Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz

by Henryk Sienkiewicz

  “I am curious to know what he wants,” said Pan Stanislav.

  “Who is it?”

  “Mashko; he wants to see me.”

  “Business and business,” said Bigiel; “he has business above his ears. Sometimes I wonder really whence he gets endurance and wit for all this. Dost thou know that Pani Kraslavski has come home, and that she has lost her sight altogether? She sees nothing now, or what is called nothing. We visited those ladies before they left their country house. Wherever one turns there is misery, so that at last pity seizes one while looking.”

  “But in misfortune each man or woman shows his or her real nature,” said Pani Bigiel. “You remember that we considered Pani Mashko as somewhat dry in character, but you will not believe how kind she is now to her mother. She does not let a servant come near her; she attends her herself everywhere, waits on her, reads to her. Really she has given me a pleasant surprise, or rather both of them, for Path Kraslavski has lost her former pretentiousness thoroughly. It is pleasant to see how those women love each other. It seems that there was something in Pani Mashko which we could not discover.”

  “Both, too, were terribly indignant at the behavior of Panna Castelli,” added Bigiel. “Pani Kraslavski said to us, ‘If my Terka had acted in that way, I should have denied her, though I am blind, and need care.’ But Pani Mashko is as she is, and she would not have acted in that way, for she is another kind of woman.”

  Pan Stanislav drank his cup of black coffee, and began to take farewell. For some time past every conversation about Pani Mashko had become for the man unendurable; it seemed to him, moreover, that he was listening again to an extract from that strange human comedy which people were playing around him, and in which he, too, was playing his empty part. It did not occur to him that human nature is so composed that even in the very worst person some good element may be found, and that Pani Mashko might be, after all, a loving daughter. In general, he preferred not to think of that, but began to halt over the question, what could Mashko want of him? Forgetting that Mashko had written in the letter that he wanted to see him, not in his own, but in his (Pan Stanislav’s) interest, he supposed, with a certain alarm, that he wanted money a second time.

  “But I,” thought he, “will not refuse now.”

  And it occurred to him that life is like the machinery of a watch. When something is out of order in one wheel, all begin to act irregularly. What connection could there be between his adventure with Pani Mashko and his business, his money, his mercantile work? And still he felt that even as a merchant he had not, at least with reference to Mashko, the freedom that he once had.

  But his suppositions proved faulty. Mashko had not come to ask money.

  “I looked for thee in the counting-house, and at thy residence,” said he; “at last I divined that thou must be at the Bigiels’, and I sent my letter there. I wished to speak with thee on thy own business.”

  “How can I serve thee?” asked Pan Stanislav.

  “First of all, I beg that what I say may remain between us.”

  “It will; I am listening.”

  Mashko looked for a time in silence at Pan Stanislav, as if to prepare him by that silence for some important announcement; at last he said, with a wonderful calmness, weighing out every expression, —

  “I wished to tell thee that I am lost beyond redemption.”

  “Hast lost the will case?”

  “No; the case will come up only two weeks from now but I know that I shall lose it.”

  “Whence hast thou that certainty?”

  “Dost remember what I told thee once, that cases against wills are won almost always because the attack is more energetic than the defence; because usually the overthrow of the will concerns some one personally, while maintaining it does not? Everything in the world may be attacked; for though a thing be in accordance with the spirit of the law, almost always, in a greater degree or less, it fails to satisfy the letter, and the courts must hold to the letter.”

  “True. Thou hast said all that.”

  “Well, so it is, too, in this case which I took up. It was not so adventurous as may seem. The whole question was to break the will; and I should, perhaps, succeed in proving certain disagreements in it with the letter of the law, were it not that there is a man striving with equal energy to prove that there are none such. I will not talk long about this; it is enough for thee to know that I have to contend not merely with an opponent who is a lawyer and a finished trickster, but a personal enemy, for whom it is a question, not only to win the case, but to ruin me. Once I slighted him, and now he is taking revenge.”

  “In general, I do not understand why you have to do with any one except the State Attorney.”

  “Because there were legacies to private people in defence of which the opposite side employed Sledz, that advocate. But let this rest. I must lose the case, for it is in conditions for being lost; and if I were Sledz, I would win just as he wins. I know this in advance, and I do not deceive myself. Enough now of this whole matter.”

  “But go on; appeal.”

  “No, my dear friend, I cannot go on.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have more debts than there are hairs on my head; because, after my first defeat, creditors will rush at me; and because” — here Mashko lowered his voice— “I must flee.”

  Silence followed.

  Mashko rested his elbow on his knee, his head on his palm, and sat some time with his head inclined; but after a while he began to speak, as if to himself, without raising his head, —

  “It is broken. I tied knots desperately, till my hands were wearied; strength would have failed any man, still I kept knotting. But I cannot knot any longer! God sees that I have no more strength left. Everything must have its end; and let this finish sometime.”

  Here he drew breath, like a man who is terribly tired; then he raised his head, and said, —

  “This, however, is my affair merely, and I have come to talk of thy affairs. Listen to me! According to contract concluded at the sale of Kremen, I was to make payments to thy wife after the parcelling of Magyerovka; thou hast a few thousand rubles of thy own money with me. I was to pay thy father-in-law a life annuity. Now I come to tell thee that if not in a week, then in two, I shall go abroad as a bankrupt, and thou and they will not see a copper.”

  Mashko, while telling all this with the complete boldness and insolence of a man who no longer has anything to lose, looked Pan Stanislav in the eyes, as if seeking for a storm.

  But he was deceived most thoroughly. Pan Stanislav’s face grew dark for one twinkle of an eye, it is true, as if from suppressed anger; but he calmed himself quickly, and said, —

  “I have always expected that this would end so.”

  Mashko, who, knowing with whom he had to deal supposed that Pan Stanislav would seize him by the shoulder, looked at him with amazement, as if wishing to ask what had happened.

  But at that moment Pan Stanislav thought, —

  “If he had wanted to borrow money for the road, I could not have refused him.”

  But aloud he said, “Yes; this was to be foreseen.”

  “No,” answered Mashko, with the stubbornness of a man who will not part with the thought that only a concurrence of exceptional circumstances is to blame for everything. “Thou hast no right to say this. The moment before death, I should be ready to repeat that it might have gone otherwise.”

  But Pan Stanislav inquired, as if with a shade of impatience, —

  “My dear, what dost thou want of me specially?”

  Mashko recovered, and answered, —

  “Nothing. I have come to thee only as to a man who has shown me good-will at all times, and with whom I have contracted a money debt, as well as a debt of gratitude; I have come to confess openly how things stand, and also to say to thee: save what is possible, and as much as possible.”

  Pan Stanislav set his teeth; he judged that even in that irony of life, whose chattering he heard rou
nd about him continually for some time past, there ought to be a certain measure. Meanwhile Mashko’s words about friendship and a debt of gratitude seemed to him as simply passing that measure. “May the devils take the money and thee — if thou would only go!” thought he, in spirit. But compressing in himself the wish to utter this audibly, he said, —

  “I see no way.”

  “There is only one way,” answered Mashko. “While it is still unknown to people that I must break, while hopes are connected with the will case, while my name and signature mean something, thou hast a chance to sell thy wife’s claim. Thou wilt say to the purchaser that it is thy wish to capitalize the whole property, or something of that sort. Appearances are easy. A purchaser will be found always, especially if thou decide to sell at a certain reduction. In view of profit, any Jew will buy. I prefer that any other should lose rather than thou; it is permitted thee not to hear what I have told thee of my coming bankruptcy, and it is permitted thee to hope that I shall win the case. Thou canst be sure that he who will buy the claim of thee, would sell it to thee, even though he knew that it would not be worth a broken copper on the morrow. The world is an exchange; and on the exchange most business is transacted on this basis. This is called cleverness.”

  “No,” answered Pan Stanislav, “it has a different name. Thou hast mentioned Jews; there are certain kinds of business which they describe with one word, ‘schmuzig!’ I shall save my wife’s claim in another way.”

  “As may please thee. I, my clear friend, know the value of my system; but, seest thou, in spite of all, I said to myself that I ought to tell thee this. It is perhaps the honor of a bankrupt; but now I cannot have another. It is easy for thee to divine how hard it is for me to say this. For that matter, I knew in advance that thou wouldst refuse; hence with me it was a question only of doing my own. And now give me a cup of tea and a glass of cognac, for I am barely living.”

  Pan Stanislav rang for the tea and the cognac.

  Mashko continued, —

  “I must pluck a certain number of people, — there is no help for that; hence I prefer to pluck indifferent ones rather than those who have rendered me service. There are positions in which a man must be an opportunist with his own conscience.”

  Here Mashko laughed with bitterness.

  “I did not know of that myself,” continued he; “but now new horizons open themselves before me. One is learning till death. We bankrupts have a certain point of honor too. As to me, I care less for those who would have plucked me in a given case than those who are near me, and to whom I owe gratitude. This may be the morality of Rinaldini, but morality of its own kind.”

  The servant brought in tea now. Mashko, needing to strengthen himself evidently, added to his cup an overflowing glass of cognac, and, cooling the hot tea in that way; drank it at a gulp.

  “My dear friend,” said Pan Stanislav, “thou knowest the position better than I. All that I could say against flight, and in favor of remaining and coming to terms with creditors, thou hast said to thyself of course, therefore I prefer to ask of something else: Hast thou something to grasp with thy hand? Hast thou even money for the road?”

  “I have. Whether a man fails for a hundred thousand, or a hundred and ten thousand, is all one; but I thank thee for the question.”

  Here Mashko added cognac to a second cup of tea, and said, —

  “Do not think that I am beginning to drink from despair; I have not sat down since morning, and I am terribly tired. Ah, how much good this has done me! I will say now to thee openly that I have not thrown up the game. Thou seest that I have not fired into my forehead. That is a melodrama! that is played out. I know, indeed, that everything is ended for me here; but in this place I could not sail out anyhow. Here the interests are too small simply, and there is no field. Take the west, Paris! There men make fortunes; there they take a somersault, and rise again. What is to be said in the case if it is so? Dost thou know that Hirsh had not, perhaps, three hundred francs on leaving this country? I know, I know! from the standpoint of local mustiness and stupidity here, this will seem a dream, — the fever of a bankrupt. But still, men inferior to me have made millions there, — inferior to me! Lose or win. But if I come back at any time—”

  And evidently the tea and cognac had begun to rouse him, for, clinching his fist, he added, —

  “Thou wilt see!”

  “If that is not dreaming,” answered Pan Stanislav, with still greater impatience than before, “it is the future. But now what?”

  “Now,” said Mashko, after a while, “they will count me a swindler. No one will think that there are falls and falls. I will tell thee, for instance, that I have not taken from my wife a single signature, a single surety, and that she will have everything which she had before marriage. I am going now; and until I am settled she will remain here with her mother. I do not know whether you have heard that Pani Kraslavski has lost her sight. I cannot take them at present, for I am not even sure where I shall live, — in Paris perhaps, perhaps in Antwerp. But I hope that our separation will not be lasting. They know nothing yet. See in what the drama is! See what tortures me!”

  And Mashko put his palm on the top of his head, blinking at the same time, as if from pain in his eyes.

  “When wilt thou go?” inquired Pan Stanislav.

  “I cannot tell. I will let thee know. Thou hast had the evident wish to aid me, and thou mayest, though not in money. People will avoid my wife at first; show her, then, a little attention; take her under thy protection. Is it agreed? Thou hast been really friendly to me, and I know that thou art friendly to her.”

  “As God lives, one might go mad,” thought Pan Stanislav; but he said aloud, —

  “Agreed.”

  “I thank thee from the soul of my heart; and I have still a prayer. Thou hast much influence over those two ladies. They will believe thy words. Defend me a little in the first moments before my wife. Explain to her that dishonesty is one thing, and misfortune another. I, as God lives, am not such a rogue as people will consider me. I might have brought my wife also to ruin, but I have not done so. I might have obtained from thee a few thousand more rubles; but I preferred not to take them. Thou wilt be able to put this before her, and she will believe thee. Is it agreed?”

  “Agreed,” replied Pan Stanislav.

  Mashko covered his head with his hands once more, and said, with a face contracted as if from physical pain, —

  “See where real ruin is! See what pains the most!”

  After a while he began to take farewell, thanking Pan Stanislav, meanwhile, again for good-will toward his wife, and future care of her.

  Pan Stanislav went out with him, sat in a carriage, and started for Buchynek.

  On the road he thought of Mashko and his fate; but at the same time he repeated to himself, “I too am a bankrupt!”

  And that was true. Besides this, for a certain time some sort of general uncomprehended alarm had tormented him; against this he could not defend himself. Round about he saw disappointment, catastrophes, ruin; and he could not resist the feeling that all these were for him, too, a kind of warning and threat of the future. He proved to himself, it is true, that such fears could not be logically justified; but none the less, the fears did not cease to stick in the bottom of his soul somewhere, and sometimes he said to himself again, “Why should I be the one exception?” Then his heart was straitened with a foreboding of misfortune. This was still worse than those pins which, without wishing it, people, even the most friendly, drove into him by any word, unconsciously. In general, his nerves had suffered recently, so that he had become almost superstitious. He returned daily to Buchynek in alarm, lest something bad might have happened in the house during his absence.

  This evening, he returned later than usual because of Mashko’s call, and drove in about the time when real darkness had come. Stepping out before the entrance on the sandy road, which dulled the sound of the carriage, he saw through the window Marynia, Pani Emilia, and t
he professor sitting near a table in the middle of the parlor. Marynia was laying out patience, and was evidently explaining the play to Pani Emilia, for her head was turned toward her, and she had one finger on the cards. At sight of her Pan Stanislav thought that which for some time he had been repeating mentally, and which filled him at once with a feeling of happiness, and with greater anger at himself: “She is the purest soul that I have met in life.” And with that thought he entered the room.

  “Thou art late to-day,” said Marynia, when he raised her hand to his lips with greeting; “but we are waiting for thee with supper.”

  “Mashko detained me,” answered he. “What is to be heard here?”

  “The same as ever. All happy.”

  “And how art thou?”

  “As well as a fish!” answered she, joyously, giving him her forehead for a kiss.

  Then she began to inquire about Pan Ignas. Pan Stanislav, after the disagreeable talk with Mashko, breathed for the first time more freely. “She is in health, and all is right,” thought he, as if in wonder. And really he felt well in that bright room, in that great peace, among those friendly souls and at the side of that person so good and reliable. He felt that everything was there which he needed for happiness; but he felt that he had spoiled that happiness of his own will; that he had brought into the clear atmosphere of his house the elements of corruption and evil, and that he was living under that roof without a right.

  CHAPTER LX.

  In the middle of September such cold days came that the Polanyetskis moved from Buchynek to their house in the city. Pan Stanislav, before the arrival of his wife, had the house aired and ornamented with flowers. It seemed to him, it is true, that he had lost the right to love her, but he had lost only his former freedom with reference to her; but perhaps, just because of this, he became far more attentive and careful. The right to love no one gives, and nothing can take away. It is another case when a man has fallen, and in presence of a soul incomparably more noble than his own, feels that he is not worthy to love; he loves then with humility, and does not dare to call his feeling by its name. What Pan Stanislav had lost really was his self-confidence, his commanding ways, and his former unceremoniousness in his treatment of his wife. At present in his intercourse with her he bore himself sometimes as if she were Panna Plavitski, and he a suitor not sure of his fate yet.