“That Zavilovski has so stuck in my mind that Yozio has begun to be jealous of him; but in the end of the affair, Yozio, poor fellow, doesn’t know himself what to think. I am sure that he and Lineta are created for each other, — not Yozio and Lineta, but Zavilovski and Lineta. That poetry, that poetry! And don’t laugh, Marynia; don’t think me moonstruck. Thou dost not know Lineta. She needs some uncommon man. She wouldn’t marry Kopovski for anything, though Kopovski looks like an archangel. Such a face as Kopovski has, I have never seen in life. In Italy, perhaps, in some picture, and even then not. Knowest thou what Lineta says of him?— ‘C’est un imbécile.’ But still she looks at him. Think how beautiful that would be, if they should become acquainted, and love, and take each other, — that is, not Kopovski and Lineta, but Zavilovski and Lineta. That would be a couple! Lineta, with her aspirations, whom can she find? Where is there a man for her? What we have seen, that we have seen. I imagine how they would live. It is so wearisome in the world that when it is possible to have such a plan, it is worth while to work for it. Moreover, I know that that will succeed without difficulty, for Aunt Bronich is wringing her hands, — where can she find a husband for Lineta? I am afraid that I have worn thee out, and surely I have tormented thee; but it is so nice to talk, especially when one is making some plan.”
In fact, Marynia felt, as it were, a turning of the head after Pani Aneta had gone. Still when Pan Stanislav came in, she told him of the plans prepared against Zavilovski, and, laughing a little at the eagerness of Pani Aneta, said at last, —
“She must have a good heart, and she pleases me; but what an enthusiast! What is there that doesn’t rush through her head?”
“She is impetuous, but no enthusiast,” answered Pan Stanislav; “and see what the difference is, — enthusiasm comes almost always from the warmth of a good heart, while impetuousness frequently agrees with a dry heart, and often comes even from this, that the head is hot, and the heart is asleep.”
“Thou hast no liking for Pani Aneta,” said Marynia.
Pan Stanislav did not indeed like her; but this time, instead of confirming or contradicting, he looked at his wife with a certain curiosity, and that moment her beauty struck him, — her hair flowing in disorder on the pillow, and her small face coming out of the dark waves, just like a flower. Her eyes seemed bluer than usual; through her open mouth was to be seen the row of small white teeth. Pan Stanislav approached her, and said in an undertone, —
“How beautiful thou art to-day!”
And, bending over her, with changed face, he fell to kissing her eyes and mouth.
But every kiss moved her, and each movement caused pain. It was disagreeable, besides, that he had noticed her beauty as if by accident; his expression of face was distasteful to her, and his inattention; therefore she turned away her head.
“Stas, do not kiss me so roughly; thou knowest that I am suffering.”
Then he stood erect, and said with suppressed anger, —
“True; I beg pardon.”
And he went to his room to examine the plan of a certain summer house with a garden, which had been sent to him that morning.
CHAPTER XL.
But Marynia’s illness was not lasting, and a week later she and her husband were able to visit the Bigiels, who had moved to their summer residence; for the weather, notwithstanding the early season, was fine, and in the city summer heats were almost beginning. Zavilovski, who had grown accustomed to them, went also, taking an immense kite, which he was to fly in company with Pan Stanislav and the children. The Bigiels, too, liked Zavilovski, since he was simple, and, except his shyness, a pleasant man, on occasions even childlike. Pani Bigiel maintained, moreover, that he had a peculiar head; which was in so far true, that he had a scar on his eyelid, and that his prominent chin gave him an expression of energy which was contradicted utterly by his upper face, which was delicate, almost feminine. At first Pani Bigiel sought in him an original; but he mastered everything, and therefore himself, too quickly. He was simply a great enthusiast of unequal temper, because he was timid; and he was not without hidden pride.
At dinner they mentioned the Osnovskis to him, and the projected Athenian-Roman-Florentine evenings, Panna Castelli, and the curiosity which he had roused in the ladies. When he heard this, he said, —
“Oh, it is well to know that; I shall not go there now for anything in the world.”
“You will make their acquaintance first at our house,” said Marynia.
“I shall escape from the entrance,” said he, clasping his hands.
“Why?” asked Pan Stanislav. “It is needful to have the courage not only of one’s convictions, but of one’s verses.”
“Evidently,” said Pani Bigiel. “What is there to be ashamed of? I should look people in the eyes boldly and say: I write; yes, I write.”
“I write; yes, I write,” repeated Zavilovski, raising his head and laughing.
But Marynia continued: “You will make their acquaintance at our house; then you will leave your card with them, and after that we will visit them some evening.”
“I cannot hide my head in snow,” said he, “because there is none; but I’ll find some place of hiding.”
“But if I entreat you greatly?”
“Then I will go,” answered Zavilovski, after a while, blushing slightly; and he looked at her.
Her face, somewhat pale after protracted lying in bed, had become more delicate, and looked like the face of a maiden of sixteen. She seemed so wonderful to the young man that he could refuse her nothing.
In the evening, Pan Stanislav was to take him back to the city; but before that Marynia said to him, —
“Now you must be constrained, for you have not seen Panna Lineta Castelli; but as soon as you have seen her, you will fall in love.”
“I, Pani?” cried Zavilovski, putting his hand on his breast; “I, with Panna Castelli?”
And there was so much sincerity in his question that he was confused again; but this time Marynia herself was confused somewhat.
Meantime Pan Stanislav has finished his conversation with Bigiel about the dangers of investing capital in land, and they drive away. Marynia remembers how once she returned with her father, Pani Emilia, Litka, and Pan Stanislav from the Bigiels, in a moonlight night such as this; how “Pan Stanislav” was in love with her then; how unhappy he was; how severe she was with him; and her heart begins to beat with pity for that “Pan Stanislav,” who suffered so much on a time. She wants to nestle up to him and implore pardon for those evil moments of the past; and but for the presence of Zavilovski, she would do so.
But that old-time Pan Stanislav is sitting there calm and self-confident at her side, and smoking his cigar. Moreover, she is his; he has taken her and has her; all is over.
“Of what art thou thinking, Stas?” inquired she.
“Of the business of which I was talking with Bigiel.”
And, shaking the ashes from his cigar, he replaced it in his mouth, and drew so vigorously that a ruddy gleam lighted his mustache and a part of his face.
Zavilovski, looking at Marynia’s face, thought in his young soul that if she were his wife he would not smoke a cigar, nor think of business of which he had been talking with Bigiel, but might kneel before her and adore her on his knees.
And gradually, under the influence of the night and that sweet womanly face, which he glorified, exaltation possessed him. After a time he began to declaim, at first in silence, as if to himself, then more audibly, his verses entitled, “Snows on the Mountains.” There was in that poem, as it were, an immense yearning for something unapproachable and immaculate. Zavilovski himself did not know when they arrived in the city, and when lamps began to gleam on both sides of the street. At Pan Stanislav’s house Marynia said, —
“To-morrow, then, to a five o’clock.”
“Yes,” answered he, kissing her hand.
Marynia was sunk somewhat in revery under the influence of the ride, the night, and
maybe the verses. But from the time of their stay in Rome, she and her husband had repeated the rosary together. And after these prayers a great tenderness possessed her suddenly, — as it were, an influx of feeling, hidden for a time by other impressions. Approaching him, she put her arms around his neck, and whispered, —
“My Stas, but we feel so pleasant together, do we not?”
He drew her toward him, and answered with a certain careless boastfulness, —
“But do I complain?”
And it did not occur to him that there was in her question something like a shade of doubt and sorrow, which she did not like to admit to her soul, and desired him to calm and convince her.
Next morning in the office Zavilovski gave Pan Stanislav a cutting from some paper of “Snows on the Mountains;” he read it during dinner, but with the sound of forks the verses seemed less beautiful than amid the night stillness and in moonlight.
“Zavilovski told me,” said Pan Stanislav, “that a volume would be issued soon; but he has promised to collect first everything printed in various journals, and bring it to thee.”
“No,” said Marynia; “he should keep them for Lineta.”
“Ah, they are to meet to-morrow for the first time. Ye wish absolutely to make an epoch in Zavilovski’s life?”
“We do,” answered Marynia, with decisiveness. “Aneta astonished me at first; but why not?”
Indeed, the meeting took place. The Osnovskis, Pani Bronich, and Panna Castelli came very punctually at five; Zavilovski had come still earlier, to avoid entering a room in presence of a whole society. But as it was he was not only frightened, but more awkward than usual, and never had his legs seemed so long to him. There was, however, a certain distinction even in his awkwardness; and Pani Aneta was able to see that. The first scenes of the human comedy began, in which those ladies, as well-bred persons, guarding against every rudeness and staring at Zavilovski, did not, however, do anything else; he, feigning not to see this, was not thinking of anything else than how they were looking at him and judging him. This caused him great constraint, which he strove to hide by artificial freedom; he had so much self-love, however, that he was interested in having the judgment favorable. But the ladies were so attuned previously that the decision could not be unfavorable; and even had Zavilovski turned out flat and dull it would have been taken for wisdom and poetic originality: More indifferent was the bearing of Lineta, who was somewhat astonished that for the moment, not she was the sun, and Zavilovski the moon, but the contrary. The first impression which he made on her was: “What comparison with that stupid Kopovski!”
And the incomparable, wonderful face of that “stupid” stood before her eyes as if living; therefore her lids became dreamier still, and the expression of her face called to mind a sphinx in porcelain more than ever. She is irritated, however, that Zavilovski turns almost no attention to her form of a Juno, nor to that something “mysterious and poetic,” which, as Pani Bronich insists, fetters one from the first glance. She begins to observe him gradually; and, having, besides her poetic inclination, the sense of social observation developed powerfully, she sees that he has much expression indeed, but that his coat fits badly, that he dresses, of course, at a poor tailor’s, and that the pin in his cravat is mauvais genre simply. Meanwhile he casts occasional glances at Marynia, as the one near and friendly soul, and converses with Pani Aneta, who considers it as the highest tact not to mention poetry on first acquaintance, and, knowing that Zavilovski had passed the early years of his childhood in the country, begins to chatter about her inclinations for rural life. Her husband prefers the city always, having his friends and pleasures in the city, but as to her!— “Oh, I am sincere, and I confess at once that I cannot endure land management and accounts; for this I have been scolded more than once. Besides, I am a trifle lazy; therefore I should like work in which I could be lazy. What should I like, then?”
Here she spreads out her extended fingers so as to count more easily the occupations which would suit her taste:
“First, I should like to herd geese!”
Zavilovski laughs; she seems to him natural, and, besides, the picture of Pani Osnovski herding geese amuses him.
Her violet eyes begin to laugh also; and she falls into the tone of a free and joyous maiden, who talks of everything which runs through her head.
“And you would like that?” inquires she of Zavilovski.
“Passionately.”
“Ah, you see! What else? I should like to be a fisherman. The morning dawn must be reflected beautifully in the water. Then the damp nets before the cottage, with films of water between the meshes of the net. If not a fisherman, I should like to be at least a heron, and meditate in the water on one leg, or a lapwing in the fields. But no! the lapwing is a sad kind of bird, as if in mourning.”
Here she turned to Panna Castelli, —
“Lineta, what wouldst thou like to be in the country?”
Panna Lineta raised her lids, and answered after a while, —
“A spider-web.”
The imagination of Zavilovski as a poet was touched by this answer. Suddenly a great yellow sweep of stubble stood before his eyes, with silver threads floating in the calm blue and in the sun.
“Ah, what a pretty picture!” said he.
He looked more carefully at Lineta; and she smiled, as if in thankfulness that he had felt the beauty of the image.
But at that moment the Bigiels came. Pani Bronich took Zavilovski into her sphere of influence, and so hemmed him in with her chair that he had no chance to escape. It was easy to divine the subject of their dialogue, for Zavilovski raised his eyes from time to time to Lineta, as if to convince himself that he was looking at that about which he was hearing. At last, though the conversation was conducted in subdued tones, those present heard these words, spoken as if through sugar, —
“Do you know that Napoleon — that is, I wanted to say Victor Hugo — blessed her?”
In general, Zavilovski had heard so many uncommon things that he might look at Lineta with a certain curiosity. She had been, according to those narratives, the most marvellous child in the world, always very gentle, and not strong. At ten years she had been very ill; sea air was prescribed, and those ladies dwelt a long time on Stromboli.
“The child looked at the volcano, at the sea, and clapped her little hands, repeating, ‘Beautiful, beautiful!’ We went there by chance, wandered in on a hired yacht, without object; it was difficult to stay long, for that is an empty island. There was no proper place to live in, and not much to eat; but she, as if with foreknowledge that she would regain her health there, would not leave for anything. In fact, in a month, and if not in a month, in two, she began to be herself, and see what a reed she is.”
In fact, Lineta, though shapely and not too large, in stature was somewhat taller than Pani Aneta. Zavilovski looked at her with growing interest. Before the guests separated, when he was freed at last from imprisonment, he approached her, and said, —
“I have never seen a volcano, and I have no idea what impression it may make.”
“I know only Vesuvius,” answered she; “but when I saw it there was no eruption.”
“But Stromboli?”
“I do not know it.”
“Then I have heard incorrectly, for — your aunt—”
“Yes,” answered Lineta, “I don’t remember; I was small, I suppose.”
And on her face displeasure and confusion were reflected.
Before she took leave, Pani Aneta, without destroying her rôle of charming prattler, invited Zavilovski for some evening, “without ceremony and without a dress-coat, for such a spring might be considered summer, and in summer freedom is the most agreeable. That such a man as you does not like new acquaintances, I know, but for that there is a simple remedy: consider us old acquaintances. We are alone most generally. Lineta reads something, or tells what passes through her head; and such various things pass through her head that it is worth while to he
ar her, especially for a person who beyond others is in a position to feel and understand her.”
Panna Lineta pressed his hand at parting with unusual heartiness, as if confirming the fact that they could and should understand each other. Zavilovski, unused to society, was a little dazed by the words, the rustle of the robes, the eyes of those ladies, and by the odor of iris which they left behind. He felt besides some weariness, for that conversation, though free and apparently natural, lacked the repose which was always found in the words of Pani Polanyetski and Pani Bigiel. For a time there remained with him the impression of a disordered dream.
The Bigiels were to stay to dinner. Pan Stanislav therefore kept Zavilovski. They began to talk of the ladies.
“Well, and Panna Castelli?” asked Marynia.
“They have much imagination,” answered Zavilovski, after a moment’s hesitation. “Have you noticed how easy it is for them to speak in images?”
“But really, what an interesting young lady Lineta is!”
Lineta had not made a great impression on Pan Stanislav; besides, he was hungry and in a hurry for dinner, so he said somewhat impatiently, —
“What do you see in her? Interesting until she becomes an every-day subject.”
“No; Lineta will not become an every-day person,” said Marynia. “Only those ordinary, simple beings become every-day subjects who know how to do nothing but love.”
To Zavilovski, who looked at her that moment, it seemed that he detected a shade of sadness. Perhaps, too, she was weak, for her face had lily tones.
Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz Page 387