He sat in that way for half an hour yet before Helena came. She was dressed in black, with which color her pale complexion and blond hair came out excellently. When she saw Yosef she smiled timidly; but great pleasure was in that smile, for he had been a rare guest in recent times.
Happily for her, she had enough of tact or of feminine foresight not to reproach him; she did not dare, either, to rejoice aloud at his coming, since she knew not what he was bringing. But the palm which she gave him embraced his hand firmly and broadly. That palm quivered with the heartfelt language of movements interpreting fear and feeling when lips are silent.
With a melancholy smile and hand so extended she was enchanting with the inexpressible charm of an enamoured woman. If she had had a star in her hair, she might have passed simply for an angel, — perhaps she had even the aureole around her head which love gives, — but for Yosef she was not an angel, nor had she an aureole; but he touched her hand with his lips.
“Be seated, Helena, near me, and listen,” said he. “I have not been here for a long time, and I wish that the former freedom and confidence should return to us.”
She threw aside her cape and hat, arranged her hair with her hand, and sat down in silence. Great alarm was evident on her face.
“I hear thee, Yosef.”
“It is four years since the death of Gustav, who confided thee to me. I have kept the promise given him as well as I was able, and as I knew how, but the relation between us has not been such as it should be. This must change, Helena.”
He needed to draw breath, he had to pronounce sentence on himself.
In the silence which lasted awhile, the beating of Helena’s heart could be heard. Her face was pale, her eyes blinked quickly, as is usual with women who are frightened.
“Must they change?” whispered she, in a scarcely audible voice.
“Be my wife.”
“Yosef!”
She placed her hands together, as if for prayer, and looked at him a moment with eyes wandering because of pressing thoughts and feelings.
“Be my wife. The time of which I spoke to thee before has come.”
She threw her arms around his neck, and put her head on his breast.
“Thou art not trifling with me, Yosef? No, no! Then I shall be happy yet? Oh, I love thee so!”
Helena’s bosom rose and fell, her face was radiant, and her lips approached his.
“Oh, I have been very sad, very lonely,” continued she, “but I believed in thee. The heart trusts when it loves. Thou art mine! I only live through thee — what is life? If one laughs and is joyful, if one is sad and weeps, if one thinks and loves — that is life. But I rejoice and I weep only through thee, I think of thee, I love thee. If people wished to divide us I should tear out my hair and bind thy feet with it. I am like a flame which thou mayst blow. I am thine — let me weep! Dost thou love me?”
“I love.”
“I have wept for so many years, but not such tears as I shed to-day. It is so bright in my soul! Let me close my eyes and look at that brightness. How much happiness in one word! Oh, Yosef, my Yosef, I know not even how to think of this.”
It was grievous for him to hear words like those from Helena; he felt the immense falsehood and discord in which his life had to flow with that woman thenceforward, that woman so beautiful, so greatly loving, and loved so little.
He rose and took farewell of her.
Helena, left alone, placed her burning forehead against a pane of the window, and long did she stand thus in silence. At last she opened the window, and, placing her head on her palm, looked into the broad, sparkling summer night. Silent tears flowed down her face, her golden tresses fell upon her bosom, the moonlight was moving upon her forehead and putting a silvery whiteness on her dress.
CHAPTER XIV
A few days later Augustinovich was sitting in Yosef’s lodgings; he was working vigorously in view of the approaching examination. Loving effect in all things, he had shaded the windows, and in the middle of the room had placed a table, before which he was standing at that moment. Evidently he was occupied with some experiment, for on the table was a multitude of old glass vessels and pots full of powders and fluids, and in the centre was burning a spirit lamp, which surrounded with a blue flame the stupid head of a retort which was quivering under the influence of boiling liquid contained in it.
Work burned, as they said, in the hands of Augustinovich; no one could labor so quickly as he. With a glad smile on his face he moved really with enthusiasm, frequently entertaining himself with a song or a dialogue with the first vessel he took up, or with a pious remark on the fleeting nature of this world.
Sometimes he left his work for a moment, and raising his eyes and his hands declaimed in tones which were very tragic, —
“Ah, Eurydice! before thy beauty
I passed the rounds of success,
And the sentence of Delphi was undoubted,
That on earth I am the only one blest.”
Then again in a hundred trills and cadences he sang, —
“O piano! piano! — Zitto! pia-ha-ha-no!”
Or similar creations of his own mind on a sudden, —
“And if thou fill a pipe, O Youth,
And pressing the bowl with thy finger, put fire on it.”
“By Mohammed! If Yosef should come, this work would go on more quickly; but he is marrying Helena at present — Ei! and as innocence is dear to me, I would fix it this way! Dear Helena, permit — And what farther? Oh, the farther the better—”
All at once some one pulled the bell.
Augustinovich turned toward the door and extending his hand intoned, —
“Road-weary traveller,
Cross thou my threshold.”
The door opened; a man young and elegantly dressed entered the room.
Augustinovich did not know him.
The most important notable trait of the newly arrived was a velvet sack-coat and light-colored trousers; besides, he was washed, shaven, and combed. His face was neither stupid nor clever, neither beautiful nor ugly, neither kind nor malicious, moreover he was neither tall nor of low stature. His nose, mouth, chin, and forehead were medium; special marks he had none.
“Does Pan Yosef Shvarts live here?”
“It is certain that he lives here.”
“Is it possible to see him?”
“It is possible at this time; but in the night, when it is very dark, the case is different.”
The newly arrived began to lose patience; but Augustinovich’s face expressed rather gladness than malice.
“The owner of this house sent me to Pan Yosef as to a man who knows the address and the fate of Countess Leocadia N —— . Could you give me some explanations as to her?”
“Oh yes, she is very nice!”
“That is not the question.”
“Just that, indeed. Were I to answer that she is as ugly as night, would you be curious to make her acquaintance? No, no, by the prophet!”
“My name is Pelski; I am her cousin.”
“Oh, I am not her cousin at all!”
The newly arrived frowned.
“Either you do not understand me, or you are trifling.”
“Not at all, though Pani Visberg always insists that I am — But you are not acquainted with Pani Visberg. She is an excellent woman. She is distinguished by this, that she has a daughter, though it is nothing great to have a daughter; but she is as rich as Jupiter!”
“Sir!”
“Now I hear steps on the stairs, — Pan Yosef is coming surely. I will lay a wager with you that he is coming—”
Indeed, the door opened and Yosef walked in. One would have said that his severe and intelligent face had matured in the last few hours; in its expression was the calm energy of a man who had already decided on the means of advance in the future.
“This is Pan Pelski, Yosef,” said Augustinovich.
Yosef looked at the newly arrived inquiringly.
Meanwh
ile Pelski explained to him the object of his coming; and though at news of the relationship of the young man to Lula his forehead wrinkled slightly, he gave him her address without hesitation.
“I take farewell of you,” said Yosef, at last; “the countess will be greatly delighted to find in you a cousin, but it is a pity that she could not have found a relative two months ago.”
Pelski muttered something unintelligible. Evidently Yosef’s figure and style of intercourse imposed on him no little.
“Why give him Lula’s address?” asked Augustinovich.
“Because I should have acted ridiculously had I refused.”
“But I did not give it.”
“What didst thou tell him?”
“A thousand things except the address. I did not know whether thou wouldst be satisfied if I gave it.”
“He would have found the address anyhow.”
“Oh, it will be pleasant at Pani Visberg’s. Wilt thou go there to-day?”
“No.”
“And to-morrow?”
“No.”
“But when?”
“Never.”
“It is no trick, old man, to flee before danger.”
“I am no knight errant, I am not Don Quixote, I choose rather to avoid dangers and conquer than choose them and fall. Not Middle-Age boasting commands me, but reason.”
A moment of silence followed.
“Wert thou at Helena’s yesterday?” asked Augustinovich.
“I was.”
“When will the marriage be?”
“Right away after I receive my degree.”
“Maybe it is better for thee that the affair ends thus.”
“Why dost thou say that?”
“I do not know but thou wilt be angry; but Lula — now, I do not believe her—”
Yosef’s eyes gleamed with a wonderful light; he put his hand on Augustinovich’s shoulder.
“Say nothing bad of her,” said he, with emphasis.
He wished, indeed, that the countess, torn from him by the force of circumstances, should remain in his mind unblemished. He took pleasure in thinking of her.
“What am I to tell her when she asks about thee?” inquired Augustinovich, after a short silence.
“Tell her the truth, tell her that I am going to marry another.”
“Ei, old man, I will tell her something else.”
“Why?” asked Yosef, looking him in the eyes.
“Oh, so!”
“Speak clearly.”
“She seems to love thee.”
Yosef’s face flushed; he knew Lula’s feeling, but that information from the lips of another startled him. It filled his breast with sweetness and as it were with despair together with the sweetness.
“Who told thee that?” asked he.
“Malinka; she tells me everything.”
“Then tell Lula that I marry another from inclination and duty.”
“Amen!” concluded Augustinovich.
In the evening he went to Pani Visberg’s; Malinka opened the door to him.
“Oh, is this you?” said she, with a blush.
Augustinovich seized her hands and kissed them repeatedly.
“Oh, Pan Adam! that is not permitted, not permitted,” insisted the blushing girl.
“It is, it is!” answered he, in a tone of deep conviction. “But — but,” continued he, removing his overcoat and buttoning his gloves (he was dressed with uncommon elegance), “was some young man here this afternoon?”
“He was; he will come in the evening.”
“So much the better.”
Augustinovich went into the drawing-room with Malinka. The drawing-room had somehow a look of importance, as if for the reception of a notable guest. On the table a double lamp was burning, the piano was open.
“Why did Pan Yosef not come with you?”
“The same question from the countess will meet me. In every case permit me to defer my answer till she asks.”
The countess did not keep them waiting long. She entered, dressed in black, with simply a few pearls in her hair.
“But Pan Yosef?” asked she at once.
“He is not coming.”
“Why?”
“He is occupied. Building his future.”
The countess was wounded by the thought that Yosef would not come.
“But do you not help him in that labor?” asked she.
“May my guardian angel keep me from such work.”
“It must be very difficult.”
“Like every new building.”
“Why does he work so?”
“Duty.”
“I believe that Pan Yosef builds everything on that foundation.”
“This time it will be more difficult for him than ever before. But somebody is coming — that is your cousin. What a splendid man!”
Pan Pelski entered the drawing-room; soon after came Pani Visberg also.
After the greetings conversation began to circle about in the ocean of commonplace.
Augustinovich took little part in it. He sat in an armchair, partly closed his eyes with an expression of indifference toward everything. He had the habit of closing his eyes while making observations, when nothing escaped his notice.
Count Pelski (we had forgotten to state that he had that title) sat near Lula, twirling in his fingers the string of his eyeglasses, and conversing with her vivaciously.
“Till I came to Kieff,” said he, “I knew nothing of the misfortune which had met our whole family, but especially you, through the death of your esteemed father.”
“Did you know my father?” asked Lula, with a sigh.
“No, cousin. I knew only that unfortunate quarrels and lawsuits separated our families for a number of years. I knew nothing of those quarrels, since I was young and always absent, and if I am to make a confession my present visit was undertaken only as an attempt at reconciliation.”
“What was the degree of relationship between you and my father?”
“Reared abroad, I know little of our family relations in general; for example, I am indebted to a lucky chance for discovering not our relationship, of which I was aware, but other intimate bonds connecting our families from of old.”
“Is it permitted to inquire about this circumstance?”
“With pleasure, cousin. Having taken on me, after the death of my father, the management of my property and family affairs, I looked into the papers and various documents touching my family. Well, in these documents I discovered that your family is not only related to the Pelskis, but has the same escutcheon.”
“To a certain extent, then, we are to thank chance for our acquaintance.”
“I bless this chance, cousin.”
Lula dropped her eyes, her small hand twisted the end of her scarf; after a while she raised her head.
“And for me it is equally pleasant,” said she.
The shadow of a smile flew over Augustinovich’s face.
“I had much difficulty in finding your lodgings. This gentleman” (Pelski indicated Augustinovich with one eye) “has a marvellous method of giving answers. Fortunately his room-mate came; he gave me an answer at last.”
“I lived in the same house as they,” added the countess.
“How did you become acquainted with them, cousin?”
“When father fell ill, Pan Shvarts watched him in his last hours; afterward he found Pani Visberg, and I am much indebted to him.”
Augustinovich’s closed eyelids opened a little, and the sneering expression vanished from his face.
“Is he a doctor?” asked Pelski.
“He will be a doctor soon.”
Pelski meditated a moment.
“I was acquainted in Heidelberg with a professor and writer of the same name. From what family is this man?”
“Oh, I do not know, indeed,” answered the countess, blushing deeply.
Augustinovich’s eyes opened to their full width, and with an indescribable expression of malice
he turned toward the countess.
“I thought,” said he, “that you knew perfectly whence Pan Yosef came, and what his family is.”
Lula’s confusion reached the highest degree.
“I — do not remember,” groaned she.
“Do you not? Then I will remind you. Pan Yosef was born in Zvinogrodets, where his father in his day was a blacksmith.”
Pelski looked at his cousin, and bending toward her said with sympathy, —
“I am pained, cousin, at the fatality which forced you to live with people of a different sphere.”
Lula sighed.
Oh, evil, evil was that sigh. Lula knew that among those people of a different sphere she had found aid, protection, and kindness; that for this reason they should be for her something more than that cousin of recent acquaintance. But she was ashamed to tell him this, and she remained silent, a little angry and a little grieved.
Meanwhile Pani Visberg invited her guests to tea. Lula ran for a while to her own chamber, and sitting on her bed covered her face with her hands. At that moment she was in Yosef’s chamber mentally. “He is toiling there,” thought she, “and here they speak of him as of some one strange to me. Why did that other say that he was the son of a blacksmith?”
It seemed to her as if they were wronging Yosef, but she felt offended at him, too, because he was the son of a blacksmith.
At tea she sat near her cousin, a little thoughtful, a little sad, turning unquiet glances toward Augustinovich, who from the moment of his malicious interference filled her with a certain fear.
“Indeed thou art not thyself, Lula,” said Pani Visberg, placing her hand on the girl’s heated forehead.
Malinka, who was standing with the teapot in her hand, pouring tea in the light, stopped the yellowish stream, and turning her head said with a smile, —
“Lula is only serious. I find thee, Lula, in black colors — art thou in love?”
The countess understood Malinka’s idea, but she was not confused.
“Black is the color of mourning; in every case it is my color.”
“And beautiful as thy word, cousin,” added Pelski.
After tea she seated herself at the piano, and from behind the music-rack could be seen her shapely forehead marked with regular brows. She played a certain melancholy mazurka of Chopin, but trouble and disquiet did not leave her face.
Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz Page 766