“What!” inquired Aneta, with animation, “has Yozio seen anything with reference to Castelka?
“Koposio laughs at her, for he has good teeth; but if I should see anything, he wouldn’t be in Prytulov. Maybe, too, Castelka is coquetting with him, because such is her nature — without knowing it. That itself is bad, but that it should go as far as looking at each other seriously, I don’t believe.
“But it is necessary to examine Koposio as to Steftsia. Knowest what, Yozio? I will go this very day with him on horseback to Lesnichovka, and I will talk with him rather seriously. Go thou in another direction!”
“Good, my child. But see, thy head is finding measures already!”
Going out, he stopped on the threshold, thought a while, and said, —
“But how wonderful all this is! and how it passes understanding! This Ignas catches everything on the wing; and at the same time he worships Castelka as if she were some divinity, and sees nothing and nothing.”
In the afternoon, when Kopovski and Pani Aneta were riding along the shady road to the forest cottage, Pan Ignas followed them with his eyes, and looked at her figure on horseback, outlined in the well-fitting riding-dress. “She is shaped like a slender pitcher,” thought he. “But how elegant and enticing she is! There is in this some irony of life, that that honest and kindly Osnovski divines nothing.”
And truly there was irony of life in that, but not in that only.
CHAPTER LIV.
Since the day when Pani Aneta and Kopovski made the trip to Lesnichovka, something had changed in the social relations of the dwellers in Prytulov. Pan Ignas looked, it is true, as formerly, into the eyes of his affianced, and was enchanted with her beyond measure; but in her intercourse with him and with others there was a certain light shade of ill-humor. Kopovski felt as if bound; he looked at Lineta by stealth only. He approached her hurriedly, and only in the absence of Pani Aneta; but he sat oftener near Panna Ratkovski, to whom he spoke, as it were, with his mind in another place. Pani Aneta was, moreover, more determined than usual; and, to the great satisfaction of “Yozio,” she extended now such watchful care over every affair in Prytulov, that she took Kopovski aside twice for personal explanations. Lineta’s glance did not follow Kopovski with that former half-gladsome, half-ironical freedom; but the cloudy eyes of Panna Ratkovski turned to Pan Ignas with a certain sympathy, — in one, word, something had changed both in looks and relations.
But those were changes observable only to a very quick eye, and one accustomed to look at life of that kind, in which, for lack of greater objects and severe daily labor, the least shade of feelings and the most subtle movement of thoughts, and even dispositions, take on not only the form, of far-reaching events, but frequently conceal the actual germs of such events in themselves. Externally life remained just the same it had been; that is, a kind of daily festival, a May day, country idleness, interwoven with love, æsthetic impressions, more or less witty conversations, and, finally, amusements. The arrangement of a whole series of these amusements, to fill out the day, was the sole occupation which weighed on their thoughts; and even this, for the greater part, Pan Osnovski took on himself as master of the house.
But on a certain day the uniform calm of that life was broken by a thunderbolt, under the form of two black-bordered envelopes addressed to Osnovski and Pan Ignas. When they were brought in, the whole society was at after-dinner coffee; and the eyes of the ladies were turned with curiosity and alarm at the readers, who, taking cards from the unsealed envelopes, cried almost simultaneously, —
“Pan Zavilovski is dead!”
The news made a deep impression. Pani Bronich, as a person of the old school, and remembering those days when the coming of a courier in the country obliged the most sensitive ladies to faint, even before it was known what the courier had brought, fell into a kind of numbness, joined to loss of speech; Panna Ratkovski, who had spent some time at Pan Zavilovski’s, and cherished great friendship for him and his daughter, grew pale in real earnest; Panna Lineta, seizing Pani Bronich’s hand, tried to restore her to consciousness, whispering, “Voyons, chère, tu n’es pas raisonnable!” Pani Aneta, as if wishing to verify with her own eyes the substance of the announcement, took the card from her husband’s hands, and read, —
“The respected Pan Eustachius Zavilovski departed this life on the 25th day of July. His grief-stricken daughter invites relatives and friends to the funeral, at the parish church in Yasmen, on the 28th day of the current month.”
Then followed a moment of silence, which was broken by Pan Ignas.
“I knew him little,” said he, “and was prepossessed against him once; but now I grieve for him sincerely, for I know that at heart he was a worthy man.”
“And he loved thee sincerely,” answered Osnovski. “I have proofs of that.”
Pani Bronich, who, during this time, had recovered, declared that those proofs might appear now in their fulness, and that the heart of the deceased would very likely prove itself still greater than they imagined. “Pan Eustachius always loved Nitechka much, and such a man cannot be malicious.” At times he had reminded her — that is, Pani Bronich — of Teodor, and therefore she had become so attached to him. He was, it is true, as abrupt on occasions as Teodor was gentle at all times; but both had that honesty of spirit which the Lord God is best able to value.
Then she turned to “Nitechka,” reminding her that the least emotion would add to the sinking of her heart, and begging her to strive this time not to yield to innate sensitiveness. Pan Ignas, too, with the feeling that a common sorrow had struck him and Lineta for the first time, began to kiss her hands. This state of mind was broken by Kopovski, who said, as if in meditation on the transitory nature of human affairs, —
“I am curious to know what Panna Helena will do with the pipes left by her father.”
In fact, the old noble’s pipes were famous throughout the whole city. Through dislike for cigarettes and cigars, he had in his day made a great collection in his mansion for lovers of the pipe. Kopovski’s anxiety about the pipes was not quieted, however, — first, because at that moment they brought Pan Ignas a letter from Pan Stanislav, containing also intelligence of the old man’s decease, and an invitation to the funeral; secondly, because Osnovski began to advise with his wife about the trip to Yasmen.
It ended in this, — that all were to go at once to the city, where the ladies would set about buying various small articles of mourning, and on the second day, the day of the funeral, they would be in Yasmen. Thus did they do. Pan Ignas, immediately after their arrival, went to his lodgings to carry home things, and prepare a black suit for mourning; and then he went to the Polanyetskis, supposing that they, too, perhaps, had come in from the Bigiels. The servant informed him that his master had been there the day before, but had gone at once to Yasmen, near which place he had hired, or even bought, a house two weeks earlier.
Hearing this, he returned to Osnovski’s villa to spend the evening with his betrothed.
At the entrance, the tones of a waltz by Strauss, coming from the depth of the house, astonished him. Meeting in the next salon Panna Ratkovski, he inquired who was playing.
“Lineta is playing with Pan Kopovski,” answered she.
“Then Pan Kopovski is here?”
“He came a quarter of an hour since.”
“And Pani and Pan Osnovski?”
“They have not returned yet; Aneta is making purchases.”
Pan Ignas, for the first time in his life, felt a certain dissatisfaction with Lineta. He understood that the deceased was nothing to her; still the moment for playing a four-handed waltz with Kopovski seemed inappropriate. He had a feeling that that showed want of taste. Pani Bronich, who did not lack society keenness, divined evidently that impression on his face.
“Nitechka was moved greatly, and worn out,” said she; “and nothing calms her like music. I was much alarmed, for sinking of the heart had begun with her; and when Pan Kopovski came, I myself
proposed that they play something.”
They stopped playing; and Pan Ignas’s unpleasant impression disappeared by degrees. There was for him in that villa a multitude of recent and precious remembrances. About dusk he took Lineta’s arm, and they walked through the rooms. They stopped in various places; he called to mind something every moment.
“Dost remember,” asked he, in the studio, “when painting, thou didst take me by the temple to turn my head aside, and for the first time in life I kissed thy hand; and thy words, ‘Talk with aunt’? — I lost not only consciousness, but breath. Thou, my chosen, my dearest!”
And she answered, —
“And how pale thou wert then!”
“It is difficult not to be pale when the heart is dying in one from emotion; and I loved thee beyond memory.”
Lineta raised her eyes, and said after a while, —
“How wonderful all this is!”
“What, Nitechka?”
“That it begins somehow, and begins as if it were a kind of trial, a kind of play; then one goes farther into it, and all at once the trap falls.”
Pan Ignas pressed her arm to his bosom, and said, —
“Ah, yes! it has fallen! I have my bright maiden, and I won’t let her go.”
Then, walking on, they came to the great drawing-room.
Pan Ignas pointed to the glass door, and said, —
“Our balcony, our acacia-tree.”
It grew darker and darker. Objects in the room were sunk in shade; only here and there, on golden picture frames, gleamed points of light, like eyes of some kind gazing at the young couple.
“Dost thou love me?” asked Pan Ignas.
“Thou knowest.”
“Say yes.”
“Yes.”
Then he pressed her arm more, and said with a voice changed through rising emotion, —
“Thou hast no idea, simply, how much happiness is in thee. I give thee my word; thou hast no idea. Thou knowest not how I love thee. I would give my life for thee. I would give the world for one hair of thine. Thou art my world, my life, my all. I should die without thee.”
“Let us sit down,” whispered Lineta; “I am so wearied.”
They sat down, resting against each other, hidden in the dark. A moment of silence followed.
“What is the matter? Thou art trembling all over,” whispered Lineta.
But she too, whether stirred by remembrances, or borne on by his feeling, or by nearness, began to breathe hurriedly, and, closing her eyes, was the first to put her lips forward toward his.
Meanwhile Kopovski was bored evidently in the adjoining room with Panna Ratkovski and Pani Bronich, for at that moment the tones of the waltz which he had played before with Lineta were heard.
When Pan Ignas returned to his own lodgings, the place seemed the picture of sadness and loneliness, a kind of objectless nomad dwelling, after which there will not be one memory; and he thought that that golden “Nitechka” had so wound herself around his heart that in truth he would not live without her, and could not.
The funeral, on the third day, was not numerously attended. The neighboring estates, as lying near the city belonged for the greater part to rich people, who passed the summer season abroad; hence not many of Pan Zavilovski’s acquaintances had remained in the city. But numerous throngs of villagers had assembled, who, crowding into the church, looked at the coffin as if with wonder that a man of such wealth, wading in property, in money and riches, was going into the ground like the first chance peasant who lived in a hut somewhere. Others looked with envy on the young lady to whom “so much wealth” was to fall. And such is human nature that not only peasants, but refined people, distant or near acquaintances of Pan Zavilovski, were unable even during the burial itself to refrain from thinking what that Panna Helena would do with these millions which were left her for the drying of tears. There were some too, who, supposing young Zavilovski as the last relative of that name, the heir of a considerable part of the property, gave themselves in secret the question whether that lucky poet, and millionnaire of the morrow, perhaps, would stop writing verses. And they thought, as if with a certain unexplained satisfaction, that he would probably.
But the chief attention was turned to Panna Helena. All wondered at the resignation with which she bore the loss, — the more painful, since after the death of her father she remained in the world all alone, without relatives nearer than the young poet, and even without friends, concerning whom she had long since ceased to busy herself. She walked after the coffin with a face over which tears were flowing, but which was calm, with that calmness usual to her, but somewhat lifeless and stony. On her return from the church, she spoke of the death of her father as if a number of months at least had passed since it happened. The ladies of Prytulov could not understand that an immense faith was speaking through her; and that in virtue of her faith, that death, in comparison with another, which she had survived, but which had rent her soul, seemed something that was sad, it is true, but at the same time a blessing, pressing out tears of sorrow, but not of despair. In fact, old Pan Zavilovski died very piously, though almost suddenly. From the time of his arrival in Yasmen, he had the habit of confessing twice a week; hence he did not lack religious consolation. He died with the rosary in his hand, in his armchair, having fallen previously into a light sleep, without any suffering; his usual pain having left him a few days before, so that he had even begun to gain the hope of a perfect return of health. Panna Helena, while speaking of this, in her low uniform voice, turned at last to Pan Ignas and said, —
“He mentioned you very often. Perhaps an hour before death he said that if you should come to Buchynek to Pan Polanyetski, to let him know, for he wished to see you without fail. Father loved and esteemed you greatly, greatly.”
“Dear lady,” said Pan Ignas, raising her hands to his lips, “I join you in mourning for him sincerely.”
There was something noble and truthful, as well in his tones as in his words, therefore Panna Helena’s eyes filled with tears; but the weeping of Pani Bronich was so loud that, had it not been for a flask of salts given her by Lineta, it would have passed into a nervous attack, very likely.
But Panna Helena, as if not hearing those sobs, thanked Pan Stanislav for the aid which she had received from him, — he had occupied himself with those cares which the death of a near friend imposes, in addition to their misfortune, on those who are bereaved. He took all that on himself because of his active nature, and because at that juncture he seized every chance to occupy himself with something to deaden his thoughts, and escape from the torturing circle of his own meditations.
Marynia did not go to the grave, for her husband did not wish her exposed to crowding and fatigue, but she kept company with Panna Helena in the house, giving her consolation, as she could. Afterward she wished to take her, with the Prytulov ladies, to Buchynek, and even to keep her there a few days. Pan Stanislav supported this request; but as Panna Helena had her old governess at the mansion, she refused, assuring Marynia that in Yasmen it would not be disagreeable at all to her, and that she did not wish to leave it for the first days especially.
But the ladies from Prytulov, who, at the persuasion of Svirski, had intended to visit the Polanyetskis, went willingly with their acquaintances to Buchynek, — all the more since Pani Bronich desired to learn from Pan Stanislav nearer details touching the last moments of the deceased. Marynia, who had looked most curiously at Panna Ratkovski, took her in her carriage, and that happened which happens sometimes in society, — that the two youthful women felt at once an irrestrainable attraction to each other. In Panna Ratkovski’s pensive eyes, in her expression, in her “retiring” face, as Svirski called it, there was something of such character that Marynia divined, at the first glance almost, a nature not bold, accustomed to retire into itself, delicate and sensitive. On the other hand, Panna Ratkovski had heard so much of Marynia from Pan Ignas, and heard because other ladies in Prytulov were not willing to lend t
heir ears to praises of their neighbors, that, seeing in her eyes interest and sympathy, to which, in her poverty and loneliness, she was not accustomed, she nestled up with her whole heart to her. In this way they arrived at Buchynek as good friends, and Svirski, who was with Pan Stanislav, Osnovski, and Kopovski, arrived right after them; it did not need any great acuteness to divine that the judgment of Marynia would be for Panna Steftsia.
But he wished to hear it. Marynia began to show the guests her new residence, which was to be her property, for Pan Stanislav had decided already to buy it. They looked specially at the garden, in which were growing uncommonly old white poplars. Svirski, taking advantage of this walk, gave his arm to Marynia; and on the way back to the house, when the party had scattered somewhat along all the paths, he asked with great precipitance, —
“Well, what is the first impression?”
“The best possible. Ah, what a good and sensitive child that must be! Try to know her.”
“I? What for? I will propose this day. You think I will not do that? Upon my word, I will, to-day — and in Buchynek! I have no time for examination and meditation. In those affairs there must be a little daring. I will make a declaration this day, as true as I am here before you.”
Marynia began to laugh, thinking that he was jesting; but he answered, —
“I am laughing, too, for there is nothing sad in this; it is no harm that this is a funeral day. I am not superstitious; or rather, I am, for I believe that nothing from your hand can be evil.”
“But it is not from my hand; I only made her acquaintance to-day.”
“It is all one to me. I have been afraid of women all my life; but of this one, somehow, I have no fear. She simply cannot be a thankless heart.”
“I think, too, that she cannot.”
“And do you see? this is my last chance. If she accepts me, I will carry her all my life, see?” (here he put his hand in the bosom of his coat); “if not, then—”
Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz Page 406