With such thoughts and imprecations he reached Condamine,
where he found easily the little hotel in which the
event had taken place. There was a doctor in Kresovich's
room, also an official of the tribunal, who rejoiced at the
artist's arrival, hoping that he would be able to give some
items concerning the dead man.
"The suicide," said the official, "left a letter directing to bury him in a common ditch so as to send the money on his person to Zürich, to a given address. Moreover, he has burned all papers, as is shown by traces in the chimney."
Svirski looked at Kresovich, who was lying on the bed with open, terrified eyes, and with lips pursed together, as if to whistle.
"The dead man considered himself an incurable," said the artist; "he mentioned that himself to me, and took his life very likely for that reason. He never entered the Casino."
Then he told all that he knew concerning Kresovich, and afterward left the money needed for a separate grave, and went out.
Along the road he recalled what Kresovich had said to him in Nice about microbes, as well as his answer to Vyadrovski, that he would enroll himself in the party of the "silent;" and he reached the conviction that the young student had really occupied himself for a long time with the project of taking his own life, and that the main cause of his act was the conviction that he was condemned to death in every case.
But he understood that there might be collateral causes, and among them his unhappy love for Pani Elzen, and the parting with her. These thoughts filled him with sadness. The corpse of Kresovich, with lips fixed as if for whistling, and with the terror before death in his eyes, did not leave the artist's mind. But he thought that no one would sink into that terrible night without dread, and that all life, in view of the inevitableness of death, is one immense, tragic absurdity; and he returned to Pani Elzen in great depression of spirit.
She drew a deep breath of relief when she learned that Kresovich had left no papers. She declared that she would send as much money as might be needed for his funeral; and only then did she speak of him with a certain regret. She strove in vain, however, to detain Svirski for a couple of hours. He answered that he was not himself that day, and must return home.
"Then we shall meet in the evening," said she, giving him her hand at parting. "I intended even to drop in at Nice and go with you."
"Where?" asked Svirski, with astonishment.
"Have you forgotten? To the 'Formidable.'"
"Ah! Are you going to that ball?"
"If you knew how weighed down I am, especially after such a sad event, you would weep over me. I am sorry, too, for that poor fellow; but it is necessary—it is necessary even for this reason, that people should not make suppositions."
"Is it? Till we meet again!" said Svirski.
And a moment later, while sitting in the train, he said to himself,—
"If I go with you to the 'Formidable,' or any other place, I am a dead crab!"
CHAPTER VIII.
BUT next morning, he received Pani Cervi and Panna Maria with a gladder heart. At sight of the fair, fresh face of the girl even delight seized him.
Everything had been prepared in the studio; the easel was in its place; the sofa for the model pushed forward and covered properly. Pani Lageat had received the strictest command not to admit any one, not even "Queen Victoria herself," should she come. Svirski now opened and now closed the curtains which hid the window of the skylight; but while drawing the cords he looked unceasingly at his charming model.
Meanwhile the ladies removed their hats, and Panna Maria inquired,—
"What must I do now?"
"First of all, it is necessary to let down your hair," said Svirski.
He approached her, and she raised both hands to her head. It was clear that this confused her somewhat, and seemed strange, but also nice. Svirski gazed at her confused face, at her drooping eyelashes, at her form bent backward, at her exquisite outline of hips, and said to himself that, in that great dust heap of Nice, he had discovered a genuine double pearl.
The hair fell, after a moment, on her shoulders. Panna Maria shook her head, wishing to spread her hair, which then covered her completely.
"Corpo Dio!" exclaimed Svirski.
Then came the turn for a more difficult task,—placing the model.
Svirski saw plainly that her heart was beating with more life in the maiden, that her breast was moving more quickly, that her cheeks were flushed, that she had to conquer herself and overcome an instinctive resistance, which she herself could not define, and at the same time she was yielding with a certain alarm which resembled an unknown delight.
"No! this is no common model," said Svirski to himself; "this is something else; and I am not looking on her merely as an artist." In fact, he also felt troubled, and his fingers trembled a little while he was placing her head on the pillow; but, wishing to save her and himself from embarrassment, he spoke to her jestingly, feigning temper.
"Lie quietly, in that way! Besides, we must do something for art. Oh, the position is perfect now! In this way the profile comes out beautifully on the red background. If you could see it! But that cannot be. You must not laugh! You must sleep. Now I will paint."
And he began to paint; but while painting he chatted, as his custom was, told stories, and asked Pani Cervi of past times. He learned from her that "Maria" had held a good position the year before as reader for a Polish countess, the daughter of a great manufacturer of Lodz, Atrament by name; but the position lasted only till the countess learned that Maria's father and grandfather had served in the Italian army. This was a great disappointment, for the dream of mother and daughter had been that Maria should hold such a place with some lady who passed every winter in Nice; for in that case they would have no need to separate.
The artist was roused in Svirski meanwhile. He wrinkled his brows, concentrated his mind, looked across the handle of the brush, and painted persistently. From time to time he laid down the pallet, approached the model, and, taking her lightly by the temples, corrected the position of her head. At such movements he bent toward her more nearly perhaps than was required by the interest of art; and, when the warmth from her youthful body struck him, when he looked at her long eyelashes and her lips slightly parted, a quiver went through his bones, his fingers began to tremble nervously, and in spirit he called to himself,—
"Hold up, old man! What the deuce is this? hold up!"
She simply pleased him with his whole soul. Her confusion, her blushes, her timid glances, which still were not devoid of maiden coquettishness, made him happy beyond expression. All this proved to Svirski that she did not look on him as too old. He felt that he pleased her also. The grandfather in his time must have told her wonderful things about his countrymen; he had roused her imagination, perhaps; and now at last one of them had come in her way—not some common man, but one honorable and famous, who, besides, had appeared as in a fairy tale, at the moment of direst need, with assistance and an honest heart. How could she help feeling sympathy for him and looking at him with interest and gratitude?
All this caused the time to pass for Svirski till midday in such a manner that he did not even notice it. But at midday Panna Maria was the first to declare that she must return, for her grandfather was alone, and it was time to think of lunch for him. Svirski then begged the ladies to come in the afternoon. If they could not leave the old man alone, perhaps they had an acquaintance who would consent to stay with him for two hours. Maybe the gatekeeper, or her husband, or some one else of the family would do so? It was a question of the picture. Two sittings a day would be an excellent thing! After that there might be some new work; meanwhile, two sittings a day would be useful for both sides. If there should be expense in finding some one to care for the old man, he, Svirski, would consider it a favor if he were permitted to bear it, for first of all he was anxious about the picture.
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," said 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."
I was used to this gabbling of Antek's; still, in that silence and bewilderment, in cold, in darkness, at the edge of a precipice, his words made even me gloomy. Fortunately he talked himself out and stopped. He threw a couple of stones more, repeated a couple of times more, "Not a sound," and then for three hours we were silent.
It seemed to me that daybreak would come before long, when suddenly we heard a calling and the sound of wings.
It was dark yet, and I could see nothing; I was certain, however, that eagles were beginning to circle over the precipice. "Kra! kra!" was heard with greater force above and in the darkness. It astonished me to hear such a multitude of voices, just as if whole legions of eagles were passing. But, happen what might, they were heralding daylight.
After a while, I saw my hands resting on the rocky edge; then Antek's shoulders were outlined in front of me, precisely like a dark object on a ground somewhat less dark. That ground grew paler each instant. Then a rich, light silver tone began to shine in on the rocks and on Antek's shoulders. This color filled the darkness more and more, just as if into that darkness some one were pouring a silver liquid which permeated it, mixed with it, and from black made it gray, from gray pearl-color. There was also a certain severity and dampness about us; not only the cliff but the air too seemed moist.
Now more light comes every moment. I am looking, trying to fix in my mind those changes in tone, and am painting a little in my soul, when all at once Antek's cry interrupts me,—
"Tfu! idiots!"
And his shoulders vanish from my eyes.
"Antek!" I cry, "what are thou doing?"
"Don't howl! look here!"
I bend over, look—what appears? I am sitting on a rocky cliff which slopes down to a meadow, lying perhaps a yard and a half below me. The moss deadened the sound of the stones, for the meadow is very level; at a distance the road is visible, and on it crows, which I took for eagles. To walk home with the greatest comfort it was merely necessary to take our legs off the rock.
Meanwhile, we had been sitting on that rock, our teeth chattering, through the whole of God's night.
I know not why, but while waiting in the studio with Antek for the house-owner, that adventure of a year and a half before came to my mind, as if it had happened the previous day. That recollection gave me great solace; therefore I said at once,—
"Dost remember, Antek, how we thought ourselves sitting on the edge of a precipice, and it turned out that there was a level road right before us? It may be the same to-day. We are as poor as church mice, as thou knowest; the house-owner wants to turn us out of the studio; meanwhile all things may change. Let some sluice of glory and money open out to us."
Antek was sitting just then on the straw bed, pulling on his boots, grumbling the while that life was made up of pulling boots on in the morning and pulling them off at night; that only the man had sense who had courage to hang himself, which, if he, Antek, had not done hitherto, it was simply because he was not only a supreme fool, but a low coward besides.
My outburst of optimism interrupted his meditation; so he raised his fishy eyes and said,—
"Thou, beyond all men, hast something to rejoice at; the other day Suslovski drove thee from his house and the heart of his daughter; to-day the house-owner will drive thee from the studio."
Alas! Antek told the truth. Three days before I was the betrothed of Kazia Suslovski, but on Tuesday morning—yes, on Tuesday, I received from her father the following letter:—
Dear Sir ,—Our daughter, yielding to the persuasion of her parents, has consented to break the tie which for her would have been a misfortune. She may find a refuge at all times on the bosom of her mother and under the roof of her father; but it pertains specially to us, her parents, to avoid this extremity. Not only your material position, but your frivolous character, which, in spite of every effort, you are unable to conceal, inclines us and our daughter to return you your word, and to break with you further relations, which, however, does not change our good will toward you.
With esteem,
Heliodor Suslovski.
Such was the letter; I agree more or less with this, that out of my material position dog's boots might be made; but what that pathetic gorilla knows of my character I, in truth, do not understand.
Kazia's head brings to mind types from the time of the Directory; and it would be finer if she would dress her hair, not in the fashion of to-day, but of that time. I tried even to beg her to do so, but in vain, since she has no mind for such things. But she has a complexion as warm as if Fortuni had painted it.
For that very reason I loved her sincerely; and the first day, after receiving the letter from her father, I went about as if poisoned. Only on the second day, and that in the evening, did I feel a little easier, and say to myself, "If not, then not." It helped me most to bear the blow that I had my head filled with the Salon and with my "Jews." I was convinced that the picture was a good one, though Antek predicted that it would be thrown, not only out of the Salon, but out of the antechamber. I began the picture the year before in this way: It is evening. I am walking alone for amusement by the Vistula. I look; I see a basket of apples lost in the river; street Arabs are fishing the apples out of the water; and on the bank are sitting a whole Jewish family in such despair that they are not even lamenting, they are clasping their hands, and looking into the water, as dumb as statues. There is an old Jew there, a patriarch, a poor devil; an old Jewess; a young Jew, a colossal creature as big as Judas Maccabæus; a maiden, freckled somewhat, but with immense character in the outline of her nose and mouth; finally two little Jews. Twilight is coming; the river has a bronze reflection which is simply miraculous. The trees on Saxon Island are all in the light of evening; beyond the island is water, widely spread, tones purple, ultra-marine, tones almost steel, then again tones passing into purple and violet. The aërial perspective, splendid! The transition from some tones to others so subtile and marvellous that the soul just pipes in a man; round about it is quiet, bright calm. Melancholy over all things so that there is a wish to weep; and that group in mourning, sitting as if each person in it had been posing in studios.
In a moment the thought flashed into my head: That is my picture!
I had my portfolio with me, and colors, for I never go walking without them; I begin to sketch on the spot, but I say to the Jews,—
"Sit as you are, don't move!—a ruble to each one at dark."
My Jews see the point, in a twinkle, and, as it were, grow to the ground. I sketch and sketch. The street Arabs crawl out of the water, and soon I hear behind me,—
"Painter! painter! When a man steals a thing, he says that he found it."
But I answer them in their jargon, and win them at once; they even stop throwing chips at the Jews, so as not to injure my work. But, as an offset, my group fall unexpectedly into good humor.
"Jews," cry I, "be sorrowful;" but the old woman answers,—
"With permission, Pan artist, how can we be sorrowful when you promise us each one a ruble? Let him be sad who has no profit."
I have to threaten them that I will not pay.
I sketched for two evenings; then they posed for me two months in the studio. Let Antek say what he pleases, the picture is good, for there is nothing cold in it; it has pure truth and a tremendous lot of nature. I left even the freckles on the young Jewess. The faces might be more beautiful; but they could not be truer or have greater character.
I thought so much of this picture that I bore the loss of Kazia more easily. When Antek reminded me of her, the subject seemed one of long ago. Meanwhile, my comrade pulled on his other boot, and I heated the samovar. Old Antonia came with cakes; Antek had been persuading this woman in vain for a year to hang herself. We sat down to tea.
"Why art thou so glad?" asked Antek, peevishly.
"Because I know that thou wilt see something of uncommon interest to-day."
At this moment we hear steps approaching the studio.
"Thy house-owner! There is thy 'something uncommon'!"
Saying this, Antek gulps down his tea, which is so hot that tears fill his eyes. Up he springs; and since our little kitchen is in the passage, he hides in the studio behind the costumes, and from his hiding-place cries, with a panting voice,—
"Thou! he loves thee immensely, talk thou to him."
"He is dying for thee!" answer I, flying to the costumes, "talk thou to him!"
Meanwhile the door opens, and who comes in? Not the house-owner, but the watchman of the house in which the Suslovskis are living.
We rush out from behind the costumes.
"I have a letter for you," says the watchman.
I take the letter. By Hermes! it is from Kazia! I tear open the envelope, and read as follows,—
I am certain that my parents will forgive us. Come at once; never mind the early hour. We have just returned from the waters in the garden.
Kazia.
I have no idea what the parents really have to forgive me, but neither have I time to think of it, for I am losing my head from amazement. Only after a while do I give the letter to Antek, and say to the watchman,—
"Friend, tell the young lady that I will come right away—wait, I have no small money, but here are three rubles [all I have] change the bill, take a ruble for yourself, and bring me the rest."
Speaking in parenthesis, the monster took the three rubles, and did not show himself again. He knew, the abortion, that I would not raise a scandal at Suslovski's, and took advantage of the position most dishonorably. But at the time I didn't even notice it.
"Well, Antek, what?" ask I.
"Nothing! Every calf will find its butcher."
The haste with which I was dressing did not permit me to find an answer befitting this insult from Antek.
CHAPTER II.
A QUARTER of an hour later I ring at Suslovski's. Kazia herself opens the door. She is comely; she has about her yet the warmth of sleep, and also the freshness of morning, which she brought from the garden in the folds of her muslin robe, which is pale blue in color. Her hat, just removed, has dishevelled her hair somewhat. Her face is smiling; her eyes are smiling; her moist lips are smiling,—she is just like the morning. I seize her hands, kiss them, and kiss her arms to the elbows. She bends to my ear and inquires,—
"But who loves better?"
Then she leads me by the hand to the presence of her parents. Old Suslovski has the mien of a Roman who is sacrificing pro patria the life of his only child; the mother is dropping tears into her coffee, for both are at coffee. But they rise at sight of us, and Papa Suslovski speaks,—
"Reason and duty would command me to answer, no! but the heart of a parent has its rights—if this is weakness, let God judge me!"
Here he raises his eyes in proof that he will be ready to answer, if the tribunal of Heaven begins to write a protocol that moment. I had never seen anything more Roman in my life, unless macaroni sold on the Corso. The moment is so impressive that a hippopotamus might burst from emotion. The solemnity is increased by Pani Suslovski, who crosses her hands, and says in a tearful voice,—
"My children, should you have trouble in the world at any time take refuge here—here!"
While saying this, she pointed to her bosom.
She could not fool me! I was not to be taken for preservation there—there! If Kazia had offered me a similar refuge, it would have been different. Still I am amazed at the honesty of the Suslovskis, and my heart is filled with gratitude. I drink so many glasses of coffee from emotion that the Suslovskis begin to cast anxious glances at the coffee-pot and the cream. Kazia fills my cup continually; I try at the same time to press her foot under the table. But she draws it back always, shaking her head meanwhile, and smiling so roguishly that I know not how I escaped jumping out of my skin.
I sit an hour and a half; but at last I must go, for in the studio Bobus is waiting for me,—Bobus who takes drawing-lessons, and leaves me a note each time, with a coat of arms on it, but I lose those notes generally. Kazia and her mother conduct me to the entrance; I am angry at that, for I want Kazia alone to conduct me. What a mouth she has!
My road leads through the city garden. It is full of people coming from the waters. On the way I notice that all halt at sight of me. I hear whispers, "Magorski! Magorski! that's he—" Young ladies, dressed in muslin of every shade under which their forms are outlined wonderfully, cast glances at me which seem as if wishing to say, "Enter! the dwelling is ready!" What the devil, am I so famous, or what? I fail to understand.
I go on—always the same thing. At the entrance of the studio, I come against the house-owner, as a ship against a rock. Oh, the rent!
But the man approaches me and says,—
"My dear sir, though I have annoyed you sometimes, believe me, I have so much—just permit me simply—"
With that he seizes me around the neck and hugs me. Ha! I understand, Antek must have told him that I am going to marry; and he thinks that in future I shall pay my rent regularly. Let him think so.
I thunder upstairs. On the way I hear a noise in our quarters. I rush in. The studio is dark from smoke. There I find Yulek Rysinski, Wah Poterkevich, Franek Tsepkovski, old Sludetski, Karminski, Voytek Mihalak,—all amusing themselves by driving the elegant Bobus around on a string; but seeing me, they let him go, barely alive, in the middle of the studio; then they raise an unearthly uproar.
"We congratulate! congratulate! congratulate!"
"Up with him!"
In one moment I am in their arms, and for a certain time they hurl me up, howling meanwhile in a way befitting a pack of wolves; at last I find myself on the floor. I thank them as best I can, and declare that they must all be at my wedding, especially Antek, whom I engage in advance as my best man.
Antek raises his hands and says,—
"That soap thinks that we are congratulating him on his marriage."
"But on what are you congratulating me?"
"How is that, don't you know?" asked every voice.
"I know nothing; what the hangman do you want?"
"Give him the morning number of 'The Kite,'" cries Poterkevich.
They give me the morning number of "The Kite," shouting, one interrupting the other, "Look among the despatches!"
I look at the despatches, and read the following,—
"Special telegram to the 'The Kite.' Magorski's picture, 'The Jews on the river of Babylon,' received the great gold medal of the Salon of the present year. The critics cannot find words to describe the genius of the master. Albert Wolff has called the picture a revelation. Baron Hirsch offers fifteen thousand francs for it."
I am fainting! Help! I have lost my senses to that degree that I cannot utter a word. I knew that my picture was a success, but of such a success I had not even dreamed. The number of "The Kite" falls from my hand. They raise it and read to me among current comments the following notes on the despatch,—
"Note I. We learn from the lips of the master himself that he intends to exhibit his picture in our garden of sirens.
"Note II. In answer to a question put by the vice-president of the Society of Fine Arts to our master, whether he intends to exhibit his masterpiece in Warsaw, he answered: 'I would rather not sell it in Paris than not exhibit it in Warsaw.' We hope that those words will be read by our posterity (God grant remote) on the monument to the master.
"Note III. The mother of our master, on receiving the despatch from Paris, fell seriously ill from emotion.
"Note IV. We learn at the moment of going to press, that the mother of our master is improving.
"Note V. Our master has received invitations to exhibit his picture in all the European capitals."
Under the excess of these monstrous lies, I return to my senses a little. Ostrynski, the editor of "The Kite," and at the same time an ex-suitor of Kazia's, must have gone mad, for this passes every measure. It is natural that I should exhibit the picture in Warsaw; but, I. I have not mentioned that matter to any one; II. the vice-president of the Society of Fine Arts has made no inquiry of me touching anything; III. I have given him no answer; IV. my mother died nine years ago; V. I have not received an invitation from any quarter to exhibit my picture.
Worse than all, it comes to my mind in one moment that if the despatch is as truthful as the five notes, then farewell to everything. Ostrynski, who half a year since, in spite of the fact that her parents were for him, received a basket 16 from Kazia, wished perhaps purposely to make a fool of me; if that is the case "he will pay me with his head, or something else," as says the libretto of a certain opera. My colleagues pacify me, however, by saying that Ostrynski might fabricate the notes, but the despatch must be genuine.
At the same time Stah Klosovich comes with a morning number of "The Courier." The despatch is in "The Courier." I recover breath.
Now congratulations in detail begin. Old Sludetski, false to the core, but in manner sweet as syrup, shakes my hand and says,—
"Beloved God! I have always believed in the genius of my colleague, and I have always defended him [I know that he used to call me an ass]; but—Beloved God, perhaps my colleague does not wish that such a fa-presto as I should call my colleague, colleague; in that event let my colleague forgive an old habit, Beloved God!"
In my soul I wish him hanged; but I cannot answer, for at that moment Karminski draws me aside and tells me in an undertone, but so that all hear him,—
"Maybe my colleague needs money, if he does, let him say the word, and then—"
Karminski is known among us for his professed willingness to oblige. Time after time he says to some of us, "If my colleague needs aid, let him say the word; and then—till we meet again!" In truth, he has money. I answer that if I do not find it elsewhere, I will apply to him. Meanwhile other men come, true as gold; and they squeeze me till my sides ache. At last Antek appears; I see that he is moved, but he conceals his emotion, and says roughly,—
"Though thou art becoming a Jew, as I see, I congratulate thee!"
"Though thou art becoming a fool, as I see, I thank thee," and we embrace with all our strength. Poterkevich mentions that it is dry in his throat. I haven't a copper; but Antek has two rubles; others have as much. A contribution follows, and punch. They drink my health, throw me up again; and because I tell them that the affair with the Suslovskis is settled, they drink Kazia's health also. With that Antek comes to me and says,—
"Dost think, youthful idiot, that they hadn't read the despatch before the young woman wrote to thee?"
Oh, the monkey! how gladly I would give him a club on the head. On one side the horizon was growing bright for me; on the other, the devil was darkening it. Anything might be expected of the Suslovskis; but that Kazik 17 should be capable of such calculation!
Still it was very likely that they had read the despatch at the waters in the morning, and invited me straightway. At the first moment I want to fly to the Suslovskis, and stand before their eyes. But I cannot leave my company. Meanwhile Ostrynski comes, elegant, cold, self-confident, gloved as usual. Shrewdness is shining from him, as light from a fire, for he is a rogue in full armor. From the threshold he begins to wave his cane protectingly, and says,—
"Congratulations to the master; I too congratulate."
He uttered that "I" with an emphasis, as if congratulation from him meant more than from any other man. Perhaps it did really.
"How much you have invented!" cried I; "as truly as you see me here, I learned all about myself in 'The Kite.'"
"How does that concern me?" asked Ostrynski.
"I said nothing about exhibiting the picture either."
"But now you do," answered he, phlegmatically.
"And he has no mother, so his mother has not grown weak!" cried Voytek Mihalak.
"That concerns me little," repeated Ostrynski, with dignity taking off his second glove.
"But is the despatch true?"
"True."
That assurance pacifies me thoroughly. Through thankfulness I pour out punch for him. He puts his lips to the edge of the glass, drinks a sip, and says,—
"First to your health, and a second draught I drink you know to whom. I congratulate you doubly."
"Where do you get your information?"
Ostrynski shrugs his shoulders. "Suslovski was in the editorial rooms before eight o'clock this morning."
Antek begins to mutter something about mean people in general; I can restrain myself no longer; I seize my hat. Ostrynski follows me out; but I leave him on the street; and a couple of minutes later I am ringing at Suslovski's for the second time. Kazia opens the door; her parents are not at home.
"Kazia!" ask I, severely, "didst thou know of the despatch?"
"I knew," answered she, calmly.
"But, Kazik!"
"What was to be done, my dear? Do not wonder at my parents; they must of course have some reasonable cause to accept thee."
"But thou, Kazia?"
"I seized the first opportunity; dost take that ill of me, Vladek?"
The question grows clear, and it seems to me that Kazia is perfectly right. Speaking plainly, why did I rush hither like a madman? Kazia comes up and rests her head on my shoulder. I put my arm around her waist; she drops her face toward my arm, closes her eyes, pushes up her rosy mouth and whispers,—
"No, no, Vladek! not now—only after marriage, I implore thee."
In view of that request, I press her lips to mine, and we remain in that way as long as the process of breathing permits. Kazia's eyes become languishing. At last, she screens them with her arm, and says,—
"But I begged thee not to—"
The reproach and the look melt me to such a degree that I kiss her a second time. When you love some one, you have naturally a greater desire to give a kiss than a blow to that person. And I love Kazia beyond measure and wit, during life till death, after death! She, or none, and that's the end of it!
Kazia, with panting voice, expresses the fear that I have lost respect for her. Dearest creature, what nonsense she utters! I pacify her as best I can, and we begin to talk reasonably.
An agreement is made between us that if the parents pretend that they heard of the despatch only after my coming, I am not to let them know that I am aware how affairs stand. I bid farewell then to Kazia, promising to come in the evening.
In fact, I must rush to the office of the Society for Promoting Fine Arts; through it I can communicate most easily with the secretary of the Salon.
CHAPTER III.
I SEND a despatch stating that I accept Baron Hirsch's price; but stipulate, first, to exhibit the picture in Warsaw, etc.
For the sending of despatches and other needs I borrow money in the institution. It is given without hesitation. Everything goes as if on oil.
In "The Kite" and "The Courier" appears my biography, in which, however, there is not one word of truth; but as Ostrynski says, "How can that concern me?" I have received also a request from two illustrated papers; they wish to publish my portrait and reproduce my picture. Let them do so. Money will be as abundant as water.
CHAPTER IV.
A WEEK later I receive the earnest money from Baron Hirsch. The remainder will be paid when the purchaser obtains possession of the canvas. Meanwhile, the Bank of Commerce fires onto the table for me five thousand francs in louis d'or. In life I have not seen so much money. I come home laden down like a mule.
There is an assembly in the studio. I throw my coin on the floor; and since I have never wallowed in gold, I begin to wallow in it. After me Antek wallows. The house-owner comes in, and thinks that we have lost our senses. We amuse ourselves like cannibals.
CHAPTER V.
ONE day Ostrynski informs me that he feels happy that he got a basket from Kazia, for prospects are opening before him of which I cannot have the least idea.
I am very glad of this, or rather, it is all one to me; I believe meanwhile that Ostrynski will take care of himself in this life. When he was trying for Kazia, her parents were on his side, especially Father Suslovski; Ostrynski had even a complete preponderance over him, pushed to the degree that that Roman lost his statuesqueness in presence of this suitor. Kazia, however, could not endure him from the first moment of their acquaintance. It was some unconscious repugnance; as to other things I am perfectly sure that he did not offend her with that with which he offends me, and all who know his nature thoroughly. He is a wonderful man, or rather a wonderful man of letters. There are, of course, not only among us, but in all the greater centres of literature and art, men of whom, when you think, you ask involuntarily, Whence comes their importance? To this category belongs my friend of "The Kite." Who would believe that the secret of Ostrynski's significance and the reason of his mental position is this, that he does not love and does not respect talents,—especially literary talents,—and that he simply lives by disregarding them? He has for them the contempt of a man to whom regularity of life, a certain incisive quickness and great shrewdness secure in society permanent victories over them.
One should see him at sessions, at artistic and literary meetings, at jubilee dinners; with what condescending irony he treats men who in the region of creativeness have ten times more power than he; how he pushes them to the wall; how he confuses them with his logic, with his judgment; how he overwhelms them with his literary importance!
Whenever Antek thinks of this, he calls for a slat from the bedstead with which to crack Ostrynski's skull; but Ostrynski's preponderance does not astonish me. People of genuine talent are frequently awkward, timid, devoid of marked quickness and mental equilibrium. It is only when genuine talent is alone with itself that wings grow out on its shoulders; Ostrynski in such a position could only go to sleep, for he has absolutely nothing to say to himself.
The future brings order, gives rank, and assigns to each man his own proper place. Ostrynski is too clever not to know this; but in his soul he laughs at it. For him, 'tis enough that at present he has greater significance than others, and that people count more with him than with men better than he.
We painters stand less in his way. Still he advertises the talents of writers at times, but only when urged by the interest of "The Kite" and in opposition to "The Courier." For the rest, he is a good comrade, an agreeable person. I can say that I like the man; but—devil take him!—we've had enough of Ostrynski.
CHAPTER VI.
THEY will make me slam the door some day.
What a comedy! Since I have won reputation and money, Suslovski, in spite of my forethought, treats me simply with contempt; his wife, all Kazia's relatives, male and female, meet me frigidly.
On the first evening Suslovski announces that if I suppose that my new position has influenced their action, or if I suppose—which for that matter is evident in me—that I am doing them a favor, I am mistaken. Though ready to sacrifice much for the happiness of their child, still even that only child cannot ask them to sacrifice their human dignity. The mother adds, that, in case of need, the child will know where to seek refuge. The honest Kazia defends me at moments very angrily; but they are in wait for every word of mine.
Barely do I open my mouth when Suslovski bites his lips, looks at his wife and nods, as if to say, "I knew that it would come to this." Such a saw have they fixed for me from morning till evening.
And to think that all this is hypocrisy, that its special service is to keep me in their net, that at the bottom of the question they are after my fifteen thousand francs, and that they are as anxious for them as I am, though our motives are different.
It is time to finish.
They have brought me to this that I seem to myself to have committed really some scoundrelism in getting the gold medal and the fifteen thousand francs for my picture.
CHAPTER VII.
THE day of my betrothal is drawing near. I buy a beautiful ring in the style of Louis XV. which does not please the Suslovskis, nor even Kazia, for in that whole house there is no one who has an idea of real art.
I must work much yet over Kazia to destroy in her vulgar preferences and teach her to feel artistically; but since she loves me, I am hopeful.
I invited no one to the betrothal except Antek. I wanted him to visit the Suslovskis as a preliminary; but he declared, that though physically and morally bankrupt, he has not become so degraded yet as to go visiting. It cannot be helped! I forewarn the Suslovskis that my friend is an original beyond compare, but a painter of genius and the most honest man in the world.
Suslovski, learning that my friend paints "corpses," raises his brows, declaring that hitherto he has had to do with decent people, that his whole official career is unspotted, and that he hopes my friend will respect the manners prevailing in an honorable and decorous house.
I confess to myself that I am not free from fears touching Antek, and from the morning hours I am at war with him. He insists on wearing leggings. I persuade, I implore, I entreat.
At last he gives way, declaring that he sees no reason decisively why he should not remain a fool. It is a pity that his shoes remind one of explorers in Central Africa; for no blacking has touched them since they were brought from the shoemaker's on credit!
Still worse, Antek's head looks like the summit of the Carpathian Mountains, covered with forests, torn by columns of wind. I must put up with this, for there is no comb on earth which could conquer that forelock; but I force him to put on a frock coat, instead of the blouse which he wears every day. He does this, but has the look of one of his corpses, and falls into sepulchral humor.
On the street people turn to look at his knotty stick and his immense tattered hat; but I am accustomed to this.
We ring; we enter.
In the antechamber, the voice of Cousin Yachkovich reaches me; he is discoursing on overpopulation. Cousin Yachkovich is always discoursing on overpopulation; that is his hobby. Kazia looks in her muslin like a cloud, and pretty. Suslovski is in a dress-coat; the relatives are in dress-coats; the old aunts are in silk gowns.
Antek's entrance makes an impression. They look at him with a certain disquiet. He looks around gloomily, and informs Suslovski that in truth he would not have come "unless Vladek were getting married, or something of that sort."
This "something of that sort" is received most fatally. Suslovski straightens himself with dignity, and inquires what is meant by "something of that sort." Antek answers that it is all one to him; but "for Vladek" he might even knock his heels off, especially if he knew that Pan Suslovski cared anything about the matter. My future father-in-law looks at his wife, at me, at Kazia, with a look in which amazement is struggling with mortification.
Happily I save the position, and, with presence of mind rare with me, beg my future father-in-law to present me to those members of his family with whom I am still unacquainted.
The presentation follows; then we sit down. Kazia sits near me, and lets her hand stay in mine. The room is full of people; but all are stiff and silent. The atmosphere is heavy.
Cousin Yachkovich begins again at his talk on overpopulation. My Antek looks under the table. In the silence the voice of Yachkovich is heard with increasing shrillness; not having a front tooth, whenever he has to pronounce sz, he utters a prolonged hiss.
"The most dreadful catastrophe may arise from this for all Europe," said Yachkovich.
"Emigration," put in some one from aside.
"Statistics show, that emigration will not prevent overpopulation."
Suddenly Antek raises his head and turns his fishy eyes toward the speaker. "Then Chinese customs should be introduced among us," says he, with a gloomy bass.
"With permission,—what Chinese customs?"
"In China parents have the right to smother imbecile children. Well, then, with us, children should have the right to kill imbecile parents."
It has come! The bolt has struck; the sofa groans under the aunts; and I am lost. Suslovski closes his eyes, and loses speech for a season.
Silence.
Then is heard the voice of my coming father-in-law, trembling with terror,—
"My dear sir, I hope, that as a Christian—"
"Why must I be a Christian?" interrupts Antek, shaking his head ominously.
Another thunderbolt!
The sofa with the aunts begins to tremble as if in a fever; it vanishes from my sight; I feel the earth opening beneath me. All is lost; all hope is vain.
Suddenly Kazia's laughter rings out, resonant as a bell; then Yachkovich bursts into laughter, not knowing why; after Yachkovich, I laugh, also not knowing why.
"Father!" cries Kazia, "Vladek forewarned father, that Pan Svyatetski [Antek] is an original. Pan Svyatetski is joking; he has a mother, I know that, and he is the best of sons to her."
A rogue, not a maiden, that Kazia!—not only does she invent, but she divines. In fact, Antek has a mother, and he is a good son to her.
Kazia's words make a certain diversion. The entrance of a servant with wine and cake makes a still greater diversion. That servant is the watchman who took my last three rubles; but now he is arrayed in a dress-coat, and comes out with the dignity of a waiting-man. He keeps his eyes fixed on the tray; the glasses rattle, and he moves forward as slowly as if he were carrying glasses filled with water. I begin to fear that he will drop them all to the floor; fortunately my fear proves barren.
After a while the glasses are filled. We proceed to the act of betrothal.
A little cousin holds a porcelain plate on which two rings are lying. The eyes are creeping out of her head with curiosity, and the whole ceremony causes her such evident pleasure that she is dancing together with the plate and rings. Suslovski rises; all rise; the noise of the chairs is heard as they are pushed back.
Silence follows. I hear one of the matrons remark in a whisper, how she had hoped that my ring "would be better." In spite of this remark there is such solemnity of feeling that flies are dropping from the wall.
Suslovski begins to speak,—
"My children, receive the blessing of your parents."
Kazia kneels; I kneel as well.
What a physiognomy Antek must have at this moment, what a face! I dare not look at him; I look at Kazia's muslin robe, which, on the faded red sofa, makes a very nice spot. The hands of Suslovski and of Pani Suslovski rest on our heads; then my future father-in-law says,—
"My daughter, thou hast had the best example at home of what a wife should be to a husband, therefore I need not teach thee thy duties, which moreover thy husband will indicate to thee." (I hope so.) "But I turn to thee, Pan Vladislav—"
Here begins a speech during which I count to one hundred, and having counted to a hundred, I begin again at one. Suslovski the citizen, Suslovski the official, Suslovski the father, Suslovski the Roman, had the opportunity of showing all his grandeur of soul. The words: child, parents, duties, future, blessing, thorns, pure conscience, buzz around my ears like a swarm of wasps, sit on my head, sting me on the above-mentioned ears as well as on my neck and forehead.
It must be that I tied my cravat too tightly, for it is suffocating me. I hear the weeping of Pani Suslovski, which affects me, for at heart she is an honest woman; I hear the sound of the rings, held on the plate by the dancing little cousin. O Lord Christ, what a face that Antek must have!
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.