Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz

by Henryk Sienkiewicz

  “Long life to the corpses! Antek, get married.”

  “I would rather hang myself; I am a low usurer, nothing more.”

  CHAPTER XV.

  IN the evening I am at the Suslovskis; Kazia and I are in the niche in which there is a small sofa. Pani Suslovski is sitting at a table lighted by a lamp, and is sewing on something for Kazia’s trousseau. Pan Suslovski sits at a table reading, with dignity, the evening number of “The Kite.”

  Somehow I am not myself; I wish to dissipate that feeling by pushing up very near Kazia.

  In the salon silence is supreme; it is interrupted only by Kazia’s whisper. I beg to embrace her; she whispers, —

  “Vladek, papa will see us.”

  With that “papa” begins to read aloud, “The picture of our well-known artist, Svyatetski, ‘The Last Meeting,’ was bought to-day by Dr. Byalkovski for fifteen hundred rubles.”

  “That is true,” I add. “Antek sold it this morning.”

  Then I try to embrace Kazia, and again I hear her whisper, —

  “Papa will see us—”

  My eyes turn involuntarily to Pan Suslovski. I see on a sudden that his face is changing; he shades his eyes with his hands and bends over “The Kite.”

  What the devil can he find there of such interest?

  “Father, what is the matter?” asks Pani Suslovski.

  He rises, advances two steps toward us, then halts, transfixes me with a glance, and, clasping his hands begins to nod his head.

  “What is the matter?” I ask.

  “See how falsehood and crime come always to the surface,” answers Suslovski, pathetically. “My dear sir, read to the end, if shame will permit.”

  Thus speaking, he makes a movement as if to wrap himself in his toga, and gives me “The Kite.” I take the number, and my glance falls on an announcement entitled: “A Minstrel of the Ukraine.” I am confused somewhat, and read hurriedly the following, —

  “Some days since a rare guest came to our city in the person of a decrepit minstrel who visits Ukraine families resident among us, begging them for alms, and singing songs in return. It is said that our well-known and sympathetic actress, Eva Adami, is particularly occupied with him; he was seen with her in a carriage no longer ago than this morning. In the first days of the appearance of this guest from a distance, a wonderful report rose that under the coat of the minstrel is hidden one of the most famous of our artists, who, in this manner, without arresting the attention of husbands and guardians, finds easy access to boudoirs. We are convinced that this report has no foundation, even for this reason alone, that our diva would never consent to further an undertaking of that kind. The old man, according to our information, has wandered in here straight from the Ukraine. His intelligence is dulled somewhat; but his memory is perfect.”

  “Hell!”

  Suslovski is so enraged that he cannot recover his voice; at last he casts forth his superabundance of indignation, —

  “What new falsehood, what excuse will you find to justify your conduct? Have we not seen you to-day in that shameful disguise? Who is that minstrel?”

  “I am that minstrel,” I answer; “but I do not understand why you find that disguise shameful.”

  At that moment Kazia snatches “The Kite” from my hand and begins to read. Suslovski wraps himself still more closely in the toga of indignation and continues, —

  “Scarcely have you passed the threshold of an honest house when you bring with you corruption; and before you are the husband of that unfortunate child, you, in company with women of light character, betray her; you trample already on her confidence and ours; you break your plighted word — and for whom? For a hetaira of the theatre!”

  Anger carries me off at last.

  “My dear sir,” say I, “enough of those commonplaces. That hetaira is worth ten such false Catos as you. You are nothing to me yet; and know this, that you annoy me! I have enough of you with your pathos, with your—” Here words fail me; but I have no further need of them, for Suslovski is opening his waistcoat, as if wishing to say, —

  “Strike! spare not, here is my breast!”

  But I have no thought of striking; I declare simply that I am going, lest I might say something more to Pan Suslovski.

  In fact, I leave without saying farewell to any one.

  The fresh breeze cools my heated head. Nine o’clock in the evening, and the night is very calm. I must walk to regain my composure, therefore I fly to the Alley of the Belvedere.

  The windows in Hela’s villa are dark. Evidently she is not at home. I know not myself why that causes me immense disappointment.

  If I could see even her shadow on the window-pane, I should grow calm; but as it is, anger bears me away again.

  What I shall do with that Ostrynski at the first meeting — I know not. Fortunately, he is not a man who withdraws before responsibility.

  But speaking precisely, what claim have I against him? The article is written with infernal dexterity. Ostrynski denies that the minstrel is a disguised painter; he stands up, as it were, for Eva; but at the same time betrays the whole secret to Hela. Evidently he is trying to compromise Eva in the opinion of Hela; he takes vengeance on me for Kazia, and covers me besides with ridicule.

  If only he hadn’t said that my intelligence is blunted! The deed is done. In Hela’s eyes I am covered with ridicule. She reads “The Kite.”

  Oh, what a dish of hash, and what bitterness for Eva! How that Ostrynski must triumph! Surely I must do something; but if I know what, may I become a reporter for “The Kite”!

  It occurs to me to take counsel with Eva. She plays to-day; I will fly to the theatre and see her after the play.

  There is time yet.

  Half an hour later I am in her dressing-room.

  Eva will finish directly; meanwhile, I look around.

  Our theatres are not distinguished, as is known, for luxury of furnishing. A chamber with white walls; two jets of gas quivering from the draught; a mirror; a washstand; a number of chairs; and in one corner, a long chair, probably the private property of the diva, — this is her dressing-room. Before the mirror a multitude of toilet articles, a cup of black coffee partly drunk, boxes with rouge and white, lead for the brows, a number of pairs of gloves, still retaining the form of the hand, and among them two false tresses; at the side walls bunches of costumes, white, rose-colored, dark, light, and heavy; on the floor are two baskets full of things pertaining to female costumes. The room is full of odor of toilet powder. What a medley everywhere; how everything has been cast about in a hurry! How many colors and reflections; what shadows; what a play of light from the quivering gas-jets!

  That is a picture of its own kind; there is character in it. Of course there is nothing here more than in an ordinary dressing-room of a woman, still there is something which causes that chamber to seem, not a dressing-room, but a sanctuary of some kind; there is a certain spell and charm there. Above this disorder, this medley and hurry, between these scratched walls, hovers the inspiration of art.

  A thunder of applause is heard. Ha! it is finished. Through the walls come to my ears the sound of calling; “Adami! Adami!” A quarter of an hour passes; they are shouting yet.

  At last Eva rushes in; she is in the character of “Theodora.” She has a crown on her head; her eyes blackened underneath; on her cheeks a blush of rouge; her dishevelled hair falls like a storm on her naked neck and shoulders. She is feverish and exhausted to that degree that she speaks to me in a whisper barely audible.

  “How art thou, Vladek?” and removing her crown hurriedly, she throws herself in her regal robes on the long chair. Evidently she cannot utter words; for she looks at me silently, like a suffering bird. I sit near her, place my hand on her head, and think only of her.

  I see in those blackened eyes the flame of unquenched ecstasy; I see on that forehead simply the stigma of art. I see that the woman brings to the altar of that theatrical Moloch her health, blood, and life, that breath
is lacking in her breast at that moment. Such pity embraces me, such sorrow, such sympathy, that I know not what to do.

  We sit some time in silence; at last Eva points to a number of “The Kite” lying on the toilet table, and whispers, —

  “What a vexation, what a vexation!”

  Suddenly she bursts into nervous weeping, and trembles like a leaf.

  I know that she is weeping from weariness, not because of “The Kite,” for that article is buffoonery which every one will forget to-morrow; and the whole of Ostrynski is not worth one tear from Eva; still my heart is straitened the more. I seize her hands and cover them with kisses. I take her; I press her to my breast. My heart begins to beat with growing violence; something amazing takes place in me. I kneel down at Eva’s knees, not knowing myself what I am doing; a cloud covers my eyes; suddenly I seize her in my arms, without thinking what I do.

  “Vladek, Vladek, pity!” whispers Eva.

  But I press her to my stormy breast; I know nothing of anything. I have lost my wits! I kiss her on the forehead, mouth, eyes; I can only say, —

  “I love thee! I love—”

  With that Eva’s head drops back; her arms enclose my neck feverishly, and I hear the whisper, —

  “I have loved thee this long time.”

  CHAPTER XVI.

  IF for me there is a dearer creature on earth, I am a pickled herring.

  They say that we artists do everything under the first impression of the moment; that is not true! for it seems that I loved Eva long ago, only I was ass enough not to see it. God alone knows what took place in me while I attended her home that evening. We went hand in hand, without speaking. From moment to moment I pressed Eva’s arm to my side, and she pressed mine. I felt that she loved me with all her power.

  I conducted her upstairs, and when we were in her little drawing-room, the position became in some way so awkward for us that we didn’t dare to look into each other’s eyes. But when Eva covered her face with her hands, I removed them gently and said, —

  “Evus, thou art mine, is it not true?”

  And she nestled up to me.

  “I am, I am.”

  She was so beautiful, her eyes were drowsy, and at the same time gleaming, there was such a sweet weariness in her whole posture that I could not break away from her.

  And in truth she could not break from me; she wished, as it were, to reward herself for continued silence, and for such a long-concealed feeling.

  I returned home late. Antek was not sleeping yet; he was drawing by lamplight, on wood, for one of the illustrated papers.

  “There is a letter here for you,” said he, without raising his eyes from his work.

  I take a letter from the table and feel a ring through the envelope. Good! that ring will do for to-morrow. I open the letter, and read as follows, —

  I know that the return of this ring will cause pleasure, for you had this in view evidently. As to me, I do not think of rivalling actresses.

  Kazia.

  At least it is brief. From this letter anger alone is looking forth, nothing more. If any shade of charm surrounded Kazia in my eyes hitherto, that shade is blown away now beyond return.

  A wonderful thing! all supposed that Eva was the cause of my disguise and of all those adventures; and in truth the cause of what follows will be Eva.

  I crush the letter, put it in my pocket, and go to bed.

  Antek raises his eyes from his work, and looks in expectation that I will say something; but I am silent.

  “That scoundrel Ostrynski was here this evening after the theatre,” said Antek.

  CHAPTER XVII.

  IN the morning about ten o’clock I wish to fly to Eva; but I cannot, for I have guests.

  Baron Kartofler comes and engages a duplicate of my “Jews.” He offers me fifteen hundred rubles; I want two thousand. The bargain is made at that price. After his departure I receive an order for two portraits from Tanzenberg. Antek, who is an Anti-Semite, reviles me as a Jewish painter; but I am curious to know who would buy productions of art, if not the “finance.” If the “finance” is afraid of Antek’s corpses, the fault is not mine.

  I am with Eva at one o’clock. I give her the ring, and declare that we shall go to Rome after our marriage.

  Eva consents with delight. We are as much given to talking to-day as we were to silence last evening. I tell her of the order which I have received, and we rejoice together. I must finish the portraits before our departure; but “the Jews” for Kartofler I will paint in Rome. When we return to Warsaw, I will fit up a studio, and we will live as in heaven.

  While forming these projects, I tell Eva that we will keep the anniversary of yesterday as a holiday all our lives.

  She hides her face on my shoulder, and begs me not to mention it. Then she winds the split sleeves of her gown round my neck, and calls me her great man. She is paler than usual; her eyes are more violet than usual, but they are beaming with gladness.

  Ah! what an ass, that having near me such a woman I was seeking for happiness elsewhere, in a circle where I was a perfect stranger, and which was strange to me.

  What an artistic nature that of Eva! She is my betrothed, accepts the rôle at once, and involuntarily plays the part of a young and happy affianced. But I do not take that ill of a beloved creature, after so many years in a theatre.

  After dinner we go to Hela Kolchanovski’s.

  From the moment that Eva can present me as her betrothed, the minstrel trick becomes innocent and can cause no misunderstanding between those two ladies. In fact, when Hela heard of the engagement, she received us with open arms, and was delighted at Eva’s happiness. We laugh like three maniacs at the “grandfather,” and at that which the “grandfather” had to hear concerning the painter Magorski. Yesterday I wanted to put a stiletto into Ostrynski; to-day I am astonished at his cleverness.

  Hela laughs so heartily that her transparent eyes are filled with tears. Speaking in parenthesis, she is marvellous. When she inclines her head at the end of the visit, I cannot take my eyes from it; and Eva herself is under its spell to such a degree that during the day she imitates unconsciously that bending of the neck and that look.

  We agree that, after our return from abroad, I shall paint a portrait of Hela; but first I shall make my Eva in Rome, if I can reproduce those features, which are so delicate that they are almost over-refined, and that face, so impressionable that every emotion is reflected in it as a cloud in clear water.

  But I shall succeed; why shouldn’t I?

  The evening “Kite” publishes untreated tales of the orders which have come to me; my income is reckoned by thousands. That in a small degree is the reason, perhaps, that next day I receive a letter from Kazia, stating that she returned the ring under the influence of anger and jealousy, but if I come and we fall at the feet of her parents, they will let themselves be implored.

  I have enough of that falling at the feet and those forgivenesses. I do not answer. Let him fall at Suslovski’s feet who wants to; let Kazia marry Ostrynski! I have my Eva.

  But my silence casts an evident panic on the Suslovski family; for a few days later the same messenger comes with a letter from Kazia, but this time to Antek.

  Antek shows me the letter. Kazia prays him to come for a moment’s conversation concerning an affair on which her whole future depends; she reckons on his heart, on that sense of justice which from the first glance of the eye she divined in him. She has the hope that he will not refuse the prayer of an unhappy woman. Antek curses, mutters something under his nose about low Philistines, and about the necessity of hanging both them and their posterity at the next opportunity; but he goes.

  I divine that they wish to influence me through him.

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  ANTEK, who in reality has a soft heart, is won over evidently. For a week he goes to the Suslovskis regularly; for three days he walks around me, frowns, looks at me just like a wolf.

  At last one day at tea he inquir
es peevishly, “Well, what dost thou think of doing with that girl?”

  “With what girl?”

  “With that Suslovski, or what is her name?”

  “I don’t think of doing anything with that Suslovski, or what is her name.”

  A moment of silence follows, then Antek speaks again, —

  “She is whining whole days, till I cannot look at her.”

  What an honest soul! At that moment too his voice trembles with emotion; but he snorts like a rhinoceros and adds, —

  “A decent man does not act in that fashion.”

  “Antek, thou art beginning to remind me of Papa Suslovski.”

  “I would rather remind thee of Papa Suslovski than wrong his daughter.”

  “I beg thee to drop me.”

  “Very well! I can even not know thee at all.”

  With this, the conversation ends, and thenceforth I do not speak to Antek.

  We pretend not to know each other, which is the more amusing since we live together. We drink tea together in the morning, and it never occurs to either of us to move out of the studio.

  The time of my marriage is approaching. Through the intermediary of “The Kite” all Warsaw knows of that now. All look at us; all admire Eva. When we were at the exhibition, they surrounded us so that we could not push through.

  My unknown friendess sends an anonymous letter in which she warns me that Eva is not the wife for a man like me.

  “I do not believe what is said of the relations between Panna Adami and Pan Ostrynski [writes my friendess]; but thou, O master, art in need of a wife who would devote herself altogether to thy greatness; Panna Adami is an artist herself, and will always be drawing water to her own mill.”