Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz

by Henryk Sienkiewicz

  Two sittings were really too profitable to be refused by Pani Cervi in view of poverty at home. It was agreed, therefore, that they would come at two in the afternoon. Meanwhile the fortunate Svirski resolved to conduct them home. At the gate they were met by his hostess, who gave Svirski a bunch of moss roses, saying that they were brought by two handsome boys attended by a wonderfully dressed servant. The boys wanted absolutely to enter the studio; but she, remembering his command, did not permit them.

  Svirski answered that she had done well, then, taking the roses, he gave them all to Panna Maria. After a while they were on the Promenade des Anglais. To Svirski, Nice seemed beautiful and animated in a way that he had never seen before. The variety and bustle on the “Promenade,” which had angered him at other times, began now to amuse him. On the way he saw Vyadrovski and De Sinten, who halted at sight of him. Svirski bowed and went on, but in passing he noted how De Sinten put a monocle to his eye to look at Panna Cervi, and heard his “Prristi!” 15 full of astonishment. Both even followed them awhile, but opposite the “Jetée Promenade” Svirski called a carriage and took the ladies home.

  On the way, he was seized by a desire to invite the whole family to lunch; but he thought that there would be trouble with the old man, and that, in view of their short acquaintance, Pani Cervi might be surprised at such a sudden invitation. But he promised himself that when the grandfather had some person to care for him he would, under pretext of saving time, arrange a lunch in the studio. Taking leave of the mother and daughter at the gate, he hurried into the first hotel he found and ordered lunch. He swallowed a few kinds of food, without knowing himself what he was, eating. Pani Elzen, Romulus, and Remus, with the moss roses, shot through his mind repeatedly, but in a way which was really ghost-like. A few days before the beautiful widow and their relations were questions of prime importance for him, over which he had tortured his head not a little. He recalled also that internal struggle through which he had passed on the sea while returning to Villa Franca. Now he said to himself, “This has ceased to exist for me, and I will not think again of it.” So he felt not the least alarm, not the least compunction. On the contrary, it seemed to him that a kind of oppressive burden had dropped from his shoulders, and all his thoughts ran to Panna Cervi. His eyes and his head were full of her; by the power of imagination he saw her again, with dishevelled hair and closed eyelids; and when he thought that in an hour he would touch her temples with his fingers, that he would bend over her again and feel the warmth radiating from her, he felt elated, as if by wine, and for the second time asked himself, —

  “Hei, old man, what is happening thee?”

  When he reached home, he found a telegram from Pani Elzen, “I expect you to dinner at six.” Svirski crushed the paper and put it in his pocket; when Pani Cervi and her daughter arrived, he had forgotten it altogether, so that when his work was done at five he began to think where to dine, and was angry that he had nothing to do with himself that evening.

  CHAPTER IX.

  NEXT day when Pani Lageat brought a lunch for three persons to the studio, she stated that an hour before the same two handsome boys had come, this time, however, not with a strangely dressed servant, but with a youthful and beautiful lady.

  “The lady wanted absolutely to see you; but I told her that you had gone to Antibes.”

  “To Toulon! to Toulon!” cried the artist, joyously.

  Next morning there was no one to whom Pani Lageat could give that answer, for only a letter came. Svirski did not read it. That day it happened that while trying to correct Panna Cervi’s “position,” he put his hand under her shoulder, and raised her so that their bosoms almost met, and her breath struck his face. Meanwhile her face changed from emotion, and he said to himself that if such a moment lasted longer, it would be worth while to give life for it.

  That evening he talked to himself as follows: “The senses are playing in thee, but not as at other times; now thy soul rushes forth after them, and rushes forth because this is a child who in this ‘pudridero’ of Nice has remained as pure as a tear. This is not even her merit, but her nature; where could such another be found? This time I am not deceiving myself, and I am not talking anything into myself, for reality is speaking.”

  And it seemed to him that a sweet dream was taking hold of him. Unfortunately, after sleep comes waking. To Svirski, it came two days later in the form of one more telegram, which, shoved in through an opening in the door intended for letters and newspapers, fell on the floor in presence of both women.

  Panna Maria, while preparing to let down her hair, saw the telegram first, and, raising the envelope, handed it to Svirski.

  He opened it unwillingly, looked; and confusion was evident on his face.

  “Pardon me, ladies,” said he, after a while. “I have received such news that I must go at once.”

  “I hope at least that it is nothing bad,” said Panna Maria, with alarm.

  “No, no! But perhaps I shall not be able to return to the afternoon sitting. In every case work is over for to-day; but to-morrow I shall be calm.”

  Then he took leave of them somewhat feverishly, but with exceeding cordiality, and next moment he was in a carriage which, at his command, was to go straight to Monte Carlo.

  When he had passed the “Jetée Promenade,” he took out the telegram and read it again. It was as follows: —

  I expect you this afternoon; if you do not come by the four o’clock train, I shall know what to think, and how to act.

  Morphine.

  Svirski was simply frightened at the signature, especially as he was under the recent impression of the event with Kresovich. “Who knows,” said he in his mind, “to what a woman may be brought, not by genuine love, but by wounded vanity? I should not have acted as I have. It was easy to answer her first letter — and break with her. It is not proper to trifle with any one, whether good or bad. At present I must break with her decisively; but I must go without waiting for the four o’clock train.”

  And he urged on the driver. At moments he strengthened himself with the hope that Pani Elzen would not, in any case, attempt her own life. That seemed utterly unlike her. But at moments he was possessed by doubt. If that monstrous egotism of hers is turned into a feeling of offence, would it not urge her to some insane act?

  He remembered that there was a certain stubbornness in her character, a certain decision, and no little courage. Regard for her children, it is true, ought to restrain her; but did she really care for those children? And at thought of what might happen, the hair rose on his head. Conscience moved in him again, and a profound internal struggle began. The picture of Panna Cervi passed before his eyes every moment, rousing bitter and immense regret. He repeated to himself, it is true, that he was going to break with Pani Elzen; that he would break with her decisively; at the bottom of his soul, however, he felt a great fear. What would happen if that woman, vain and malicious, as well as determined, should say to him, “Thee, or morphine”? And meanwhile, with the alarm and uncertainty, there was born in his mind a disgust; for it seemed to him that the question could be put that way only by some counterfeit heroine belonging to “vile literature.” But still what would happen if she should put it so? In society, especially in the society of Nice, there are many women who belong to “vile literature.”

  In the midst of these thoughts, and in a cloud of gray dust, he arrived finally at Monte Carlo, and ordered the driver to stop in front of the Hôtel de Paris. But before he had time to alight he descried Romulus and Remus on the turf with netted clubs in their hands; throwing up balls under the care of a Cossack whom Pani Lageat had called the strangely dressed servant. They, when they saw him, ran up.

  “Good-day, sir!”

  “Good-day.”

  “Good-day! Is mamma upstairs?”

  “No. Mamma has gone bicycling with M. de Sinten.”

  Silence followed.

  “Ah! mamma has gone bicycling with De Sinten?” repeated Svirski. “Well!�
��

  And after a while he added, —

  “True! she expected me only at four o’clock.”

  Then he began to laugh.

  “The tragedy ends in a farce. But this, however, is the Riviera! Still what an ass I am!”

  “Will you wait for mamma?” asked Romulus.

  “No. Listen, my boys. Tell your mamma that I came to say good-bye to her, and that I am sorry not to find her, because I am going on a journey to-day.”

  Then he gave directions to return to Nice. That evening he received one telegram more, in which there was the single word, “Scoundrel!”

  After reading it he fell into excellent humor, for the telegram was not signed this time, “Morphine.”

  CHAPTER X.

  TWO weeks later the picture “Sleep and Death” was finished. Svirski began another which he intended to call “Euterpe.” But his work did not advance. He said that the light was too sharp; and for whole sittings, instead of painting, he was looking at the bright face of Panna Cervi. He seemed to be seeking the proper expression for Euterpe. He gazed so persistently that the lady grew red under the influence of his eyes; he felt in his breast an increasing disquiet. At last, on a certain morning, he said suddenly, in a kind of strange, altered voice, —

  “I notice that you ladies love Italy immensely.”

  “We and grandfather,” answered Panna Cervi.

  “I, too. Half my life passes in Rome and in Florence. There the light is not so sharp at present, and it would be possible to paint whole days. Oh, yes! Who could help loving Italy! And do you know what I think sometimes?”

  Panna Maria lowered her head, and, opening her lips somewhat, began to look at him carefully, as she always did when listening to him.

  “I think that every man has two fatherlands: one his own, the nearer, and the other Italy. Only think, all culture, all art, all science, everything came from there. Let us take, for instance, the Renaissance.... Really, all are, if not the children, at least the grandchildren of Italy.”

  “True,” answered Panna Maria.

  “I do not know whether I mentioned that I have a studio in the Via Margutta in Rome, and that when the light becomes too sharp in this studio I am yearning for that one. Here it is — if we should all go to Rome — that would be perfect! Afterward we could go to Warsaw.”

  “There is no way to carry out that plan,” answered Panna Maria, with a sad smile.

  But he approached her quickly, and, taking her two hands, began to speak, looking at her with the greatest tenderness in his eyes.

  “There is a way, dear lady, there is a way! Do you not divine it?”

  And when she grew pale from happiness, he pressed both her palms to his breast, and added, —

  “Give me thyself and thine—”

  THAT THIRD WOMAN.

  CHAPTER I.

  THE rent for that studio in which Antek Svyatetski and I lived and painted, was unpaid, first, because we had about five rubles joint capital, and, second, because we felt a sincere repugnance to paying house-rent.

  People call us artists squanderers; as for me, I would rather drink away my money than waste it in paying a house-owner.

  Our house-owner was not a bad fellow though, and, moreover, we found means of defence against him.

  When he came to dun us, which was usually in the morning, Antek, who slept on a straw bed on the floor, and covered himself with a Turkish curtain used by us as a background for portraits, would rise to a sitting posture, and say in sepulchral tones, —

  “It is well that I see you, for I dreamed that you were dead.”

  The house-owner, who was superstitious, and dreaded death evidently, was confused at once and beyond measure. Antek would throw himself back on the straw bed, stretch his legs, fold his hands across his breast, and continue, —

  “You were just like this; you had white gloves on your hands, the fingers were too long; on your feet patent-leather boots; for the rest, you were not changed much.”

  Then I would add, “Sometimes those dreams come true.”

  It seems that this “sometimes” brought the man to despair. At last he would fall into a rage, slam the door after him; and we could hear him rush downstairs four steps at a time, swearing by what the world stands on. Still the honest soul did not like to send the house-bailiff to us. In truth, there was not much to take; and he had calculated that were he to bring other artists to that studio, and the kitchen adjoining, the story would be the same, or still worse.

  Our sharp method grew dull in time, however. The house-owner became accustomed to the thought of death. Antek had the idea to finish three pictures in the style of Würtz, “Death,” “Burial,” and “Waking from Lethargy.” Naturally our man was to figure in all of them.

  Such funereal subjects became a specialty for Antek, who, as he says himself, paints “corpses big, medium, and small size.” This is the reason, of course, why no one buys his pictures; for, subjects aside, he has talent. He has sent to the Paris Salon two “corpses,” and as I also sent my “Jews on the Vistula,” which in the catalogue of the Salon are christened “Jews on the Babylon,” we were both waiting impatiently for the decision of the jury.

  Of course Antek foresaw that the worst would happen, that the jury would be made up of perfect idiots, and even if not made up of idiots, I am an idiot, he is an idiot, our pictures are idiotic, and reward for them would be the summit of idiocy!

  How much blood that monkey has spoiled in me during the two years that we have lived in one studio, I cannot tell.

  Antek’s whole ambition is to pass for a moral “corpse.” In company he poses as a drunkard, which he is not. He will pour down two or three tiny glasses of vodka, and turn to see if we are looking; if not sure that we are, he will punch one of us with his elbow frown and say, in subterranean tones, —

  “Yes, how low I have fallen, that far! Is it possible?”

  We answer that he is a fool. He falls into a rage then; nothing can bring him into worse humor than to show disbelief in his moral fall. Still, he is an honest fellow to the marrow of his bones.

  Once he and I went astray in the mountains of Salzkammergut, near Zell am See. Since night had come it was easy to break one’s neck.

  “Dost hear,” said Antek to me, “thou hast more talent than I, therefore life is a greater loss to thee. I will go ahead. If I fall, thou wilt stay on the spot till morning, and in the morning thou canst save thyself somehow.”

  “Thou wilt not go ahead; I will go, because I can see better.”

  “If I don’t break my neck to-day,” said Antek, “I’ll finish in the canal — it’s all one to me.”

  We fall to disputing. Meanwhile it has become as dark as in a cellar. In the end of ends we conclude to go at hazard. We advance cautiously.

  The place is wide enough at first, but afterward narrower and narrower. As far as we can see, on the right and left are abysses, probably bottomless.

  The ridge grows still narrower, and, what is more, pieces of stone, loosened by the wind, fall away from under our feet.

  “I will go on my hands and knees; ’tis impossible to go any other way!” said Antek.

  In truth, ’tis impossible to go any other way, so we go on our hands and knees, advancing like two chimpanzees.

  But soon it appears that that too is impossible. The back of the cliff becomes as narrow as a horse’s back. Antek sits astride of it, I also, and leaning on our hands put down before us we pushed forward with uncommon damage to our clothing. After a certain time I hear the voice of my comrade, —

  “Vladek?”

  “What is it?”

  “The ridge has come to an end.”

  “And what is there beyond?”

  “Emptiness — there must be a precipice.”

  “Take a stone and throw it, we will listen to hear if it is a long time falling.”

  In the darkness I hear Antek feeling to find a fragment of crumbling rock.

  “I am throwing,” sai
d he, “listen.”

  I open both ears.

  Silence!

  “Haven’t you heard anything?”

  “No!”

  “We have ended up nicely! The place must be a hundred fathoms deep.”

  “Throw once more.”

  Antek finds a larger stone, throws it.

  No sound!

  “What does this mean, no bottom, or what?” asked Antek.

  “Hard to help it! We will sit here till morning.”

  We are sitting there. Antek throws a couple of stones more; all in vain. An hour passes, a second, at last I hear my friend’s voice, —

  “Vladek, but don’t go to sleep — hast a cigarette?”

  It appears that I have cigarettes, but we have used up our matches. Despair! The hour may be one in the morning, or not even so late. Very fine rain begins to fall. Around us, darkness impenetrable. I come to the conclusion that people who live in towns or in villages have no idea of what silence is, — silence like that which surrounds us, silence which rings in our ears. I almost hear the blood coursing in my veins; I hear the beating of my own heart perfectly. At first the position interests me. To sit in the midst of the silent night on the back of a cliff, as on a horse, and right over a bottomless abyss, that could not be done by some shopkeeper of the city; but soon the air becomes cold, and, to crown everything, Antek begins to philosophize, —

  “What is life? Life is just swinishness. People talk about art! art! May I and art be —— . Art is pure monkeying with nature, and meanness besides. Twice I have seen the Salon. Painters sent in so many pictures that one might have made canvas beds of them for all the Jews living; and what were these pictures? The lowest possible pandering to shopkeepers’ tastes, painted for money, or the stuffing of stomachs. A chaos of art, nothing more! Were that art, I would that paralysis had struck it; luckily there is no real art upon earth — there is only nature. Maybe nature is swinishness also. The best would be to jump down here — and end everything quickly. I would do so if I had vodka; but as I have no vodka, I will not, for I have made a vow not to die sober.”