Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz

by Henryk Sienkiewicz

  “This just passes every understanding! As God lives! a man might lose his eyes.”

  “Well,” said Pan Stanislav, puffing with satisfaction, and with that conceit evident in him that he had always seen that which others saw only now for the first time.

  But Svirski answered, —

  “Kneel down, nations! I will say nothing further.”

  Marynia was confused at hearing this, but flushed with pleasure, feeling that Svirski was right. She had, however, to occupy herself with the guests and the ceremony, and all the more since a certain disorder had crept in, to begin with. The first couple, Pani Emilia and Bigiel, were to hold little Stas; the second couple were Panna Ratkovski and Svirski. Meanwhile, this last man began to create unexpected difficulties, discovering hindrances, and evading, it was unknown why. “He would be very glad — he had come from Italy purposely — of course. That was an arranged affair; but he had never before held a child at a christening, therefore he didn’t know if his god-child would remain in good health, and especially if he would have luck with women.” At this Pan Stanislav laughed, and called him a superstitious Italian, but Marynia divined the trouble more quickly. She took advantage of the moment in which he had pushed back toward the window to escape, and whispered, —

  “A gossip of the second couple is no hindrance in this case.”

  Svirski raised his eyes to her, then laughed, showing his small sound teeth, and said on a sudden, turning to Panna Ratkovski, —

  “It is true, this is only in the second couple; therefore, I will serve you.”

  All surrounded the little Stas, who, in the arms of the nurse, and dressed in muslin and lace, looked valiant, with his bald spot and his staring round eyes, in which the external world was reflected as mechanically as in a mirror. Bigiel took him now in his arms, and the ceremony began.

  Those present listened with due attention to the solemn sacramental words, but the young pagan exhibited exceptional hardness of heart. First he began to kick, so that he half freed himself from Bigiel’s arms; later, when Bigiel, in his name, renounced the devil and his works, the young man did all in his power to drown the words. It was only when he saw, all at once, in the midst of his screaming, Bigiel’s spectacles, that he stopped suddenly, as if to let people know that if there are such astonishing objects in the world, it is a different thing.

  However, the ceremony ended, and immediately after they gave him into the hands of the nurse, who put him into a splendid cradle, in the form of a wagon, the gift of Svirski, and wished to roll him out of the room. But Svirski, who never in his life, perhaps, had seen so nearly such a small person, and in whose breast beat a heart long yearning for fatherhood, stopped the nurse, and, bending down to the cradle, took the child in his arms.

  “Carefully, carefully!” cried Pan Stanislav, pushing up quickly.

  But the artist turned to him, and said, —

  “Sir, I have held in my hands the works of Luca della Robbia.”

  And, in fact, he lifted the little creature, and began to swing him with as much dexterity as if he had had care of children all his life. Then he approached Professor Vaskovski, and asked, —

  “Well, what does the beloved professor think of his young Aryan?”

  “What?” answered the old man, looking with tenderness at the child; “naturally, an Aryan, an Aryan of purest water.”

  “And a coming missionary,” added Pan Stanislav.

  “He will not turn from that in the future; he will not evade, just as you cannot evade,” answered the professor.

  It was not possible, in fact, to prejudge the future; but for the moment the young Aryan avoided all missions in a manner so unmistakable, and simply insulting, that it was necessary to give him to the nurse. The ladies, however, did not cease to smack their lips at him, and to be charmed with him, until they came to a decisive conclusion that he was a perfectly exceptional child, that his whole bearing showed this clearly, and that any one must be without eyes not to see that that would be the nicest man in the country, and, moreover, a genius.

  But the “genius” fell asleep at last, as if he had been stunned by the incense, and meanwhile lunch was served. Marynia, in spite of all her friendship for the artist, seated Pan Ignas next to Panna Ratkovski. She wished, as, for that matter, all wished, not excepting even Svirski, that something should be made clear in their relations, for Pan Ignas acted strangely. Svirski held that he was not yet entirely normal. He was healthy; he slept and ate well; he had grown a little heavier; he spoke with judgment, even more deliberately than had been his habit, — but there appeared in him a certain infirmity of will, a certain lack of that initiative for which he had been so distinguished before. In Italy he grew radiant at remembrance of Panna Ratkovski; and when he spoke of her his eyes filled with tears at times. On his return, when some one reminded him that it would be well to make a visit to Panna Ratkovski, and especially when that one offered to go with him, he answered, “It is true,” and he went with delight. But the visit made, it seemed as though he did not remember her existence. At times it was evident that in the depth of his soul something was troubling him, swallowing all his mental force. Svirski supposed for a while that it might be the remembrance of Panna Castelli; but he convinced himself, with a certain astonishment, that it was not, and at last he began to think that Pan Ignas never mentioned her because he had lost the feeling that she was real, or that she seemed to him now an impression so remote, a remembrance so blown apart, that it could not be brought into a real living whole. He was not melancholy. On the contrary, one might note at times in him satisfaction with life and the joy which he experienced, as it were, in this his second birth in it. Really sad, more and more confined in herself, and increasingly quiet, was Panna Ratkovski. It may be that, besides a lack of mutual feeling, other things in Pan Ignas alarmed her; but she did not mention those alarms to any one. Marynia and Pani Bigiel, judging that the only cause of her sadness was the conduct of Pan Ignas, showed the most heartfelt sympathy, and were ready to do anything to help her. Marynia saw Pan Ignas now for the first time since his return from Italy; but Pani Bigiel spoke to him daily, praising Panna Ratkovski, reminding him how much he owed her, and giving him to understand more and more clearly that it was his duty to pay something of the debt which he owed her. The honest Svirski, to the detriment of his own hopes, repeated the same to him; and Pan Ignas agreed to everything, but, as it were, unwillingly, or without being able to add the final conclusion. He spoke of his approaching second trip abroad, of plans of still greater journeys in the future, — in a word, of things which, by their nature, excluded the co-operation of Panna Ratkovski.

  And now, sitting side by side, they spoke little to each other. Pan Ignas ate abundantly, and with appetite, even with attention; he followed with his eyes the new courses which were served first to the elder guests. Panna Ratkovski, noticing this, looked on him at moments, as if with painful sympathy. At last this began to vex Marynia; so, wishing to rouse a conversation between them, she said, bending over the table, —

  “You have come so recently from travels, tell me and Steftsia something of Italy. Hast thou never been there, Steftsia?”

  “I have not,” answered Panna Ratkovski; “but not long since I read the account of a journey — but to read and to see are different.”

  And she blushed slightly, for she had betrayed the fact that she had been reading about Italy just when Pan Ignas was there.

  “Pan Svirski persuaded me to go as far as Sicily,” said he, “but it was hot there at that time; that would be the place to visit at this season.”

  “Ah!” said Marynia, “it is well that I think of it — but my letters? You asked through Pan Svirski if I wished you to write your impressions, but afterward I did not receive a single letter.”

  Pan Ignas blushed; he was confused, and then in a kind of strange and uncertain voice, answered, —

  “No, for I have not been able yet; I will write very much, but later.”


  Having heard these words, Svirski approached Marynia after lunch, and indicating Pan Ignas with his eyes, said, —

  “Do you know the impression which he makes on me sometimes? — that of a costly vessel which is cracked.”

  CHAPTER LXVII

  A couple of days after the christening, Svirski visited Pan Stanislav in the counting-house, to inquire for Marynia’s health, and to talk about various things which lay at his heart. Seeing, however, that he was late, and that Pan Stanislav was preparing to go, he said, —

  “Do not stop for me. Let us talk on the street. The light is so sharp to-day that I cannot work; therefore I will walk to your door with you.”

  “In every case I should have been forced to beg your pardon,” said Pan Stanislav. “My Marynia goes out to-day for the first time, and we are to dine with the Bigiels. She must be dressed by this time, but we have twenty minutes yet.”

  “As she goes out, she is well?”

  “Praise be to God, as well as a bird!” answered Pan Stanislav, with delight.

  “And the little Aryan?”

  “The little Aryan bears himself stoutly.”

  “O happy man, if I had such a toad at home, not to mention such a wife, I should not know what to do — unless to walk upon house-tops.”

  “You will not believe how that boy takes my heart. Every day more, and in general, in a way that I did not expect, for you must know that I wanted a daughter.”

  “It is not evening yet; the daughter will come. But you are in a hurry; let us go then.”

  Pan Stanislav took his fur coat, and they went to the street. The day was frosty, clear. Around was heard the hurried sound of sleigh-bells. Men had their collars over their ears, their mustaches were frosty, and they threw columns of steam from their mouths.

  “It is a gladsome sort of day,” said Pan Stanislav. “I rejoice, for my Marynia’s sake, that it is clear.”

  “It is gladsome for you in life; therefore everything seems clear to you,” said Svirski, taking him by the arm. But all at once he dropped the arm, and stopping the way, said, with an expression as if he wished to quarrel, —

  “Do you know that you have the most beautiful woman in Warsaw as wife? It is I who tell you this — I!”

  And he began to strike his breast with his hand as if to increase thereby the certainty that it was he and no one else who was speaking thus.

  “Of course!” answered Pan Stanislav, laughing, “and also the best and most honest on earth; but let us go on, for it is cold.”

  When Svirski took him again by the arm, Pan Stanislav added with some emotion, —

  “But what I went through during her sickness, the Lord God alone knows — Better not mention it — She gave me a surprise simply by her return to life; but if God grants me to live till spring, I will give a surprise that will gladden her.”

  “There is nothing with which to compare her,” answered Svirski.

  Then, halting again, he said, as if in astonishment, “And; as I love God, so much simplicity at the same time.”

  They walked on a while in silence, then Pan Stanislav asked Svirski of his journey.

  “I shall stay three weeks in Florence,” answered the artist. “I have some work there. Besides, I have grown homesick for the light on San Miniato and Ginevra, with which, and with Cimabue, I was in love on a time. Do you remember in Santa Maria Novella, in the chapel of Rucellai? After a three weeks’ stay I shall go to Rome. I wanted to talk with you about the journey, for this morning Pan Ignas came to me with the proposition that we should go again together.”

  “Ah! and did you agree?”

  “I had not the heart to refuse, though, between ourselves, he is sometimes a burden. But you know how I loved him, and how I felt for him, so it is hard for me to say it, but he is burdensome occasionally. What is to be said in this case? he is changed immensely. At the christening I told Pani Polanyetski that at times he seems to me like a costly vessel which is cracked; and that is true. For I saw how he struggled over those letters, in which he wished to describe Italy for her. He walked whole hours through the room, rubbed his shot forehead, sat down, stood up; but the paper remained just as it was, untouched. God grant him to recover his former power. At present he repeats to every one that he will write; but he begins to doubt himself, and to grieve. I know that he grieves.”

  “The loss of his power would be a misfortune both for him and Panna Helena. If you knew how she was concerned to the verge of despair, not only for his life, but his talent.”

  “The loss of that would be a public misfortune; but the person for whom I am most sorry is Panna Ratkovski. She too begins to doubt whether he will be what he was, and that tortures her, perhaps, more than other griefs.”

  “Poor girl!” said Pan Stanislav, “and the more so since from all his plans of travelling one thing is clear, that he does not even think of her. It is fortunate that Panna Helena secured her independence.”

  “I will wait a year,” answered Svirski, “and after a year I will propose a second time. She has taken hold of me, it is not to be denied! Have you noticed how becoming short hair is to her? She ought to wear it that way always. I will wait a year,” and he was silent; “but after that I shall consider my hands free. It is not possible either that in her something will not change in a year, especially if he gives no sign of life. All this is wonderfully strange. Do you think that I do not do everything in my power to blow into life some spark for her? As God is true, a man has never done more against his own heart than I have. Pani Bigiel too does what she can. But it is difficult. Again, no one has the right to say to him expressly: marry! if he does not love her. And this is the more wonderful, since he does not seem even to think of the other. One Panna Ratkovski is worth more than a whole grove of such ‘Poplars;’ but that is another affair! For me the point is that she should not suppose that I am taking him away purposely. I have not dissuaded him, for I could not; but, my dear sir, should there ever be a conversation about our journey, say to her that, as God lives, I did not persuade Pan Ignas to the journey, and that I would give more than she supposes to make her happy, even were it at the cost of an old dog like me.”

  “Of course we shall do so.”

  “Thank you for that. Before going, I shall be with you again to say good-by to Pani Polanyetski.”

  “Surely in the evening, so that we may sit longer. I think too that you will return in summer; you and Pan Ignas will spend some time with us.”

  “In Buchynek?”

  “In Buchynek or not, that is unknown yet.”

  Further conversation was interrupted by the sight of Osnovski, who at that moment was coming out of a fruit-shop, with a white package in his hand.

  “See, there is Osnovski!” said Svirski.

  “How changed!” said Pan Stanislav.

  And indeed he was changed immensely. From under his fur cap gazed a pale face, grown yellow, and, as it were, much older. His fur coat seemed to hang on him. Seeing his two friends, he was vexed; it was evident that for a while he hesitated whether or not to go around, pretending that he did not see them. But the sidewalk was empty, and they had come so near that he changed his intention, and, coming up, began to speak with unnatural haste, as if wishing to cover with talk that of which all three were thinking exclusively.

  “A good day to you, gentlemen! Oh, this is a chance that we meet, for I am shut up in Prytulov, and come rarely to the city. I have just bought some grapes, for the doctor orders me to eat grapes. But they are imported in sawdust, and have the odor of it; I thought they would be better here. There is frost to-day, indeed. In the country sleighing is perfect.”

  And they walked on together, all feeling awkward.

  “You are going to Egypt, are you not?” inquired Pan Stanislav at last.

  “That is my old plan, and perhaps I shall go. In the country there is nothing to do in winter; it is tedious to be alone there.”

  Here he stopped suddenly, for he saw that he was
touching a delicate subject. And they went on in a silence still more oppressive, feeling that unspeakable awkwardness which is felt always when, by some tacit agreement, people talk of things of no interest, while hiding the main ones, which are painful. Osnovski would have been glad to leave his two friends; but people accustomed for long years to observe certain forms pay attention to appearances unconsciously, even in the deepest misfortune, hence he wanted to find some easy and natural means of leaving Pan Stanislav and the artist; but not being able to find it, he merely continued the awkward position. Finally, he began to take farewell of them in the unexpected and unnatural way of a man who has lost his head. At the last moment, however, he determined otherwise. Such a comedy seemed to him unendurable. He had had enough of it. It flashed into his head that he ought not to make a secret of anything; that in avoidance of every mention of misfortune there is something abject. On his face constraint was clear, and suffering; but, halting, he began to say with a broken voice, losing breath every moment, —

  “Gentlemen, I beg pardon for detaining you longer. But you know that I have separated from my wife — I do not see any reason why I should not speak of it, especially with persons so honorable and so near — I declare to you, gentlemen, that that was — that that happened so — that is, that I wished it myself, and that to my wife nothing—”

  But the voice stuck in his throat, and he could not speak further. Evidently he wanted to take the fault on himself; but on a sudden he felt all the incredibility, all the extent and desperate emptiness of a lie like that, which must be a mere sound of words, so that not even the feeling of any duty, nor any social appearance could justify him. And, losing his head altogether, he went into the crowd, bearing with him his grapes and unfathomable misfortune.

  Svirski and Pan Stanislav went on in silence under the impression of this misfortune.

  “As God is true,” said Pan Stanislav at length, “his heart is breaking.”

  “For such a man,” answered the artist, “there is nothing except to wish death.”