Children of the Soil

“Dost wish to tell me something?” he inquired.

“How wonderful it is, Stas, for I called to thee that moment, but only in mind; still thou hast felt and art here with me.”

“See what a husband I am,” answered he, with a smile. “But the reason is really very simple: I noticed thee looking at me; I was afraid that something might have happened, and I came.”

“I was looking, for I wanted something.”

“And I came, for I wanted something. How dost thou feel? Tell the truth! Perhaps thou hast a wish to go home?”

“No, Stas, as I love thee, I am perfectly comfortable. I was talking with Pan Svirski of Pani Mashko, and was entertained well.”

“I guessed that you were gossiping about her. This artist says himself that he has an evil tongue.”

“On the contrary,” answered Svirski, “I was only admiring her form. The turn for my tongue may come later.”

“Oh, that is true,” said Pan Stanislav; “Pani Osnovski says that she has indeed a bad figure, and that is proof that she has a good one. But, Marynia, I will tell thee something of Pani Osnovski.” Here he bent toward his wife, and whispered, “Knowest what I heard from Kopovski’s lips when I was coming to thee?”

“What was it? Something amusing?”

“Just as one thinks: I heard him say thou to Pani Aneta.”

“Stas!”

“As I love thee, he did. He said to her, ‘Thou art always so.’”

“Maybe he was quoting some other person’s words.”

“I don’t know. Maybe he was; maybe he wasn’t. Besides, they may have been in love sometime.”

“Fi! Be ashamed.”

“Say that to them – or rather to Pani Aneta.”

Marynia, who knew perfectly well that unfaithfulness exists, but looking on it rather as some French literary theory, – she had not even imagined that one might meet such a thing at every step and in practice, – began to look now at Pani Aneta with wonder, and at the same time with the immense curiosity with which honest women look at those who have had boldness to leave the high-road for by-paths. She had too truthful a nature, however, to believe in evil immediately, and she did not; and somehow it would not find a place in her head that really there could be anything between those two, if only because of the unheard-of stupidity of Kopovski. She noticed, however, that they were talking with unusual vivacity.

But they, sitting somewhat apart between a great porcelain vase and the piano, had not only been talking, but arguing for a quarter of an hour.

“I fear that he has heard something,” said Pani Aneta, with a certain alarm, after Pan Stanislav had passed. “Thou art never careful.”

“Yes, it is always my fault! But who is forever repeating, ‘Be careful’?”

In this regard both were truly worthy of each other, since he could foresee nothing because of his dulness, and she was foolhardy to recklessness. Two persons knew their secret now; others might divine it. One needed all the infatuation of Osnovski not to infer anything. But it was on that that she reckoned.

Meanwhile Kopovski looked at Pan Stanislav and said, —

“He has heard nothing.”

Then he returned to the conversation which they had begun; but now he spoke in lower tones and in French, —

“Didst thou love me, thou wouldst be different; but since thou dost not love, what harm could that be to thee?”

Then he turned on her his wonderful eyes without mind, while she answered impatiently, —

“Whether I love, or love not, Castelka never! Dost understand? Never! I would prefer any other to her, though, if thou wert in love with me really, thou wouldst not think of marriage.”

“I would not think of it, if thou wert different.”

“Be patient.”

“Yes! till death? If I married Castelka, we should then be near really.”

“Never! I repeat to thee.”

“Well, but why?”

“Thou wouldst not understand it. Besides, Castelka is betrothed; it is too bad to lose time in discussing this.”

“Thou thyself hast commanded me to pay court to her, and now art casting reproaches. At first I thought of nothing; but afterward she pleased me, – I do not deny this. She pleases all; and, besides, she is a good match.”

Pani Aneta began to pull at the end of her handkerchief.

“And thou hast the boldness to say to my eyes that she pleased thee,” said she at last. “Is it I, or she?”

“Thou, but thee I cannot marry; her I could, for I saw well that I pleased her.”

“If thou wert better acquainted with women, thou wouldst be glad that I did not let it go to marriage. Thou dost not know her. She is just like a stick, and, besides, is malicious in character. Dost thou not understand that I told thee to pay court to her out of regard to people, and to Yozio? Otherwise, how explain thy daily visits?”

“I could understand, wert thou other than thou art.”

“Do not oppose me. I have fixed all, as thou seest, to keep thy portrait from being finished, and give thee a chance to visit Prytulov. Steftsia Ratkovski, a distant relative of Yozio’s, will be there soon. Dost understand? Thou must pretend that she pleases thee; and I will talk what I like into Yozio. In this way thou wilt be able to stop at Prytulov. I have written to Panna Ratkovski already. She is not a beauty, but agreeable.”

“Always pretence, and nothing for it.”

“Suppose I should say to thee: Don’t come.”

“Anetka!”

“Then be patient. I cannot be angry long with thee. But now go thy way. Amuse Pani Mashko.”

And a moment later Pani Aneta was alone. Her eyes followed Kopovski a while with the remnant of her anger, but also with a certain tenderness. In the white cravat, with his dark tint of face, he was so killingly beautiful that she could not gaze at him sufficiently. Lineta was now the betrothed of another; still the thought seemed unendurable that that daily rival of hers might possess him, if not as husband, as lover. Pani Aneta, in telling Kopovski that she would yield him to any other rather than to Castelka, told the pure truth. That was for her a question, at once of an immense weakness for that dull Endymion, and a question of self-love. Her nerves simply could not agree to it. Certain inclinations of the senses, which she herself looked on as lofty, and rising from a Grecian nature, but which at the root of the matter were common, took the place in her of morality and conscience. By virtue of these inclinations, she fell under the irresistible charm of Kopovski; but having not only a heated head, but a temperament of fishy coldness, she preferred, as Pan Ignas divined intuitively, the play with evil to evil itself. Holding, in her way, to the principle, “If not I, then no one!” she was ready to push matters to the utmost to prevent the marriage of Kopovski to Lineta, the more since she saw that Lineta, in spite of all her “words” about Kopovski, in spite of the irony with which she had mentioned him and her jests about the man, was also under the charm of his exceptional beauty; that all those jests were simply self-provocation, under which was concealed an attraction; and that, in general, the source of her pleasure and Lineta’s was the same. But she did not observe that, for this reason, she at the bottom of her soul had contempt for Lineta.

She knew that Lineta, through very vanity, would not oppose her persuasion, and the homages of a man with a famous name. In this way, she had retained Kopovski, and, besides, had produced for herself a splendid spectacle, on which women, who are more eager for impressions than feelings, look always with greediness. Besides, if that famous Pan Ignas, when his wife becomes an every-day object, should look somewhere for a Beatrice, he might find her. Little is denied men who have power to hand down, to the memory of mankind and the homage of ages, the name of a loved one. These plans for the future Pani Aneta had not outlined hitherto expressly; but she had, as it were, a misty feeling that her triumph would in that case be perfect.

Moreover, she had triumphed even now, for all had gone as she wished. Still Kopovski made her angry. She had considered him as almost her property. Meanwhile, she saw that, so far as he was able to understand anything, he understood this, that the head does not ache from abundance, and that Aneta might not hinder Lineta. That roused her so keenly that at moments she was thinking how to torment him in return. Meanwhile, she was glad that Lineta paraded herself as being in love really, soul and heart, with Pan Ignas, which for Kopovski was at once both a riddle and a torture.

These thoughts flew through her head like lightning, and flew all of them in the short time that she was alone. At last she was interrupted by the serving of supper. Osnovski, who desired that his wife should be surrounded by such homage from every one as he himself gave, and to whom it seemed that what he had said to Pan Ignas about his married life was very appropriate, had the unhappy thought to repeat at the first toast the wish that Pan Ignas might be as happy with Lineta as he with his wife. Hereupon, the eyes of Pan Ignas and Pan Stanislav turned involuntarily to Pani Osnovski, who looked quickly at Pan Stanislav, and doubts on both sides disappeared in one instant; that is, she gained the perfect certainty that Pan Stanislav had heard them, and he, that Kopovski had not quoted the words of another, but had said thou in direct speech to the lady. Pani Aneta had guessed even that Pan Stanislav must have spoken of that to Marynia, for she had seen how, after he had passed, both had talked and looked a certain time at her with great curiosity. The thought filled her with anger and a desire of revenge, so that she listened without attention to the further toasts, which were given by her husband, by Pan Ignas, by Plavitski, and at last by Pan Bigiel.

But, after supper, it came to her head all at once to arrange a dancing-party; and “Yozio,” obedient as ever to each beck of hers, and, besides, excited after feasting, supported the thought enthusiastically. Marynia could not dance, but besides her there were five youthful ladies, – Lineta, Pani Osnovski, Pani Bigiel, Pani Mashko, and Panna Zavilovski. The last declared, it is true, that she did not dance; but, since people said that she neither danced, talked, ate, nor drank, her refusal did not stop the readiness of others. Osnovski, who was in splendid feeling, declared that Ignas should take Lineta in his arms, for surely he had not dared to do so thus far.

It turned out, however, that Pan Ignas could not avail himself of Pan Osnovski’s friendly wishes, for he had never danced in his life, and had not the least knowledge of dancing, which not only astonished Pani Bronich and Lineta, but offended them somewhat. Kopovski, on the other hand, possessed this art in a high degree; hence he began the dance with Lineta, as the heroine of the evening. They were a splendid pair, and eyes followed them involuntarily. Pan Ignas was forced to see her golden head incline toward Kopovski’s shoulder, to see their bosoms near each other, to see both whirling to the time of Bigiel’s waltz, joined in the harmony of movement, blending, as it were, into one tune and one unity. Even from looking at all this, he grew angry, for he understood that there was a thing which he did not know, which would connect Lineta with others and disconnect her with him. Besides, people about him mentioned the beauty of the dancing couple; and Svirski, sitting near him, said, —

“What a beautiful man! If there were male houris, as there are female, he might be a houri in a Mussulman paradise for women.”

They waltzed long; and there was in the tones of the music, as in their movements, something, as it were, intoxicating, a kind of dizzy faintness, which incensed Pan Ignas still more, for he recalled Byron’s verses on waltzing, – verses as cynical as they are truthful. At last, he said to himself, with complete impatience: “When will that ass let her go?” He feared, too, that Kopovski might tire her too much.

The “ass” let her go at last at the other end of the hall, and straightway took Pani Aneta. But Lineta ran up to her betrothed, and, sitting down at his side, said, —

“He dances well, but he likes to exhibit his skill, for he has nothing else. He kept me too long. I have lost breath a little, and my heart is beating. If you could put your hand there and feel how it beats – but it is not proper to do so. How wonderful, too, for it is your property.”

“My property!” said Pan Ignas, holding out his hand to her. “Do not say ‘your’ to me to-day, Lineta.”

“Thy property,” she whispered, and she did not ward off his hand, she only let it drop down a little on her robe, so that people might not notice it.

“I was jealous of him,” said Pan Ignas, pressing her fingers passionately.

“Dost wish I will dance no more to-day? I like to dance, but I prefer to be near thee.”

“My worshipped one!”

“I am a stupid society girl, but I want to be worthy of thee. As thou seest, I love music greatly, – even waltzes and polkas. Somehow they act on me wonderfully. How well this Pan Bigiel plays! But I know that there are things higher than waltzes. Hold my handkerchief, and drop my hand for a moment. It is thy hand, but I must arrange my hair. It is time to dance; to dance is not wrong, is it? But if thou wish, I will not dance, for I am an obedient creature. I will learn to read in thy eyes, and afterward shall be like water, which reflects both clouds and clear weather. So pleasant is it for me near thee! See how perfectly those people dance!”

Words failed Pan Ignas; only in one way could he have shown what he felt, – by kneeling before her. But she pointed out Pan Stanislav, who was dancing with Pani Mashko, and admired them heartily.

“Really he dances better than Pan Kopovski,” said she, with gleaming eyes; “and she, how graceful! Oh, I should like to dance even once with him – if thou permit.”

Pan Ignas, in whom Pan Stanislav did not rouse the least jealousy, said, —

“My treasure, as often as may please thee. I will send him at once to thee.”

“Oh, how perfectly he dances! how perfectly! And this waltz, it is like some delightful shiver. They are sailing, not dancing.”

Of this opinion, too, was Marynia, who, following the couple with her eyes, experienced a still greater feeling of bitterness than Pan Ignas a little while earlier; for it seemed a number of times to her that Pan Stanislav had looked again on Pani Mashko with that expression with which he had looked when Svirski supposed that either he was annoyed, or was angry. But now such a supposition was impossible. At moments both dancers passed near her; and then she saw distinctly how his arm embraced firmly Pani Mashko’s waist, how his breath swept around her neck, how his nostrils were dilated, how his glances slipped over her naked bosom. That might be invisible for others, but not for Marynia, who could read in his face as in a book. And all at once the light of the lamps became dark in her eyes; she understood that it was one thing not to be happy, and another to be unhappy. This lasted briefly, – as briefly as one tact of the waltz, or one instant in which a heart that is straitened ceases to beat; but it sufficed for the feeling that life in the future might be embroiled, and present love changed into a bitter and contemptuous sorrow. And that feeling filled her with terror. Before her was drawn aside, as it were, a curtain, behind which appeared unexpectedly all the sham of life, all the wretchedness and meanness of human nature. Nothing had happened yet, absolutely nothing; but a vision came to Marynia, in which she saw that there might be a time when her confidence in her husband would vanish like smoke.

She tried, however, to ward away doubts; she wished to talk into herself that he was under the influence of the dance, not of his partner; she preferred not to believe her eyes. Shame seized her for that “Stas” of whom she had been so proud up to that time; and she struggled with all her strength against that feeling, understanding that it was a question of enormous importance, and that from that little thing, and from that fault of his, hitherto almost nothing, might flow results which would act on their whole future.

At that moment was heard near her the jesting voice of Pani Aneta.

“Ah, Marynia, nature has created, as it were, purposely, thy husband and Pani Mashko to waltz with each other. What a pair!”

“Yes,” answered Marynia, with an effort.

And Pani Aneta twittered on: “Perfectly fitted for each other. It is true that in thy place I should be a little jealous; but thou, art thou jealous? No? I am outspoken, and confess freely that I should be; at least, it was so with me once. I know, for that matter, that Yozio loves me; but these men, even while loving, have their little fancies. Their heads do not ache the least on that score; and that our hearts ache, they do not see, or do not wish to see. The best of them are not different. Yozio? true! he is a model husband; and dost thou think that I do not know him? Now, when I have grown used to him, laughter seizes me often, for they are all so awkward! I know the minute that Yozio is beginning to be giddy; and knowest thou what my sign is?”

Marynia was looking continually at her husband, who had ceased now to dance with Pani Mashko, and had taken Lineta. She felt great relief all at once, for it seemed to her that “Stas,” while dancing with Lineta, had the same expression of face. Her suspicions began to fade; and she thought at once that she had judged him unjustly, that she herself was not good. She had never seen him dancing before; and the thought came to her head that perhaps he danced that way always.

Then Pani Aneta repeated, “Dost know how I discover when Yozio is beginning to play pranks?”

“How?” inquired Marynia, with more liveliness.

“I will teach thee the method. Here it is: the moment he has an unclean conscience, he puts suspicion on others, and shares these suspicions with me, so as to turn attention from himself. Dear Yozio! that is their method. How they lie, even the best of them!”

When she had said this, she went away, with the conviction that on the society chessboard she had made a very clever move; and it was clever. In Marynia’s head a kind of chaos now rose; she knew not what to think at last of all this. Great physical weariness seized her also. “I am not well,” said she to herself; “I am excited, and God knows what may seem to me.” And the feeling of weariness increased in her every moment. That whole evening seemed a fever dream. Pan Stanislav had mentioned Pani Aneta as a faith-breaking woman; Pani Aneta had said the same of all husbands. Pan Stanislav had been looking with dishonest eyes on Pani Mashko, and Pani Aneta had said thou to Kopovski. To this was added the dancing couples, the monotonous tact of the waltz, the heads of the lovers, and finally, a storm, which was heard out of doors. What a mixture of impressions! what a phantasmagoria! “I am not well,” repeated Marynia in her mind. But she felt also that peace was leaving her, and that this was the unhappy evening of her life. She wished greatly to go home, but, as if to spite her, there was a pouring rain. “Let us go home! let us go home!” If “Stas” should say some good and cordial word besides. Let him only not speak of Pani Aneta or Pani Mashko; let him speak of something that related to him and her, and was dear to them.

“Oh, how tired I am!”

At that moment Pan Stanislav came to her; and at sight of her poor, pale face, he felt a sudden sympathy, to which his heart, kind in itself, yielded easily.

“My poor dear,” said he, “it is time for thee to go to bed; only let the rain pass a little. Thou art not afraid of thunder?”

“No; sit near me.”

“The summer shower will pass soon. How sleepy thou art!”

“Perhaps I ought not to have come, Stas. I have great need of rest.”

He had a conscience which was not too clear, and was angry at himself. But it had not come to his mind that what she was saying of rest might relate to him and his attempts and conduct with Pani Mashko; but he felt all at once that if she had suspected, her peace would be ruined forever through his fault, and since he was not a spoiled man, fear and compunction possessed him.

“To the deuce with all dances!” said he. “I will stay at home, and take care of that which belongs to me.”

And he said this so sincerely that a shadow of doubt could not pass through her head, for she knew him perfectly. Hence a feeling of immense relief came upon her.

“When thou art with me,” said she, “I feel less tired right away. A moment ago I felt ill somehow. Aneta sat near me; but what can I care for her? When out of health, one needs a person who is near, who is one’s own, and reliable. Perhaps thou wilt scold me for what I say, since it is strange to say such things at a party, among strangers, and so long after marriage. I understand myself that it is somewhat strange; but I need thee really, for I love thee much.”

“And I love thee, dear being,” answered Pan Stanislav, who felt then that love for her could alone be honest and peaceful.

Meanwhile the rain decreased; but there was lightning yet, so that the windows of the villa were bright blue every moment. Bigiel, who, after the dancing, had played a prelude of Chopin’s, was talking now with Lineta and Pan Ignas about music, and, defending his idea firmly, said, —

“That Bukatski invented various kinds and types of women; and I have my musical criterion. There are women who love music with their souls, and there are others who love it with their skin, – these last I fear.”

A quarter of an hour later the short summer storm had passed by, and the sky had cleared perfectly; the guests began to prepare for home. But Zavilovski remained longer than others, so that he might be the last to say good-night to Lineta.

Out of fear for Marynia, Pan Stanislav gave command to drive the carriage at a walk. The picture of her husband dancing with Pani Mashko was moving in her tortured, head continually. Pani Aneta’s words, “Oh, how they lie! even the best of them,” were sounding in her ears. But Pan Stanislav supported her meanwhile with his arm, and held her resting against him during the whole way; hence her disquiet disappeared gradually. She wished from her soul to put some kind of question to him, from which he might suspect her fears and pacify her. But after a while she thought: “If he did not love me, he would not show anxiety; he could be cruel more readily than pretend. I will not ask him to-day about anything.” Pan Stanislav, on his part, evidently under the influence of the thought which moved in his head, and under the impression that she alone might be his right love and true happiness, bent down and kissed her face lightly.

“I will not ask him about anything to-morrow either,” thought Marynia, resting her head on his shoulder. And after a while she thought again, “I will never tell him anything.” And fatigue, both physical and mental, began to overpower her, so that before they reached home her eyes were closed, and she had fallen asleep on his arm.

Pani Bronich was sitting, meanwhile, in the drawing-room, looking toward the glass door of the balcony, to which the betrothed had gone out for a moment to breathe the air freshened by rain, and say good-night to each other without witnesses. After the storm the night had become very clear, giving out the odor of wet leaves; it was full of stars, which were as if they had bathed in the rain, and were smiling through tears. The two young people stood some time in silence, and then began to say that they loved each other with all their souls; and at last Pan Ignas stretched forth his hand, on which a ring was glittering, and said, —

“My greatly beloved! I look at this ring, and cannot look at it sufficiently. To this moment it has seemed to me that all this is a dream, and only now do I dare to think that thou wilt be mine really.”

Then Lineta placed the palm of her hand on his, so that the two rings were side by side; and she said, with a voice of dreamy exaltation, —

“Yes; the former Lineta is no longer in existence, only thy betrothed. Now we must belong with our whole lives to each other; and it is a marvel to me that there should be such power in these little rings, as if something holy were in them.”

Pan Ignas’s heart was overflowing with happiness, calm, and sweetness.

“Yes,” said he; “for in the ring is the soul, which yields itself, and in return receives another. In such a golden promise is ingrafted everything which in a man says, ‘I wish, I love, and promise.’”