loftier kind for an idiot; they trampled him; they pushed him into misfortune, into tragedy, which may break him; they did this in a mean and abject manner, and I cannot, even in my soul, brand such a woman as Panna Castelli.” And never before had the truth become to him so nearly tangible that as a man for certain crimes is deprived of a share in public life, so he now had become deprived of a share in moral life. He had had remorse enough already, but now he saw still new desolations, which he had not noted at first. The more he thought over the tragedy of Pan Ignas, and took in its extent with growing clearness, the more he was seized by a dull alarm, and a kind of prescience that in virtue of a higher and mysterious logic, something terrible must happen in his fate as well. For the man who bears in his system the germs of mortal disease, death is a question of time simply.

At last, however, he found this relief, that his thoughts turned exclusively to the present, and to Pan Ignas. How will Pan Ignas receive the news? How will he hear it? In view of the man’s exaltation, in view of his deep, blind faith in Lineta, and the love which he feels for her, these questions were simply terrible. “Everything in him will be broken; all will slide away from under his feet in a moment,” thought Pan Stanislav. It seemed to him that there was something repulsive and monstrous in this, that even those relations of life which do not bear in them germs of tragedy, and which ought to end well, end badly without any reason; and that life is, as it were, a forest in which misfortunes hunt a man more venomously than dogs hunt a wild beast, for they hunt in silence. Pan Stanislav felt suddenly that besides faith in himself, which he had lost already, there might fail in him various other things too, which are more important, because they are more fundamental.

In this moment, however, he thought more of Pan Ignas than of anything else. He had a good heart, and Pan Ignas was near him; hence he was touched sincerely by his misfortune. “But that man is simply writing his sentence,” thought he, as he heard the squeak of Osnovski’s pen in the next room. “Poor fellow! And this is so undeserved.”

Osnovski finished the letter at last, and, opening the door, said, —

“I have written guardedly, but written the whole truth. May God give him strength now! Could I think that I should have to send him such news!”

But under the sincere sorrow was evident, as it were, a certain satisfaction with his own work. Clearly he judged that he had succeeded in writing better than he had expected.