Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz

by Henryk Sienkiewicz

  And those “few years” became in fact the main charm for him. There was something humiliating for Pani Elzen in this, that he feared no extraordinary event for the single reason that her youth, and therefore possibilities, must soon pass. He did not confess this to himself, though it was the basis of his consolation; and he deceived himself, as is ever the case with people in whom reason has become the pander of their wishes.

  And now, after the event of the previous evening, he woke up with immense alarm and disgust. He could not avoid thinking of two things: first, that if any man had told him a month before that he would propose to Pani Elzen, he would have thought that man an idiot; second, that the charm of relations with her which lay in uncertainty, in unfinished words, in the mutual divining of glances and thoughts, in the deferred confessions and in mutual attractions, was greater than that which flowed from the present condition. For Svirski it had been more agreeable to prepare the engagement than to be engaged; now he was thinking that if in the same proportion it would be less agreeable to become a husband than to be an affianced, deuce take his fate. At moments the feeling that he was bound, that he had no escape, that, whether he wished or not, he must take Pani Elzen with Romulus and Remus into his life-boat seemed to him simply unendurable. Not wishing then as a man of honor to curse Pani Elzen, he cursed Romulus and Remus, with their lisping, their bird-like, narrow heads and bird-like skulls.

  “I have had my cares, but really I have been as free as a bird, and I could put my whole soul into my pictures,” said he to himself; “now, Satan knows how it will be!” And the cares of an artist, which he felt at that moment, spoiled his good-humor, though they turned his thoughts in another direction. Pani Elzen and the whole marriage question receded into the second place; and into the first came his picture, “Sleep and Death,” on which he had been working for a number of months, and to which he attributed immense importance. This picture was a protest against the accepted idea of death. Frequently, while talking with artists, Svirski had been indignant at Christianity because it had brought into life and art the representation of death as a skeleton. That seemed to him the greatest injustice. The Greeks had imagined Thanatos 14 as a winged genius; that was correct. What can be more disgusting and frightful than a skeleton? If death be represented in that way, it should not be by Christians, who conceive death as a return to new life. According to Svirski, the present idea was born in the gloomy German soul which created Gothic architecture, — solemn and majestic, but as gloomy as if the church were a passage, not to the glories of heaven, but to underground gulfs. Svirski had marvelled always that the Renaissance had not recreated the symbol of death. Indeed, if Death had not always been silent, and had desired to complain, it would have said, “Why do people depict me as a skeleton? A skeleton is just what I have no wish to be, and will not be!” In Svirski’s picture the genius of Sleep was delivering, mildly and quietly, the body of a maiden to the genius of Death, who, bending down, extinguished in silence the flame of a lamp burning at her head.

  Svirski when painting had said to himself, “Oh, what wonderful silence there is here!” and he wanted that silence to appear from the lines, the form, the expression, and the color. He thought also that if he could convey that feeling, and if the picture could interpret itself, the work would be both new and uncommon. He had another object also: following the general current of the time, he had convinced himself that painting should avoid literary ideas; but he understood that there was an immense difference between renouncing literary ideas, and a passionless reflection of the external world as is shown in photographic plates. Form, color, stain — and nothing more! as if the duty of an artist were to destroy in himself the thinking essence! He recollected that whenever he had seen pictures by English artists, for example, he had been impressed, first of all, by the mental elevation of those artists. It was evident from their canvases that they were masters of a lofty mental culture, greatly developed intellects, thinking deeply, often even learned. In Poles, on the contrary, he saw always something which was directly the opposite. With the exception of a few, or at best of a small number, the generality was composed of men capable, but lacking thought, men of uncommonly small development, and devoid of all culture. They lived, nourished somewhat by crumbs of doctrines falling from the French table, and crumbs which had lost much of their savor. These artists did not admit for a moment that it was possible to think out anything original touching art, and especially to produce original creations in a Polish style. To Svirski, it was clear, also, that a doctrine which enjoins absence of thought must please their hearts. To bear the title of artist, and at the same time be mentally a minor, is convenient. To read, know, think — deuce take such toil!

  Svirski thought that if even a landscape is simply a state of soul, that soul should be capable not only of the moods of a Matsek (a peasant), but should be subtle, sensitive, developed, and espanded. He had quarrelled about this with his comrades, and had discussed with them passionately. “I do not require you,” said he, “to paint as well as the French, the English, or the Spanish — I demand that you paint better! Above all, that you paint in your own style; whoso does not strive for this should make copper kettles.” He showed, therefore, that if a picture represents a stack of hay, or hens scratching in a yard, or a potato field, or horses at pasture, or a corner of sleeping water in a pond, there should, above all, be a soul in it; hence he put into his pictures as much of his own self as he could, and besides he “confessed himself” in other pictures, the last of which was to be Hypnos and Thanatos (Sleep and Death).

  The two geniuses were almost finished; but he had no success with the head of the maiden. Svirski understood that she must be not only beautiful, but possess great individuality. Models came who were really good, but not sufficiently individual. Madame Lageat, at whose house the artist had taken his studio, and who was an old acquaintance, had promised to find him one, but the work advanced slowly. Some new model was to appear that morning; but she had not come, though it was eleven o’clock.

  All this, combined with his yesterday’s proposal, caused Svirski to be in doubt touching not only his own peace of mind, but his artistic future in general, and his picture in particular. Hypnos seemed to him at that moment somewhat heavy, Thanatos somewhat stupid. Finally, he thought that since he could not work, he would better stroll to the shore, where a sight of the sea might clear mind and soul.

  Just at the moment when he was ready to go, the bell sounded in the entrance, and next appeared in the studio two Scottish plaids, two heads of hair, and the two bird faces of Romulus and Remus; after them came Kresovich, paler than usual and gloomier than ever.

  “Good-day, sir! Good-day, sir!” cried the two boys. “Mamma sends these roses and invites you to lunch.”

  While speaking, they shook bunches of tea and moss roses, then handed them to Svirski, and began to run about and look at the studio. They wondered especially at the sketches representing naked bodies, and were stopped by them, for they stood before these sketches, and, punching each other with their elbows, said, —

  “Tiens!”

  “Regarde!”

  Svirski, who was angered by this, looked at his watch and said, —

  “If we are to be in time for lunch, we must go at once.” He took his hat, and they went out. There were no carriages near the studio, so they walked. The artist passed on with Kresovich, and inquired, —

  “Well, how are your pupils?”

  Kresovich, turning to him his malignant, sneering face, answered, —

  “My pupils? Oh, nothing! They are as healthy as fish, and are comfortable in their Scottish dresses. There will be fun with them; but not for me.”

  “Why so?”

  “Because I am going to-morrow.”

  “Why so?” asked Svirski, with astonishment. “I knew nothing of this; no one mentioned it. I am sorry!”

  “They are not sorry,” answered Kresovich.

  “Perhaps they do not understand.” />
  “They will never understand. Neither to-day, nor at any time in their lives! Never!”

  “I hope that you are mistaken,” said Svirski, dryly; “but in every case it is unpleasant for me to hear this.”

  “Yes!” continued the student, as if speaking to himself. “A pity, but a pity for time lost. What do they care for me, or I for them? It is even better that they should be as they will be. A man who wishes to sow wheat must plough in the grass; and the weaker it is, the easier it is to plough it in. Much might be said of this matter; but it is not worth while, especially not for me. The microbes are eating me, anyhow.”

  “Consumption has never threatened you. Before Pani Elzen asked you to teach, she questioned the doctor about your health — and you should not wonder at that, for she was anxious about her children. The doctor assured her that there was no danger.”

  “Of course not. I have discovered a certain remedy against microbes.”

  “What is the remedy?”

  “It will be announced in the papers. Such discoveries as that are never hidden under a bushel.”

  Svirski glanced at Kresovich, as if to convince himself that the man was not speaking in a fever; meanwhile they reached the station, which was swarming with people.

  The visitors at Nice were going as usual in the morning to Monte Carlo. At the moment when Svirski was buying a ticket, Vyadrovski saw him.

  “Good-morning,” said he, coming up; “you are going to the Mountain?”

  “Yes. Have you a ticket?”

  “I have a monthly one. The train will be crowded.”

  “We can stand in a passage.”

  “This is a genuine Exodus, is it not? And each one carries his mite to the widow. Good-morning, Pan Kresovich! What say you of life in this place? Make some remark from the point of view of your party.”

  Kresovich blinked as if unable to understand what was asked of him, then answered, —

  “I enroll myself in the party of the silent.”

  “I know, I know! — a strong party: it is either silent or explosive,” and he laughed.

  Meanwhile the bell rang, and there was need of haste. From the platform came the call, “En voiture! en voiture!” The next moment Svirski, Kresovich, Vyadrovski, and the two boys were in the passage of a car.

  “With my sciatica this is pleasant!” said Vyadrovski. “See what is going on. Useless to think of a seat. A regular migration of nations!”

  Not only the seats, but the passages were crowded with people of every nationality. Poles, Russians, English, French, Germans, all going with a rush to break the bank, which daily repulsed and broke them, as a cliff jutting out from the shore breaks a wave of the sea. Women were crowding up to the windows, — women from whom came the odor of iris and heliotrope. The sun shone on the artificial flowers in their hats, on satin, on lace, on false and genuine diamond ear-rings, on jet glittering like armor on projecting bosoms increased with india-rubber, on blackened brows, and on faces covered with powder or rouge, and excited with the hope of amusement and play. The most practised eye could not distinguish the demi-monde who pretended to be women of society, from women of society who pretended to be of the demi-monde. Men with violets in their buttonholes examined that crowd of women with inquiring and insolent gaze, inspecting their dresses, their faces, their arms, and their hips, with as cool minuteness as if they were inspecting, for example, objects set out for sale. There was in that throng a kind of disorder of the market-place, and a species of haste. One moment the train rushed into the darkness of tunnels, again the sun glittered in the windows, the sky, the sea, palm groves, olive groves, villas, the white almond-trees, and a moment later night embraced all again. Station appeared after station. New crowds thronged into the cars, elegant, exquisite, hurrying on, as it were, to a great, glad festival.

  “What a true picture of a breakneck life!” said Vyadrovski.

  “What is this true picture?”

  “This train. I might philosophize till lunch-time; but since I prefer to philosophize after lunch, perhaps you would consent to lunch with me?”

  “Excuse me,” answered Svirski; “I am invited by Pani Elzen.”

  “In that case I withdraw!” And he smiled.

  The supposition that Svirski was to marry Pani Elzen had not entered his head for an instant. He felt even certain that the artist was concerned in the same way as others; but being an admirer of artists in general, and of Svirski in particular, he felt glad that Svirski was beating his opponents.

  “I represent property,” thought he; “Prince Valerian a title; young Kladzki youth; and De Sinten the world of fashionable fools. All these, especially here, possess no small value, and still the Wonder woman took Svirski. She is surely a person of taste.” And looking at the artist he began to mutter, “Jo triumpe, tu moraris aureos currus—”

  “What do you say?” inquired Svirski, who had not heard because of the noise of the train.

  “Nothing! A hiccough from Horace. I will say that since you refuse me, I will give a breakfast of condolence to myself, De Sinten, Prince Valerian, and Kladzki.”

  “Indeed! why do you wish to condole?” asked Svirski, pushing forward suddenly, and looking into his eyes almost threateningly.

  “For the loss of your society,” answered Vyadrovski, coolly. “But, my dear sir, what cause have you in mind?”

  Svirski shut his lips and gave no answer; but he thought, “His cap burns the head of a criminal. Were I to marry any ordinary girl of the country, the idea would never have come to my head that any man could have me in mind when speaking with irony and malice.”

  Pani Elzen, freshened, young, and comely, was waiting for them at the station. It was evident that she had come only the moment before, for she breathed hurriedly, and there was a flush on her face which might be taken for emotion. When she gave Svirski both hands at greeting, Vyadrovski thought, —

  “Yes, he has beaten us all by seven lengths. She seems really in love.”

  And he glanced at her almost favorably. In a white flannel robe, with sailor collar, and with gleaming eyes, she seemed to him, in spite of slight traces of powder on her face, younger and more enchanting than ever. For a moment he was sorry that he was not the happy man whom she had come to greet, and he thought that the method by which he had sought her favor, through relying on the utterance of stinging words, was stupid. But he comforted himself with the thought of how he would sneer at De Sinten and the other “distanced men.”

  After the greeting, Svirski thanked her for the roses; and she listened with a certain vexation, glancing momentarily at Vyadrovski, as if ashamed that he was a witness of those thanks.

  On his part, Vyadrovski understood that he would do better to leave them. But all went together again in a lift up the mountain on which was the Casino and the garden. On the way, Pani Elzen recovered self-control thoroughly.

  “To lunch at once! to lunch!” said she, joyously. “I have an appetite like a whale!”

  Vyadrovski muttered to himself that he would like, God knows, to be Jonah; but he did not say this aloud, thinking that were Svirski to take him by the collar and throw him out of the lift, as he deserved for his joke, he would fall too far.

  In the garden he took leave of them at once, and went his way; but he looked around and saw Pani Elzen lean on Svirski’s arm and whisper something in his ear.

  “They are talking of the dessert after lunch,” thought he.

  But he was mistaken, for, turning her charming head to the artist, she whispered, —

  “Does Vyadrovski know?”

  “He does not,” answered Svirski. “I met him only at the train.”

  When he had said this he felt a certain fear at the thought that Pani Elzen mentioned the betrothal as a fixed fact, and that he would have to announce it to every one; but the proximity of Pani Elzen, her beauty and her charms, so acted on him that he grew serene and took courage.

  The lunch was eaten with Romulus, Remus, and Kresovich,
who, during a whole hour, said not one word. After black coffee, Pani Elzen permitted her boys to go toward Rocca Brune under guidance of their tutor; then she asked Svirski, —

  “Which do you prefer, to ride or to walk?”

  “If you are not tired, I would rather walk,” answered he.

  “Very well. I am not tired at all. But where shall we go? Would you look at the pigeon-shooting?”

  “Willingly, but we shall not be alone there. De Sinten and young Kladzki will be sure to exercise after lunch.”

  “Yes; but they will not trouble us. When pigeons are the question, these two young men grow deaf and blind to all else that happens around them. For that matter, let them see me with my great man!”

  And, turning her head, she looked with a smile into his eyes: —

  “Doesn’t the great man wish that himself?”

  “Of course, let them see us!” answered Svirski, raising her hand to his lips.

  “Then we will go down; I like well enough to see the shooting.”

  “Let us go.”

  And after a while they were on the great steps leading to the shooting gallery.

  “How bright it is here! How pleasant and how happy I am!” said Pani Elzen.

  Then, though there was no one near them, she asked in a whisper, “But you?”

  “My light is with me!” answered he, pressing her arm to his breast.

  And they began to descend. The day was uncommonly bright, the air golden and azure; the sea was dark in the distance.

  “We will stay here awhile,” said Pani Elzen. “The cages are perfectly visible from this spot.”

  Beneath them was a green half-circle covered with grass, extending far into the sea. In this half-circle were placed, in a curving line on the ground, cages containing pigeons. Moment after moment, some one of those cages was opened suddenly, and a frightened bird rushed through the air; then a shot was heard, and the pigeon fell to the ground, or even into the sea, where boats were rocking with fishermen in them waiting for their prey.