Читать книгу: «Children of the Soil», страница 49

CHAPTER LXIV

Panna Helena, also, before her departure, received a letter from Pani Bronich, in the style of that which Marynia had received, and, like Marynia, she did not show it to Pan Ignas. Besides, Pan Ignas went away with Svirski a week later without visiting any acquaintance except Panna Ratkovski. Svirski, in person, kept him from all visits; and Pan Stanislav, in conversations with his wife, declared that he had acted rightly. “At present,” said he, “it would be disagreeable both for Ignas, and for us. Those who saw him every day are different, for they are used to him; but no one else could refrain from looking at the scar which is left on his forehead. Besides, Ignas has changed very much. During the journey he will recover perfectly; on his return we shall receive him as if nothing had happened; and strangers will see in him, above all, a wealthy young lord.”

And it might have been so in reality. But meanwhile, there was loneliness around the Polanyetskis, because of that departure. Their circle of acquaintances had scattered on all sides. Osnovski remained still in Brussels; where Pani Aneta had gone no one knew. Pani Bronich and Panna Castelli were in Paris; there was no one at Yasmen. Pani Kraslavski and her daughter shut themselves in, and lived only for each other; and finally sickness had confined to her bed poor Pani Emilia, once and forever.

There remained only the Bigiels and the professor. But he was sick, too, and, moreover, he had become so peculiar that strangers considered him a lunatic. Some said with a certain irony that a man who thinks that the spirit of Christianity will penetrate into politics as it has into private life, must be indeed of sound mind. He began himself to think about death, and to make preparations for it. Frequently he repeated to Pan Stanislav his desire to die “in the ante-chamber to the other world,” and in view of that was preparing for Rome. But since he loved Marynia greatly, he wished to wait till after her sickness.

In this way time passed in great seclusion for the Polanyetskis. It was for that matter necessary for Marynia, who in recent days had felt very ill, and necessary for her state of feeling. Pan Stanislav worked over business in the counting-house, and over himself; he was working out in himself a new man, and watching over his wife. She, too, was preparing herself for a new epoch in life; and she was preparing herself gladly, for it seemed to her that what she did would act upon both of them. Pan Stanislav became daily less absolute in some way, more condescending in his judgments of people, and milder, not only in relation to her, but in relation to all persons with whom life brought him into contact. He surrounded her with exceptional, with thoughtful care; and though she supposed that this care had in view not so much her person as the child, she recognized this as proper, and was grateful. She was astonished at times by a kind of timidity and, as it were, hesitation in his treatment of her; but not being able to divine that he was simply curbing his feeling for her, she ascribed such exhibitions to “Stas’s” fear as to whether all would end well in her case.

Whole weeks passed in this manner. Their monotony was broken sometimes by a letter from Svirski, who, when he could seize a free moment, reported what he could of himself and Pan Ignas. In one of those letters he inquired in Pan Ignas’s name if Pani Polanyetski would permit him to send a description of his impressions in the form of letters to her. “I spoke with him of this in detail,” wrote Svirski. “He contends first that it might be agreeable to the lady to have echoes from a land which has left her so many pleasant memories; and second, that it would lighten his work greatly were he to write as if privately. He is well; he walks, eats, and sleeps perfectly. Every evening I see too that he sits at his desk and prepares to write. I concluded that he was trying poetry, also. Somehow it does not succeed, for he has not written anything yet, so far as I know. I suppose, however, that all will come out by degrees, and in season. Meanwhile the form of letters would lighten his work, perhaps, really. I will add in conclusion that he mentions Panna Helena with immense gratitude; and at every mention of Panna Ratkovski, his eyes become bright. I speak of her to him frequently, for what can I, poor man, do? When anything is not predestined, there is no help in the case; and when it is written down to a man that he must remain like a stake in a hedge, he will not put forth leaves in spring even.”

In the middle of November a letter came from Rome, which roused much thought in the Polanyetskis. Svirski wrote as follows: —

“Imagine to yourselves that Pani Bronich is here and Panna Castelli, and that I have had an interview with them. In Rome I am as if at home; hence I learned of their coming on the second day. And do you know what I did immediately? I persuaded Ignas to go to Sicily, in which, moreover, I found no great difficulty. I thought to myself, ‘he will sit in Syracuse or in Taormina; and if by chance he falls into the hands of the Mafia the cost of his ransom will be less than what he paid for the privilege of wearing Panna Nitechka’s ring for a short time.’ I said to myself, ‘if he and she are to meet on earth and be reconciled, let them meet and be reconciled; but I have no wish to take that work on my conscience, especially after what has happened.’ Ignas is well to all seeming; but he has not recovered yet mentally, and in that state he might be brought easily to something which he would regret for a lifetime. As to those ladies, I divined at once why they came here, and I was delighted in soul that I had hindered their tricks; that my supposition was to the point is shown by this, that some days later a letter came to Ignas, on which I recognized the handwriting of the widow of that heaven-dwelling Teodor. I wrote on the envelope that Pan Ignas had gone away, it was unknown whither, and sent the letter retro.

“That, however, was only the beginning of the history. Next morning I received a letter with an invitation to a talk. I answered that I must refuse with regret; that my occupations do not permit me to give myself such a pleasure. In answer to this, I received a second letter with an appeal to my character, my talent, my descent, my heart, my sympathy for an unhappy woman: and with the prayer that I should either go myself, or appoint an hour in my studio. There was no escape, – I went. Pani Bronich herself received me with tears, and a whole torrent of narratives which I shall not repeat, but in which ‘Nitechka’ appears as a Saint Agnes the martyr. ‘With what can I serve,’ ask I? She answers: ‘It is not a question of anything, but a kind word from Pan Ignas. The child is sick, she is coughing, in all likelihood she will not live the year out; but she wants to die with a word of forgiveness.’ At this I confess that I was softened a little, but I held out. Moreover, I could not give the address of Pan Ignas, for I did not know really at what hotel he had stopped. I was sweating as in a steam bath; and at last I promised something in general, that if Ignas would begin at any time to talk with me about Panna Castelli, that I would persuade him to act in accordance with the wish of Pani Bronich.

“But this was not all yet. When I was thinking of going, Panna Lineta herself rushed in on a sudden, and turned to her aunt with the request to let her talk with me alone. I will say in parenthesis that she has grown thin, and that she seems taller than usual, really like ‘a poplar,’ which any wind might break. Hardly were we left alone when she turned to me and said, ‘Aunt is trying to make me innocent, and is doing so through love for me. I am thankful to her; but I cannot endure it, and I declare to you that I am guilty, that I am not worthy of anything, and that if I am unhappy I have deserved it a hundred times.’ When I heard this I was astonished; but I saw that she was talking sincerely, for her lips were quivering and her eyes were mist-covered. You may say to yourselves that I have a heart made of butter; but I confess that I was moved greatly, and I inquired what I could do for her. To this she answered that I could do nothing; but she begged me to believe at least that she took no part in those efforts of her aunt to renew relations, that after Pan Ignas’s act her eyes were opened to what she had done, and that she would never forget it in her life. At last she said once again, that she alone was the cause of everything, and begged me to repeat our conversation to Pan Ignas, not immediately, however, but only when he could not suspect that she wished to influence him.

“Well, and what do you think? Would you lend belief to anything like that? I see clearly two things, first, that Pan Ignas’s attempt on his life, happen what may, must have shaken her terribly; and second, that she is fabulously unhappy, – who knows, she may be sick really. So the opinion of Panna Helena comes to my mind, who, as you repeated to me, says that we must not despair of a man while he is living. In every case it is something uncommon. I believe too that even if Pan Ignas wished now to return to her, she would not consent, simply because she does not feel that she is worthy of him. As to me, I think that there are many better and nobler female natures than hers in the world; but may the deuce take me if I act against her!”

In continuation Svirski inquired about health, and sent obeisances to the Bigiels.

This letter made a great impression on all, and was the occasion of numerous discussions between the Polanyetskis and the Bigiels. It appeared at once too how far Pan Stanislav was changed. Formerly he would not have found words enough to condemn Panna Castelli, and never would he have believed that any chord of honor would make itself heard in a woman of her kind; but at present, when Pani Bigiel, who, as well as the other ladies, belonged soul and body to Panna Ratkovski’s side, expressed doubts, and said, “Is not that merely a change of tactics on the part of Panna Castelli?” he said, —

“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.