Children of the Soil

“Indeed, thou art chatting! Paralyzed people live thirty years.”

“Even forty,” answered Bukatski. “Paralysis in that case is a luxury which some may permit themselves, but not men like me. For a strong man, who has a good neck, good shoulders, good breast, and proper legs, it may be even a species of rest, a kind of vacation after a frolicsome youth, and an opportunity for meditation; but for me! Dost remember how thou wert laughing at my legs? Well, I tell thee that they were elephantine at that time if compared with what they are to-day. It is not true that every man is a clod; I am only a line, – I am not joking, – and, moreover, a line vanishing in infinity.”

Pan Stanislav began to shrug his shoulders, to contradict, and to quote known examples; but Bukatski resisted.

“Stop! I feel and know that in a couple of days paralysis of the brain will set in. I have been expecting this a whole year, but told no one, and for a year have been reading books on medicine. A second attack will come, and that will be final.”

Here he was silent, but after a time continued, —

“And, believe me, I do not like this. Think of it: I am as much alone as a finger cut off from its hand; I have no one. Here, and even in Warsaw, only people who are paid would take care of me. Life is terribly wretched when a man is without power of movement, and without a living soul who is related. When I lose speech, as I have lost power of motion, any woman in attendance, or any man, may strike me on the face as much as she or he pleases. But thou must know one thing. I feared paralysis at the first moment; but in my weak body there is a brave spirit. Remember what I said to thee, – that I fear not death; and I do not fear it.”

Here there gleamed in Bukatski’s eyes a certain pale reflection of daring and energy, hidden somewhere in the bottom of that disjointed and softened soul.

But Pan Stanislav, who had a good heart, put his hand on the palm already paralyzed, and said, with great feeling, —

“My Adzia! But do not suppose that we will leave thee thus, desert thee as thou art; and do not say that thou hast no one. Thou hast me, and besides me, my wife, and Svirski, Vaskovski, and the Bigiels. For us thou art not a stranger. I will take thee to Warsaw, I will put thee in the hospital, and we will care for thee, and no attendant will strike thee on the face, – first, because I should break the bones of such a person; secondly, we have Sisters of Charity, and among them is Pani Emilia.”

Bukatski was silent, and grew pale a little; he was more moved than he wished to show. A shadow passed over his eyes.

“Thou art a good fellow,” said he, after a prolonged silence. “Thou knowest not what a miracle thou hast worked, for thou hast brought it about that I wish something yet. Yes; I should like wonderfully to go to Warsaw, to be among you all. I should be immensely pleased there.”

“Here thou must go at once to some hospital, and be under constant care. Svirski must know where the best one is. Yield thyself to me, wilt thou? Let me arrange for thee.”

“Do what may please thee,” answered Bukatski, whom consolation began to enter now, in view of the new plans and the energy of his friend.

Pan Stanislav wrote to Svirski and to Vaskovski, and sent out messengers immediately. Half an hour later both appeared, Svirski with a famous local physician. Before mid-day Bukatski found himself in a hospital, in a well-lighted and cheerful chamber.

“What a pleasant and warm tone!” said he, looking at the golden color, and the walls and ceiling. “This is nice.” Then, turning to Pan Stanislav, he said, “Come to me in the evening, but go now to thy wife.”

Pan Stanislav took farewell of him, and went out. When he reached home he told Marynia the whole story cautiously, for he did not wish to frighten her with sudden news, giving the idea that he was in a dangerous condition. Marynia begged him to take her to Bukatski, if not in the evening, in the morning early, which he promised to do. They went immediately after lunch, for that day there was no sitting in the studio.

But before they arrived, Vaskovski was there, and he did not leave Bukatski for a moment. When the patient had settled himself well in the new bed, the old man told him how once he had thought himself dying, but after confession and receiving the sacraments, he grew better, as if by a miracle.

“A well-known method, dear professor,” said Bukatski, with a smile; “I divine what thy object is.”

The professor was as confused as if caught in some evil deed, and crossed his hands.

“I will lay a wager that it would help thee,” said he.

Bukatski answered with a gleam of his former humor, “Very well. In a couple of days I shall convince myself, on the other side of the river, how much it will help me.”

The arrival of Marynia pleased him, all the more that it was unexpected. He said that he had not thought to see any woman on this side of the river, and, moreover, one of his own. Therewith he began to scold them all a little, but with evident emotion.

“What sentimentalists they are!” said he. “It is simply a judgment to be occupied with such a skeleton grandfather as I am. Ye will never have reason. What is this for? What good in it? See, even before death, I am forced to be grateful; and I am sincerely, very sincerely grateful.”

But Marynia did not let him talk about death; on the contrary, she said with great firmness that he must go to Warsaw, and be among his friends. She spoke of this as a thing the execution of which was not subject to the least doubt, and she succeeded gradually in convincing Bukatski of it. She told him how to prepare, and at last he listened to her eagerly. His thoughts passed into a certain condition of yielding, in which they let themselves be led. He felt like a child, and, besides, a poor child.

That same day Osnovski visited him, and also showed as much interest and feeling as if he had been his own brother. Bukatski had out and out not expected all this, and had not counted on anything similar. Therefore, when later in the evening Pan Stanislav came a second time, and no others were present, he said to him, —

“I tell thee sincerely that never have I felt with such clearness that I made life a stupid farce, that I have wasted it like a dog.” And soon after he added, “And if I had found a real pleasure in that method by which I was living; but I had not even that satisfaction. How stupid is our epoch! A man makes two of himself; all that is best in him he hides away, shuts in somewhere in corners, and becomes a kind of ape. He rather persuades himself of the uselessness of life than feels it. How wonderful this is! One thing consoles me, – that in truth death is the only thing real in life, though, on the other hand, this again is not a reason why, before it comes, we should say of it as a fool says of wine, that it is vinegar.”

“My dear friend,” answered Pan Stanislav, “thou hast always tortured thyself with this endless winding of thought around some bobbin. Do not do that at present.”

“Thou art right. But I am unable not to think that while I was walking around and was well in a fashion, I jeered at life; and now – I tell thee as a secret – I want to live longer.”

“Thou wilt live longer.”

“Give use peace. Thy wife was persuading me of that, but now again I do not believe it. And it is painful to me, – I have thrown myself away. But hear why I wanted to speak with thee. I know not whether any account is waiting for me; I say sincerely that I know not, but still I feel a kind of strange alarm, as if I were afraid. And I will tell thee something: during life I did nothing for my fellows, and I was able! I was able! In presence of this thought fear seizes me; I give thee my word! That is an unworthy thing. I did nothing; I ate bread without paying for it, and now – death. If there are any whips beyond, and if they are waiting for me, it is to punish that; and listen, Stas, it is painful to me.”

Here, although he spoke with the careless tone usual to him, his face expressed real dread, his lips grew pale somewhat, and on his forehead drops of sweat appeared.

“But stop!” said Pan Stanislav; “see what comes to his head. Thou art injuring thyself.”

But Bukatski spoke on: “Listen! wait! I have property which is rather considerable; let even that do something for me. I will leave thee a part of it, and do thou use the remainder for something useful. Thou art practical, so is Bigiel. Think of something, thou and he, for I do not believe that I shall have time. Wilt thou do this?”

“That, and thy every wish.”

“I thank thee. How wonderful are fears and reproaches of this kind! And still I cannot escape a feeling of guilt. The conditions are such that I am not right! One should do something honorable even just before death. But it is no joke, – death. If that were something visible, but it is so dark. And one must decay, corrupt, and rot in the dark. Art thou a believer?”

“Yes.”

“But I, neither yes nor no. I amused myself with Nirvana, as with other things. Dost thou know, were it not for the feeling of guilt, I should be more at rest? I had no idea that this would pain me so; I have the impression that I am a bee which has robbed its hive, and that is a low thing. But at least my property will remain after me. This is true, is it not? I have spent a little, but very little, on pictures, which will remain, too; isn’t this true? But now, how I should like to live longer, even a year, even long enough not to die here!”

He meditated a while, and then said, —

“I understand one thing now: life may be bad, for a man may order it foolishly; but existence is good.”

Pan Stanislav went away late in the night. Through the following week the health of the patient was wavering. The doctors were unable to foresee anything; they judged, however, that a journey was not dangerous in any case. Svirski and Vaskovski volunteered to go to Warsaw with the sick man, who was yearning for home more and more, and who mentioned Pani Emilia, the Sister of Charity, almost daily. But on the eve of the day on which he was to go he lost speech suddenly. Pan Stanislav’s heart was bleeding when he looked at his eyes, in which at moments a terrible alarm was depicted, and at moments a kind of great, silent prayer. He tried to write, but could not. In the evening came paralysis of the brain, and he died.

They buried him in the Campo Santo temporarily. Pan Stanislav thought that his looks uttered a prayer to be carried to his own country, and Svirski confirmed that thought.

Thus vanished that bubble which gleamed sometimes with the colors of the rainbow, but was as empty and evanescent as any bubble.

Pan Stanislav was sincerely afflicted by his death, and meditated afterward for whole hours on that strange life. He did not share these thoughts with Marynia, for somehow it had not become a custom with him yet to confide to her anything that took place in his mind. Finally, as happens often with people who are thinking of the dead, he drew from these thoughts various conclusions to his own advantage.

“Bukatski,” said he to himself, “was never able to come to harmony with his own mind: he lacked the understanding of life; he could not fix his position in that forest, and he travelled always according to the fancy of the moment. But if he had felt contented with that system, if he had squeezed something out of life, I should own that he had sense. But it was unpleasant for him. It is really a foolish thing to persuade one’s self, before death comes, that wine is vinegar. But I look at matters more clearly, and, besides, I have been far more sincere with myself. Happen what may, I am almost perfectly in order with God and with life.”

There was truth in this, but there was also illusion. Pan Stanislav was not in order with his own wife. He judged that if he gave her protection, bread, good treatment, and put kisses on her lips from time to time, he was discharging all possible duties assumed with regard to her. Meanwhile their relations began to be more definitely of this sort, – that he only deigned to love and receive love. In the course of his observations of life this strange phenomenon had struck him more than once, – that when, for example, a man well-known for honor does some noble deed, people wave their hands as if with a certain indifference, saying, “Oh, that is Pan X – ; from him this is perfectly natural!” When, however, some rogue chanced to do something honorable, these same people said with great recognition, “But there is something in the man.” A hundred times Pan Stanislav observed that a copper from a miser made more impression than a ducat from a generous giver. He did not notice, however, that with Marynia he followed the same method of judgment and recognition. She gave him all her being, all her soul. “Ah, Marynia! that is natural!” and he waved his hand too. Had her love not been so generous, had it come to him with supreme difficulty, with the conviction that it was a treasure, and given as such, with the conviction that she was a divinity demanding a bowed head and honor, Pan Stanislav would have received it with a bowed head, and would have rendered the honor. Such is the general human heart; and only the choicest natures, woven from rays, have power to rise above this level. Marynia had given Pan Stanislav her love as his right. She considered his love as happiness, and he gave it as happiness; he felt himself the idol on the altar. One ray of his fell on the heart of the woman and illumined it: the divinity kept the rest of the rays for itself; taking all, it gave only a part. In his love there was not that fear which flows from honor, and there was not that which in every fondling says to the woman beloved, “at thy feet.”

But they did not understand this yet, either of them.