At last we rise. The little cousin thrusts the plate under my very eyes. Kazia and I exchange rings.
Uf! I am betrothed! I suppose this to be the end; but no, Suslovski calls us to go and beg a blessing of all the aunts.
We go. I kiss five hands which are like the feet of storks. All the aunts hope that I will not deceive their confidence.
What the devil confidence can they have in me? Cousin Yachkovich seizes me in his embraces. Absolutely I must have tied my cravat too tightly.
But the worst is over. Tea is brought in. I sit near Kazia, and it seems to me all the time that I do not see Antek. The monkey, he frightens me once more; when the question whether he will have rum in his tea is asked, he answers that he drinks rum only by the bottle. At last the evening is ended successfully.
We go out. I draw in the air with full breast. Indeed, my cravat was too tight.
Antek and I walk on in silence. The silence begins to weigh on me and soon becomes unendurable. I feel that I must talk to Antek, tell him something of my happiness, how handsomely all has passed, how I love Kazia —
I prepare, but it is of no use! At last when just near the studio I say, —
“Own up, Antek, that life is still beautiful.”
Antek halts, casts a frowning glance at me, and says, —
“Poodle!”
That night we conversed no more with each other.
CHAPTER VIII.
A WEEK after the evening of betrothal my “Jews” arrive for exhibition. The picture is placed in a separate hall, and a special fee is charged for admission. One half of the net proceeds is for me. At the exhibition there is probably a throng from morning till evening.
I see it only once; but as people look at me more than at the picture, I shall not go again, for why should I be angry for nothing. If my picture were a masterpiece, such as has never been seen in the world till this day, people would rather satisfy that curiosity in virtue of which they go to see “Krao” or the Hottentot who eats live pigeons.
Such a Hottentot am I at this moment. I should be satisfied were I really a poodle; but I am too much of a painter not to be enraged by such degradation of art before a fashionable peculiarity.
CHAPTER IX.
THREE weeks ago few persons knew of my existence, but now I begin to receive tens of letters, for the greater part love-letters. I may wager that of five four begin with these words: “It may be that when you have read this letter, you will despise the woman who, etc.—” I will not despise the woman, on condition that she will keep away from me.
Were it not for Kazia, perhaps, to tell the truth, I shouldn’t shrug my shoulders so much at such a torrent of feeling.
How can such an “unknown” hope that a man who has never seen her will answer the invitation of an invisible woman? This makes me specially indignant. Remove first the curtain, O fair unknown! and when I behold thee, I will say to thee — Oi! I will say nothing, because of Kazia.
I receive also an anonymous missive, from some gray-haired friendess, in which I am called master, and Kazia a little goose.
“Oh, master, is she a wife for thee?” inquires my gray-haired friendess. “Is that a choice worthy of him on whom the eyes of the whole country are turned? Thou art a victim of intrigue, etc.”
A wonderful supposition, and a still more wonderful demand, that I should marry not to please my heart but the public! And poor Kazia is already in their way!
There are greater crimes surely than anonymous letters, but there is no greater — how can I express myself justly? But never mind!
The end of my betrothal is not fixed yet, but it will come before long. Meanwhile I shall tell Kazia to array herself famously, and I will escort her to the exhibition. Let the world see us together.
Antek’s two corpses have come also from Paris. The picture is called “The Last Meeting,” and represents a young man and a young woman lying on the dissecting-table. At the first glance the idea is interpreted perfectly. It is clear that those two dead ones loved each other in life, that misery separated and death united them.
The students bending over the corpses have come out in the picture somewhat rigid; there are faults in the perspective of the dissecting-room; but the “corpses” are painted superbly. Such corpses that icy cold comes from them! The picture did not receive even mention, perhaps for the reason that the subject is wonderfully unpleasant; but critics praised it.
Among our “painters” there are beyond doubt many talents. For instance, at the side of Antek’s corpses Franek Tsepkovski exhibited “The Death of Koretski.” Immense strength in it, and immense individuality.
Antek calls Franek an idiot: first, because Franek has a forelock, and wears his beard wedge-form; second, because he dresses according to the latest fashion; and, third, because he is terribly well-bred and ceremonious, and mentions rather frequently his high-born relatives. But Antek is mistaken. Talent is a bird that builds its nest where it pleases, at one time in a wild desert, at another in a trimmed garden.
I have seen, in Monachium and Paris, painters who looked like laborers in a brewery, then others like barbers or dandies, you would not give three coppers for the men; still one and the other beast of them had in his soul such exaltation, such uncommon feeling of forms and colors, and such a power of projecting that feeling out of himself onto canvas! Ostrynski, who has a trite phrase for everything, would have written in mentioning them in his “Kite,” spiritus flat ubi vult (the spirit bloweth where it listeth).
In Antek’s opinion, historical painting is “obscure barbarism.” I do not paint historical subjects, and personally the question is all one to me, but I hear this opinion on every side as being progressive. People have made a saw of it, and it begins to annoy me.
Our Polish painters have one defect: they become wedded to certain doctrines touching art, live under their slippers, look at everything with the eyes of these doctrines, force art to them, and are rather apostles than painters. In contrast to painters mentioned above (in connection with Monachium and Paris), I have known others whose lips were worn off in talking of what art is, and what it should be; but when it came to the brush they could not do anything.
More than once I have thought that a theory of art should be framed by philosophers, and if they framed nonsense — let them answer; but painters should paint what the heart dictates to each man, and to know how to paint is the main thing. To my thinking, the most wretched talent is worth more than the most splendid doctrine, and the most splendid doctrine is not worthy to clean the boots of freedom.
CHAPTER X.
I WAS with Kazia and the Suslovskis at the exhibition.
There are crowds before my picture at all times. They began to whisper the moment we entered; and this time they looked mostly, not at the picture, and not at me, but at Kazia. The women especially did not take their eyes from her. I saw that she was pleased with this fabulously; but I did not take it ill of her. I take it worse that she said of Antek’s corpses, “that is not a decent picture.” Suslovski declared that she had taken the words out of his mouth; but I was raging. To think that Kazia too should have such a view of art!
From anger I took farewell of them at once, on pretence that I must see Ostrynski. I went to his office, it is true, but to induce him to dine with me.
CHAPTER XI.
I SAW a miracle, and that’s the end of it.
Now for the first time I understand why a man has eyes.
Corpo di Bacco; what beauty!
I am walking with Ostrynski; I see on a sudden at the corner of Willow Street some woman passing quickly. I stand as if fixed to the earth; I become oak; I become stone; I stare; I lose consciousness; without knowing it I seize Ostrynski by the cravat; I loosen his cravat — and — save me, or I die!
What that she has perfect features? It is not the features, she is simply an artist’s ideal, a masterpiece as outline, a masterpiece as coloring, a masterpiece as sentiment. Greuze would have risen from the dead in her presence, and ha
nged himself then for having painted so much ugliness.
I gaze and gaze. She is walking alone, — how alone? Poetry is walking with her; music, spring, splendor, and love are walking with her. I know not whether I should prefer to paint her immediately; I should rather kneel before her and kiss her feet, because such a woman was born. Finally, do I know what I would do?
She passes us as serenely as a summer day. Ostrynski bows to her; but she does not see him. I wake from my amazement and cry, —
“Let us follow her!”
“No,” answers Ostrynski; “have you gone mad? I must tie my cravat. Give me peace! that is an acquaintance of mine.”
“An acquaintance of yours? Present me.”
“I do not think of it; look to your own betrothed.”
I hurl a curse at Ostrynski and his posterity to the ninth generation; then I wish to fly after the unknown. To my misfortune, she has entered an open carriage. Only from a distance do I see her straw hat and red parasol.
“Do you know her really?” ask I of Ostrynski.
“I know all people.”
“Who is she?”
“Pani Helena Kolchanovski of the house of Turno, otherwise Panna Vdova [Miss Widow], so called.”
“Why Miss Widow?”
“Because her husband died at their wedding supper. If you have recovered, I will tell you her history. There was a rich, childless bachelor, Kolchanovski de Kolchanovo, a noble of the Ukraine. He had immensely honorable relatives who hoped to be his heirs, and an immeasurably short neck, which gave the greater hopes to the heirs. I knew those heirs. They were in truth perfectly honorable people; but what’s to be done? The most honorable and the least interested of them could not refrain from looking at Kolchanovski’s neck. This annoyed the old man so intensely that out of spite to the family he paid court to a neighbor’s daughter, drew up a document, conveyed to her all his property, then married her; after the ceremony there was dancing; at the end of the dancing a supper; at the end of the supper apoplexy killed him on the spot. In that way Madame Helena Kolchanovski became Miss Widow.”
“Was that long ago?”
“Three years. At that time she was twenty-two years of age. Since then she might have married twenty-two times; but she doesn’t want to marry. People supposed that she was waiting for a prince. It turned out that that was not true; for she fired a prince out a little while ago. Besides I know well that she has no pretensions; the best proof of which is that Pani Kolchanovski lives to this time in close friendship with our well-known, sympathetic, gifted, etc., Eva Adami, who was a friend of hers in the boarding-school.”
Hearing this, I just jumped from joy. If that is true, no more of Ostrynski. My beloved, honest Evusia 18 will smooth the way for my acquaintance with Pani Helena.
“Well, then you won’t take me to her?” asked I of Ostrynski.
“Decidedly not; if any man wishes to make the acquaintance of any one in the city, why, he will make it,” answered Ostrynski; “but because you put me out with Kazia, I do not wish people to say in the present case that I caused — Do I know? Be in good health!” 19
CHAPTER XII.
I WAS to dine with the Suslovskis, but I wrote them that I couldn’t come.
My teeth have never ached, it is true, but then they might ache.
Helena did not go from my eyes all day; for what sort of a painter would he be, who would not think of such a face? I painted in my soul ten portraits of her. To my mind came the idea of a picture, in which such a face as Helena’s would make a splendid impression. It was only necessary to see her a couple of times more. I flew to Eva Adami’s, but did not find her. In the evening I receive a card from Kazia with an invitation for the morning to waters in the garden, and then to coffee. Those waters and that coffee are a regular saw!
I cannot go; for if I do not find Eva at home in the morning, I shall not catch her all day.
Eva Adami (that is her stage appellation; her real name is Anna Yedlinski) is an exceptional maiden. I have enjoyed her friendship this long time, and we say “thou” to each other. This is her ninth year on the stage, and she has remained pure in the full sense of the word. In theatres, there are, it is true, plenty of women who are innocent physically; but if their corsets could betray all the desires of those women, I suppose that the most shameless baboon, on hearing the story, might blush at all points not covered with hair. The theatre spoils souls, especially female souls.
It is difficult even to ask that in a woman, who every evening feigns love, fidelity, nobleness, and similar qualities, there should not be developed at last an instinctive feeling that all these virtues belong to the drama, but have no connection with life. The immense difference between art and reality confirms her in this feeling; rivalry and envy roused by applause poison the heart’s noblest impulses.
Continual contact with people so spoiled as actors excites lower instincts. There is not a white Angora cat which would not be soiled in such an environment. This environment can be conquered only by great genius, which purifies itself in the fire of art; or a nature so thoroughly æsthetic that evil does not pass through it, as water does not pass through the feathers of a swan. Of such impermeable natures is Eva Adami.
At night, at tea, and the pipe more than once, I have talked with my colleagues about people belonging to the world of art, beginning with the highest, that is, poets, and ending with the lowest, that is, actors.
A being who has imagination developed beyond ordinary mortals, a being impressionable beyond others, sensuous, passionate, a being who, in the domain of happiness and delight, knows everything, and desires with unheard of intensity, — that is an artist. He should have three times the character and will-power of others to conquer temptation.
Meanwhile, as there is no reason why a flower, beautiful beyond others, should have greater strength to resist wind, there is no reason why an artist should have more character than an ordinary person. On the contrary, there is reason why, as a rule, he has less, for his vital energy is wasted in that gulf which divides the world of art from the world of every-day reality.
He is simply a sick bird, in a continual fever, — a bird which at times vanishes from the eye beneath the clouds, and at times drags its wearied wings in the dust and the mire. Art gives him a disgust for dust and mire; but life takes strength of flight from him. Hence that discord which is so frequent between the external and the internal life of artists.
The world, when it asks more from artists than from others, and when it condemns them, is right perhaps; but Christ, too, will be right when He saves them.
Ostrynski maintains, it is true, that actors belong to the artistic world as much as clarionets and French horns belong to it.
But that is not true; the best proof is Eva Adami, who is a thorough artist, both by gifts and that feeling which has preserved her from evil as a mother would. In spite of all the friendship which I have for Eva, I had not seen her for a long time; when she saw me then, she was very glad, though she had a certain astonished look, which I could not explain.
“How art thou, Vladzio?” 20 asked she. “For a wonder I see thee.”
I was delighted to find her. She wore a Turkish morning gown with split sleeves; it had red palm-leaves on a cream-colored ground, and was bordered with wide embroidery in old gold. The rich embroidery was reflected with special beauty in her pale face and violet eyes. I told her so, and she was greatly pleased. I came to the point then at once.
“My golden diva! thou knowest Pani Kolchanovski, that wonderful lady of the Ukraine?”
“I do; she was my schoolmate.”
“Take me to her.”
Eva shook her head.
“My golden, my good one, as thou lovest me!”
“No, Vladek, I will not take thee!”
“See how bad thou art; but at one time I was almost in love with thee.”
What a mimosa that Eva is! When she hears this, she changes, puts her elbow on the table (a miracle, not an elbow
), puts her pale face on her palm and asks, —
“When was that?”
I was in a hurry to speak of Helena; but since on a time I had in truth almost fallen in love with Eva, and since I wish now to bring her into good humor, I begin the narrative, —
“We were going once, after the theatre, to the botanical garden. Dost thou remember what a wonderful night that was? We were sitting on a bench near the fountain; thou hadst just said, ‘I should like to hear a nightingale.’ I was sad for some reason, and took off my cap, for my head was aching; and thou, going to the fountain, moistened a handkerchief, and put it on my forehead with thy hand. Thou didst seem simply as good as an angel, and I thought to myself: If I take that hand and put my lips to it, all will be over! I shall be in love to the death.”
“And then what?” asks Eva, in an undertone.
“Thou didst step aside quickly, as if divining something.”
Eva sat a while in thought, then woke from it and said with nervous haste, “Let us not speak of this matter, I pray thee.”
“Well, let us not speak of it. Dost thou know, Eva, I like thee too well to fall in love with thee? One feeling excludes the other. From the time that I made thy acquaintance, I have had for thee a real genuine feeling.”
“But,” said Eva, as if following her own thoughts, “is it true that thou art betrothed?”
“True.”
“Why hast thou not told me of it?”
“Because the engagement was broken, and then rearranged not long since. But if thou tell me that as betrothed I should not become acquainted with Pani Helena, I will answer, that I was a painter before I was betrothed. However, thou hast no fear for her?”
“Do not imagine that. I will not take thee to her, for I do not wish to expose her to people’s tongues. They say that for some weeks half Warsaw is in love with thee; they relate uncreated things of thy conduct. No longer back than yesterday, I heard a witticism, that thou hast made the ten commandments of God into one for thy own use. Knowest thou into what one?”
Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz Page 720