CHAPTER VIII
A couple of months had passed, winter had passed, spring had passed, summer had come, and those relations had not changed.
Yosef loved Helena, she loved him, and their life flowed on in mutual forgetfulness of the future. But there was a shadow between them, a shadow thrown by chance. One summer day the widow tied under her chin the ribbons of a dainty blue hat, and covering her shoulders with a cape, she took Yosef's arm and they went out to walk.
The sun was shining, there was a little dust in the air, and the heat made itself felt on all faces, though the hour was about six in the afternoon. Multitudes of people were on the streets; many acquaintances greeted Yosef with a friendly nod; some, and among them strangers, looked around at our couple. Really they were a beautiful couple. Yosef had grown, he had become manly; his chin and the sides of his face were covered now by a splendid, ruddy growth, and his face had a serious expression, with a certain tinge of pride. The widow looked exactly like a young betrothed. The wind blew apart the ribbons of her dainty hat, played with her white dress, and bearing apart the cape, showed her slender form. Leaning on Yosef's arm gracefully, she delighted in him and the sun and the air, and was as if born into the world a second time. Yosef looked more at her than at the people around. We will not undertake to repeat the words in that twittering of lovers, without meaning for others, full of charm for themselves. But there was more serious conversation; she, for example, begged him to take her to Potkanski's grave.
"In the summer," said she, "there is much shade even in the cemetery. And it is so long since I was there; still I cannot forget him. Thou takest his place, Yosef, but permit me to pray for him sometimes."
It was all one to Yosef for whom or for what Helena prayed; so he answered with an indulgent smile,—
"Very well, remember thy dead; but love the living," added he, inclining his head toward her face.
A slight pressing of Yosef's arm to her breast was Helena's answer. She looked him in the eyes, then blushed like a girl.
Yosef covered with his palm the little hand resting on his arm, and—was perfectly happy.
They went to the cemetery, and on the way met Augustinovich; he was smoking a cigar and walking with two ladies, a mother and a daughter. Augustinovich had the daughter on his arm, the mother hurried on a little at one side; plumpness and finally the heat hindered her haste somewhat.
Augustinovich was eloquent evidently, for the young lady restrained her laughter at moments. While passing Yosef he blinked with one eye; this was to signify that he was content with the world and the order of the earth at that moment.
Yosef asked Helena about Augustinovich.
"I know him, though I do not know his name. When Kazimir died, I saw him near me, then he disappeared somehow from my eyes."
"He is the most gifted scapegrace whom I know," added Yosef. "But he told me that he was in love with my lady."
"Why tell me that?"
"Without an object, but it is a wonder how all are attracted to thee."
"My dear Yosef, that is the one thing that I brought to the world with me. Thou wilt not believe how sadly the years of my childhood passed. Thou knowest not my history. I was reared in a wealthy family, where the master of the house treated me as his own daughter. After his death I was tormented in that house with every rudeness, till at last I fled and came to Kieff, where an old and very kind man took me into his care. He called me Helusiu always, and petted me as if I had been his own daughter. But afterward he too died, without leaving me means of living. Then I made the acquaintance of Kazimir. Thou wilt wonder how I went to a students' club? I lacked little of dying from shame, I assure thee, when I entered the first time; but wilt thou believe? I was hungry. I had put nothing in my mouth for two days. I was chilled through, I knew not what I was doing, and what it would lead to.
"Then Kazimir approached me. Oh! he did not please me that time. He laughed and was glad, but it grew dark in my eyes. He asked at last if I would go with him. I answered 'Yes.' On the road he put a warm fur around me, for I was shivering from cold, and finally he took me to his lodgings. There, when warmth had restored presence of mind to me, I saw where I was, and I wept from disgrace and shame. For, seest thou, I was alone in the lodgings of a man, I was in his power. He seemed to be astonished at my weeping; then he was silent and sat near me, and when again I looked at him he had tears in his eyes, and was different entirely. He kissed my hands and begged me to calm myself.
"I had to tell him everything, everything. He promised to think of me as a sister. How good he was, was he not? From that moment of knowing him I knew no more of want. At parting he kissed my hand again. I wished to kiss his, my heart was straitened, I pressed it with my hands and wept real tears. Oh! how I loved him then! how I loved him!"
Helena raised her eyes, in those eyes gleamed great tears of gratitude. She was as beautiful as if inspired. Yosef's expression, however, was severe; his brows had come together on his forehead. The thought that he owed that woman's love to empty chance, to a vain resemblance, covered his face with a gloomy shadow.
Potkanski had gone to her by another road. That comparison pained Yosef. He recalled Augustinovich's words, and conducted Helena farther in silence.
They reached the cemetery. Among the trees were white crosses, stones, and tombs. The city of the dead in the shade of green leaves slept in silent dignity. A number of persons were strolling among the crosses; among the branches a bird from time to time sang half sadly, half charmingly. The figure of the cemetery guard pushed past at intervals.
Helena soon found Potkanski's grave. It was a large mound surrounded by an iron railing; at the foot of the mound was a small grass-covered hillock. Under these lay Potkanski with Helena's child. A number of pots with flowers adorned the graves, at the sides grew reseda; in general, the grave kept neatly and even with ornament indicated a careful hand.
Yosef called the guard to open the railing. Helena knelt there with prayer on her lips and tears in her eyes.
"Who keeps this grave?" asked Yosef of the guard.
"This lady came; a gentleman with long hair came also, but now he comes no longer. He always paid for the flowers, and he also gave command to erect the iron grating."
"That gentleman is here now—last year they buried him," answered Yosef.
The guard nodded as if to say, "And thou too wilt dwell here."
"But this I beg to tell the gentlemen. In the city out there are trouble and suffering, but when any one comes here he lies peacefully. I think often to myself: 'Will the Lord God torture souls in that other world also? Is it little that man suffers here?'"
After a time Helena finished praying. Yosef gave her his arm again. Yosef was silent; evidently something was weighing on his heart. By design or by chance he led Helena along a path different from the first one. All at once, when near the gate, he pointed to one of the graves, and said in a kind of cold voice,—
"See, Helena, that man there loved thee during his life more than Potkanski, and still thou hast not mentioned him."
The day was inclining. Helena cast her eye on the object which Yosef had indicated. At the grave stood a black wooden cross, and on it were written in white the words: "Gustav—died year—day."
The evening rays painted the inscription as it were in letters of blood.
"Let us go from here; it is getting dark," whispered Helena, nestling her head up to Yosef's shoulder.
When they entered the city, darkness was beginning in earnest, but a clear night was coming. A great ruddy moon was rolling up from beyond the Dnieper. In the dense alleys of the police garden steps were heard here and there, from an open window in an adjoining pavilion came the tones of a piano; a youthful, feeble voice was singing a song of Schubert, the tones quivered in the warm air; far, far out on the steppe some one was sounding the horn of a post-wagon.
"A beautiful night," said Helena, in a low voice. "Why art thou gloomy, Yosef?"
"Let us sit a little," said he. "I am tired."
They sat there, and leaning shoulder to shoulder were both somewhat pensive. They were roused on a sudden from meditation by a youthful, resonant voice, which said,—
"True, Karol! The greatest happiness is the genuine love of a woman, if it is an echo to the voice of a real manly soul."
Two young people arm in arm passed slowly near the bench on which Yosef and Helena were sitting.
"Good evening!" said both, removing their hats.
They were Vasilkevich and Karol Karvovski.
When Yosef parted with the widow that evening, he held her hand to his lips for a long time, and went home late, greatly agitated.
CHAPTER IX
But next day Yosef after a perfect sleep was quite calm; he even laughed at the previous day and at his own alarms and fears.
"Many pretty phrases are uttered," said he to himself, "but are they reality? Only a fool regrets happiness. Gustav is the best proof of this. What good is feeling, though the strongest, though the most manly, when purchased at the cost of life? Besides, I am little fitted for tragedy. I love Helena, and she me. What is that to any one? Augustinovich, rise, O scapegrace! tell me what hundred-tongued Satan has turned the head of some brown parasol by means of thee?"
"Didst thou see her face?" inquired Augustinovich, forcing himself to sigh.
"I did, and by Jove, it was like a freshly plucked radish—the mother looked like a bowl of sour milk. Well, art thou in love, old man?"
"Be quiet! those are very rich ladies."
"Both? How much has the daughter?"
"Who has counted such a treasure—but she will be richer yet."
"Richer—by a husband and children?"
"No; but the mother has come on a lawsuit, and dost know whom she is suing? Our neighbor the count owes her several thousand zlotys."
"From whom dost thou know all this? Art long acquainted with the ladies?"
"Only since yesterday. I became acquainted by chance: they inquired for the street—whither? I did not mind, 'pon my honor, but I told them that the weather was very beautiful, and asked if they would not walk with me. The old lady loves conversation dearly. I learned immediately who they were, and why they had come to the city. She asked me if I knew the count. I answered that I visit him daily, and that I would use my influence on the old man to pay what he owes her. I said also that I was a doctor of medicine, theology, and many other sciences and arts; that I have an immense practice in Kieff. Then the mother began to tell into my ear her troubles and the troubles of her daughter. I promised to visit them and to examine their case carefully."
"Of course. What did the daughter say to that?"
"She hung out the red flag on her face, but the mother scolded her for doing so, called on all the saints, and assured me of the unanimous assistance of those saints at the day of general judgment. Thou seest what I have won."
"Thou art an innocent."
"I shall visit them to-day."
"Whom? all the saints?"
"No, my new acquaintances. I will advise them both to marry."
"The youngest thee?"
"What dost thou wish, my dear? A man grows old; moreover, I think that we shall greet thee soon with a hairy palm."
"I have begged thee not to interfere between me and Helena."
"Very well. I will say only that Pani Helena is beautiful."
"Surely!" answered Yosef, with ill-concealed pleasure.
At that moment Vasilkevich appeared.
"I have run in a moment," said he. "Karol is waiting downstairs for me; we are going to the country together. Yosef, I have business with thee. Briefly, I did not wish to mix in thy love affairs, notwithstanding Augustinovich's prayers, but this is dragging on too long. Tell me, what dost thou think of doing with the widow?"
Yosef had a pipe in his hand; this he hurled violently into the corner of the room; then he sat down and looked Vasilkevich in the eyes.
"Question for question," said he. "Tell me, what hast thou to do with the matter?"
Vasilkevich frowned, became somewhat angry; still he answered calmly,—
"I ask as one comrade may ask another. Helena is not of that class of women who love one day but not the day following. Besides, through the memory of Potkanski each of his colleagues has the right to expect an answer to such a question."
Yosef rose; in his eyes blazes of anger were flashing.
"But if I give no answer, then what?" cried he.
Vasilkevich burst out in his turn,—
"Then thou thinkest, my bird, that we are going to let thee dupe this poor woman, and not ask what thy meaning is? Satan take thee! Thou must answer to us for the honor of Potkanski's widow. I am not the only man who will inquire about it."
They stood some time face to face, eye to eye, each with a storm on his forehead, as if testing each other. Finally Yosef, though trembling with anger, was the first to regain self-mastery.
"Hear me, Vasilkevich," said he. "If some other man had done this, I should have thrown him out of doors. I am not of those who let themselves be regulated, and I do not understand why thou and others mix in affairs not your own. In every case this offends me. I will answer, therefore, thee and all who wish to mention the honor of Helena, that I will give account of that honor only to myself, that I shall not permit any man to meddle with my acts, and that thou and thine are committing a brutal, and for Helena a harmful stupidity, in no way to be explained by your taking her part. I have done speaking and I am going out, leaving thee time to meditate over what thou hast done."
Vasilkevich remained with Augustinovich.
"Well? Did not he give thee a head-washing?" inquired the latter.
"He did."
"Hei! wilt thou say, then, that he gave thee a head-washing?"
"He did."
"Thou hast acted stupidly; with him mildness was needed—that is a headstrong fellow."
Yosef went straight to Helena. He was excited in the highest degree; he could not explain Vasilkevich's act, but he felt that that third hand, interfering between him and Helena, pushed them apart instead of bringing them nearer.
When he entered Helena's lodgings, the door of her chamber was closed; the maid could not tell him what her mistress was doing. He opened the door. Helena was sleeping, leaning against the arm of a large easy-chair. Yosef stood in the doorway and looked at her with a wonderful expression on his face. She did not waken; her rounded breast rose and fell with a light measured movement. There is nothing gentler than the movement of a woman's breast; resting on it, it is possible to be rocked to sleep as in a cradle, or in a boat moved lightly by the waves. Every man has passed through that sleep on his mother's breast. The secret kingdom of sleep is revealed in woman by this movement only, which may be called blessed, so many conditions of human happiness move with it in the regions of rest. The movement of angels' wings must be like it. It lulls to rest everything, from the cry of the infant, to the proud thoughts of the sage. The head of a sage, sleeping on the breast of a woman, is the highest triumph of love. Such thoughts must have passed through Yosef's head, for, looking at the slumbering Helena, he grew milder and milder, just as night passes into dawn; he inclined toward her, and touched her hand lightly with his lips.
Helena quivered, and, opening her eyes widely, smiled like a little child when the velvety kiss of its mother rouses it from sleep. That was the first time that Yosef came to her with a fondling so gentle and delicate; usually he came, if not severe, dignified; but to-day he had come to wipe out and forget at her feet the bitter impressions of the quarrel with Vasilkevich. He was seized gradually by the marvellous power of woman, under whose influence the muddy deposit of the soul sinks to the bottom of oblivion. But he was too greatly agitated not to let some of the bitterness which he felt a few moments earlier press through his words. He raised his head, looked into her eyes, and said,—
"Helena, it seems to me that I love thee very deeply; but the folly of people irritates my personality, challenges me. I should like to find strength in thee. Trust me, Helena, love me!"
"I do not understand thee," replied she.
He took her hand and spoke tenderly,—
"Still, thou shouldst understand me. I flatter myself that I am not second to Potkanski in love for thee, or in labor for thy happiness. But there is a difference between us. He was the son of a magnate, he could give thee his hand at once, surround thee with plenty. I am the son of a handicraftsman, I must labor long yet over thy happiness and my own. I will not desert thee now, but I do not wish that thou as my wife shouldst touch the cold realities of poverty, from which he disaccustomed thee. But I need thy love and thy confidence. Speak, Helena."
Helena said nothing; but she approached Yosef, and, putting her head on his breast, raised on him eyes full of childlike confidence.
"This is my answer, my good Helenko," said Yosef; and with a long kiss he joined her lips to his.
"This may be egotism on my part," continued he, "but forgive me. I did not win thee by service or suffering, I have done nothing whatever for thee. The vision of wealth with which Potkanski surrounded thee on the one hand, the devotion of Gustav on the other, would stand forever between us. Let me deserve thee, Helena. I have energy and strength sufficient, I will not deceive thee."
Perhaps it seemed to Yosef that he was speaking sincerely; but how much offended vanity there was in his words each person may divine easily after casting an eye on the conditions in which Helena had lived up to that time. If he had asked for her hand immediately, those conditions would have changed very little, and certainly not for the worse, since in that case, sharing his lodgings with her, he would have rid himself of Augustinovich and all the outlays connected with that man. On the other hand, it is proper to acknowledge that he kept the word given Gustav with complete conscientiousness. Nothing had changed with reference to Helena. Yosef would have taken her at that time in the same conditions in which she had been for two years past.
Beyond doubt one half was true in what he had told her of his ambition; more meaning still was there in his wish to throw down the gauntlet to opponents; but perhaps the weightiest reason of all why he did not marry Helena was found in the relations, of great intimacy between them of people not united by bonds which give more than the right to fondling and kisses. The cup was half drunk. Legalization would lessen the charm of forbidden fruit, would decrease sweetness already tasted, more than it would promise new.
It will appear that Augustinovich was right in some degree.
Yosef perhaps did not acknowledge to himself that his reason for not desiring to change those relations was because he lived agreeably in them.
Did he not love Helena, then?
He loved her; otherwise he would not have visited her daily, he would not have kissed her lips, her forehead, her hands; but let us remember that this met just half the desires which in other conditions we satisfy through the way of the altar. The idea of a betrothed is that of a woman disrobed behind a thin veil, we go to the altar to remove the veil; when the veil disappears a part of the charm is lost. Honest human nature recompenses the loss by the idea of attachment; when attachment fails, habit, a thing still less enticing, appears in the place of it.
But life rolls on.
Yosef had touched the veil; two ways led to its removal,—one the way of the altar; the other a momentary oblivion of self, a victory of passion over honor,—a less honest, in fact a dishonest, way, but short and alluring.
The first was difficult; to the second every moment was a temptation, every kiss an incitement. To the first the unfortunate guardianship over Helena disinclined him; selfishness counselled the second. But the first was honorable, the second was not.
Yosef stood at the parting of the roads.
It might be said, indeed, that an honest man should not hesitate; but we may also inquire how an honest man is to act when the powers of temptation are absolutely greater than his powers of honesty.
Helena loved Yosef; she answered nervously to his kisses. She was unable to turn the balance consciously; unconsciously she added to the weight of that defect which in Yosef's soul weighed against honesty and honor.
How many great and small battles, torments and terrors, that magic little word love brings with it sometimes! A whole rabble of wishes with outbreak and uproar, armed with goads and bells, a rabble capricious, violent, flies up from every direction, plays with the human heart as with a ball, hurls it to the lofty stars, or tramples it on the earth. Then, O man, all the dens of thy soul are thrown open. Thou hadst not even dreamed of what dwelt in them. All the seven deadly sins, and all the virtues of which the catechism makes mention, are fighting each other to win thee; thou seest thyself to be different from what thou hadst supposed up to that time; thou ceasest to trust thyself, suspectest thyself at every step, losest control of thyself. Passions rise up then like flames from the depth of thy being, and like hidden currents in a swamp, advance, creep, circle about, flow up, and then vanish.
The night of thy soul is rent by the flame of passions. In their colors thy own interior is shown to thee. Thou performest the rôles both of actor and audience. Thou art like a boat, without a rudder in billows of fire. Then, on a sudden, one thunderbolt finishes everything; the flames vanish like fireworks, and thou art dreaming, like Dante, of heaven and hell.
It is gloomy when after the awakening there is no one to give back the moments through which thou hast suffered. Calmness returns, but happiness returns not. An amputated arm gives no pain, but it does not exist.
It may be that Augustinovich had some truth on his side, when he said that it was not worth while to give life for a single feeling. Perhaps a man should not break himself against the narrow walls of personal whims and desires.
Above and around us is a broad world; waves are roaring there which have been raised by the whole of humanity. Is it not better to weigh anchor and push one's ship forth from the shore, quiet the weeping heart, and sail out into a future, without happiness but with labor, without faith but with thought?
It is certain that till the time of such a fiery test comes it is not possible to speak of the nobility of the metal out of which the soul of a given man has been cast. We can offer no guarantees, therefore, for the future acts of Yosef. He passed through various temptations, we know that; we guarantee that he fought with them according to his power; but how it ended, whether he or they proved the stronger, will be told later on.
CHAPTER X
On reaching home Yosef met the old count and his daughter on the steps at the door. The young lady cast a glance of inquiry on him, and when she had gone a couple of steps, she looked around and smiled. Yosef noticed that she was very shapely, and with genuine satisfaction he heard her say to her father, "That is the young doctor, papa, who lives in the rooms under ours." It is true that he lacked little of finishing his course at the University; still he was glad that they considered him a doctor already.
Yosef's lodgings were open; the house guard was putting them to rights. From him Yosef learned details of the old count and his daughter. This man did not like either of them; he emphasized their stinginess, though he imagined that they must be very poor, because they did not pay room rent very regularly. "The young lady is haughty," said he; "all day she does nothing but play and sing. It is hard for her without a husband, but what is to be done?" He did not advise Yosef to make their acquaintance.
"How proud these people are," said he; "but in their pockets, dear lord, there is emptiness."
"And is the old countess long dead?" inquired Yosef.
"About three years. They have been rich, I suppose, but he lost his property in wheat which, as they say, he had to furnish in company with others at Odessa. That business impoverished many people. The old countess was better than others of her family. She was an honorable lady, but she fell to grieving, and died. They have lived here five years."
"Do they know many people?"
"It must be that they do not, for I have not seen any one visit them."
Yosef, while waiting for Augustinovich, lay down on the bed, and when he commanded to bring him a glass of tea, he fell asleep quickly. When he woke up, he felt a trifle ill. Augustinovich had not come yet, though it was quite dark. He arrived at last in perfect humor.
The lady with whom he had become acquainted, Pani Visberg, had a daughter Malinka. Augustinovich examined them both by auscultation. He prescribed dancing for the daughter and horseback riding for the mother. Besides, he promised to visit them and to bring Yosef.
"The old lady said that the summons to the count was ready, which does not concern me," said Augustinovich. "She has even visited the count, but found only the countess, who pleased her. The countess was much frightened when she learned the object of the old lady's visit. I asked Pani Visberg why she claimed a miserable two thousand when she represented herself as the wife of a Crœsus. She answered that her late husband's name was Cleophas, not Crœsus. 'If it were mine,' said she, 'I surely would not annoy them, but all that money belongs to my child.' Then I pressed the hand of that child under the table, with real feeling. I was simply moved—word of honor, I was moved. When going, I kissed the old lady's hand. The young lady's name is Malinka—a pretty name, Malinka, though the point is not in this, whether her name is pretty or ugly—Why art thou so pale, Yosef?"
"I am not entirely well, and I cannot sleep. I fell asleep while waiting for thee. Give me a glass of tea."
Augustinovich poured out the tea, and lighting his pipe lay on the bed. Yosef pushed an armchair up to the bureau, and taking a pen began to write.
He soon stopped, however. Thoughts crowded into his head; he leaned back in the chair and gave them free course. Another man would have dreamed. Yosef collected and summed up his own past; he thought over the conditions in which he was then, he cast up the future. Regarding this future, it was difficult for him to remain in the rôle of a cool reasoner. The words "That is the young doctor, papa," came to his memory involuntarily. To be a doctor and to some extent a high-priest of science; to rule on one side by reason, on the other by significance, property, reputation,—Yosef had not become indifferent yet to reputation,—to attract glances, rouse laughter, win hearts—Here he remembered Helena. In the region of feeling he was not free now to choose. He felt bound; still he would like to see eyes turning to him, and the smile of the maiden's lips, and hear the words so prettily whispered, "That is the young doctor." For the first time he could not free himself of the thought that Helena might be a hindrance to his campaign of advancement. He determined to settle with that thought. Her education was not in the way, she was educated; she was twenty-one years of age, he twenty-four—the difference, though too small, did not constitute a hindrance. What reasons could he have to fear that Helena might be a weight on him some time? Conscience declared that the first cause was his own vanity. He knew women little, and he wanted to know them much and to rule them. But there were other considerations which Yosef did not admit. He loved too little. In his soul lay enormous capitals of feeling; he had barely offered a small part of them in the name of Helena. He bore within him a dim consciousness of his powers; that foreboding deprived him of rest. He wanted to reach the foundation of things, but it was not easy for even such a self-conscious head as Yosef's to reach final results.
Besides, he did not know himself whether possible future triumphs were equal in value to Helena. To have near him for all future time a woman so charming and loving was the same as to seize in its flight a winged dream of happiness shooting by, but if besides he knew how many of those coming triumphs would be of tangible value, how many would deceive him, how many faces there were before him, he would not hesitate in the choice. But he had not met deceit yet face to face.
Such meditations wearied Yosef. The lamp in the room grew dim, he began to doze. Some sudden knocking above roused him again. "They are not sleeping up there, either," thought he. He remembered the countess and her gladsome smile. "How lightly and calmly such a girl must sleep! But there is some truth in this, that girls are like birds. A man toils and labors and meditates, and they—But that one upstairs is quite a pretty bird. I should like to see her asleep. But it is late now, half-past one, and I—What is that?" He sprang quickly to his feet.
A violent pulling at the bell brought him to his senses perfectly. He opened the door, and raising the lamp saw the countess before him. She was as pale as a corpse; she held a candle in one hand, with the other she protected the flame of it. She wore a cap, and a dressing-gown through which her neck and bosom were evident.
"Pan Doctor!" cried she, "my father is dying!"
Yosef, without saying a word, seized his medicine case, and enjoining on Augustinovich to hurry upstairs with all speed, he ran himself after her. In the first chamber was the small bed of the countess, with the blanket thrown aside, and left just a moment before; in the next room lay the count. He was breathing or rather rattling loudly, for he was unconscious; there was bloody foam on his lips, and his face was livid.
In a moment Augustinovich ran in, uncombed and hardly dressed. Both occupied themselves with the sick man without regard to the young girl, who had knelt at the foot of the bed, and was nearly unconscious.
All at once Yosef and Augustinovich looked each other in the eyes; both had seen that there was not the least hope.
"O my God! my God! Call in some one else, perhaps," burst out the countess, in tears.
"Run for Skotnitski," cried Yosef.
Augustinovich ran, although he felt certain that on returning with the doctor he would not find the count among the living.
Meanwhile Yosef, with all energy and presence of mind, worked at the patient. He bled him; then, looking at the clock, declared that the attack was over.
"Thank God! There is hope then?" cried the countess.
"The attack is over!" repeated Yosef.
Meanwhile Augustinovich came with the doctor.
Doctor Skotnitski declared that the sick man was saved for that time, but without ceremony he added that in case of a second attack death would ensue unfailingly. He commanded to watch the sick man and not leave him for an instant. Our friends sat all night at his bedside.
Next morning early the count regained consciousness and asked for a priest. Augustinovich had to go for one. He brought some parish priest or chaplain, who read the usual prayers and litany, then heard the sick man's confession, gave him communion, and anointed him with holy oil.
For a number of hours the count was conscious; he spoke with Yosef, blessed his daughter, spoke of his will, in a word, did everything which is usual when people are dying in a Christian and honest way of going from this world to the other. The whole day passed in these ceremonies. When dusk came Yosef persuaded the countess to take some rest; for the poor girl, though of a firm constitution, was barely able to stand on her feet from watching and suffering.
She resisted long, and agreed only when he almost commanded her to do so. When leaving the room she gave her hand, thanking him for his care of her father. Yosef looked at her more carefully then. She might have been twenty, perhaps even less, for her well-developed form caused one to consider her older than she was really. She had a large but agreeable mouth, blue, clever eyes, and dark hair. In general, her face was uncommonly sympathetic. She had a beautiful forehead shaded with hair; the expression of her face, and her movements indicated a developed aristocratic type of beauty. Moreover, she had very small hands.
The count fell asleep an hour after she had gone out. Yosef and Augustinovich sat by a shaded lamp; both were wearied and thoughtful. Augustinovich spoke first in a low voice,—
"Tell me what will become of the countess when he—" He indicated with his head the sick man, and closing his eyes drew a finger along his throat.
"I am thinking of that myself," replied Yosef. "Perhaps some one of the family may be found."
"But if he is not found?"
"It will be necessary to talk with her. They are poor, evidently; the guard told me that their rent is not paid yet. But it cannot be that they have no blood relatives somewhere, or at least acquaintances."
"Well, in every case speak of this later," said Augustinovich, who did not like to dwell long on one subject.
"Wait," interrupted Yosef; "at least one idea comes to my head. So far no one has been here, and it is impossible that that poor girl"—he indicated with his eyes the room where the countess was sleeping—"impossible for that poor girl to stay here alone after his death. Tell me, is thy acquaintance, Pani Visberg, a pious woman?"
"As pious as a chalice cover!"
"Honest, simple?"
"In an unheard-of degree: but what connection has that with the countess?"
"I wish to place the countess in her care."
"But the lawsuit?"
"Just because of that."
Here the sick man moved suddenly. Yosef looked at him quickly, then whispered,—
"One instalment of rent stands in my way, but this and that may be arranged, perhaps something can be done after his death."
"Oi, rent, rent!" whispered Augustinovich. "To keep us awake I must tell thee a little tale. I have never paid rent, I was enraged whenever rent was even mentioned, and I never could accustom any house-owner to refuse taking it. At last I succeeded with one. He was an old little fellow, and stupid as the ears of Midas. Well, once I was sitting in a small garden which belonged to him, and because the season was summer and the time night, for want of a better occupation I was counting the stars in the sky. I was dreaming somewhat; a starry night, as thou knowest, brings a dreamy state of mind. Thereupon that ass came to me and spoke absurdly. He simply wanted me to pay him. I rose from my place, and outlining in solemnity with my hand a bow between the east and the west, I asked mysteriously,—
"'Dost see this immensity and those millions of the lights of God?'
"'I see,' answered he, frightened somewhat by the tone of my inquiry; 'but—'
"'Silence!' said I, in an imperious voice. And removing my hat I raised my eyes, and looking at the astonished man I thundered,—
"'Useless dust! compare thy five rubles—'"
On a sudden a suppressed groan interrupted Augustinovich. The count had become livid, he was twisted up, the fingers of his hands were balled into lumps; the second attack had come evidently.
At that moment Yosef rushed to the sick man and straightened his arm almost by force.
"Ys!—Bleed him!" said he in a low voice.
There was silence. By a wonderful chance the lamp at that moment grew darker. From instant to instant was heard the quick low voice of Yosef,—
"His pulse? Water!"
"He is stifling," whispered Augustinovich.
Both held the breath in their breasts; the dull sound of the lance was heard. The steel sank in the old man's flesh, but blood did not come.
"This is the end! All is useless!" said Yosef, drawing a deep breath.
Drops of sweat came out on his forehead.
"He lived—he lived till he died," said Augustinovich, with the most indifferent mien in the world. "We have done our part, now to sleep."
CHAPTER XI
The count died really, and was buried according to Christian ceremonial. After his death Yosef paid a visit to the old lady. It was a question of securing guardianship for the countess, since no one of the family had come forward.
The count had left very scanty means of maintenance, and even if he had left more the countess was too young to manage a house alone.
Because of the lofty piety and exceeding delicacy of conscience of Pani Visberg, it was not difficult for Yosef to arrange the business he had mentioned. He persuaded her that she had killed the count by her lawsuit, and therefore she was bound to give protection to the daughter of her victim. The lady was greatly terrified at the executioners of hell, with whom Yosef threatened her, and on the other hand she judged that the companionship of the countess, who was of society and highly educated as Yosef declared, would not be without profit to Malinka.
Pani Visberg was an honorable woman in the full sense of the word; she had not much wit, it is true, and still less acquaintance with society. The best proof of this was that she considered Augustinovich the acme of elegance, polish, and good tone. Yosef she feared a little, from the time of his first visit. But she was content in soul that such distinguished young men, as she said, were inclined to her lowly threshold.
Malinka, who in many regards resembled her mother, was seriously smitten with Augustinovich. She had induced the old lady to take a permanent residence in Kieff; for that matter Pani Visberg had come to the city somewhat with that intent. She wished to show her daughter to the world, for Malinka was nineteen years of age, and during those nineteen years she had been once in Kieff, once in Jitomir, and had sat out the rest of the time at home. Fortune permitted a residence in the city. The late Pan Visberg had been in his day an official in the customhouse, though in a funeral speech over his grave these words had been uttered: "Sleep, Cleophas Visberg! for during long ages the nations (all Europe) will admire thy integrity and stern rectitude." We say Cleophas Visberg left to his wife, inconsolable in her sorrow, about nine times one hundred thousand zlotys, and he would have left more if inexorable Fate had not cut short his days. He entered the kingdom of shadows more sated with years than with income.
But this income fell to good hands, for both ladies had excellent hearts. They helped widows and orphans; they paid their servants, male and female, regularly; they paid tithes to their church faithfully; in a word, they performed all Christian deeds which concern soul and body.
They received the countess with open arms, and with as much cordiality as if they had been her relatives. Malinka, an honest though simple maiden, was in love out and out with the noble orphan. How much she promised herself from the first glance to be kind and obliging to her, how much she wished to comfort her, how much she dreamed of a pure friendship with her in the future, it would be difficult to tell; enough that Yosef found as good protection for the countess as if she had been in the house of her own parents—it could not have been better.
It is true that the countess was well fitted to rouse sympathy. The silent and deep sorrow which weighed her down at the moment did not remove her so far from reality that she could not be charming to those who were kind to her. She thanked Yosef with tears in her eyes; stretched to him a hand, which he, with emotion rare in him, pressed to his lips. "As I love God!" said Augustinovich, "I almost wept when she looked at me. May the devils take me if she is not a hundred times more beautiful than I am."
In fact, that new figure, attended already with words of sympathy, had connected itself with the fate of the heroes of this book. That a countess like her could not remain without influence on them is understood easily. Whether the future will attach angel wings to the shoulders of the countess, or show in her charming body a barren, hypocritical soul, the continuation will teach us.
Hei! hei! If this life resembled a book; if it were possible to give people souls such as are created in thought; but then would these be people like the rest of mankind? It would be all one, however, for poison cakes are the food of this world, as the boy said. The human soul is like a spring; it carries poison far, and what man can guarantee that poison is not lying at the bottom of his own soul, and that he would not create poisoned characters? The soul is blank paper! God writes on one side, and Satan on the other; but God and Satan are only symbols in this case. In fact, there is another hand; the world is that hand really. The world writes on the soul, good and bad people write on it, moments of happiness write there, suffering writes more enduringly than all. But there are souls like mussels. The mussel changes grains of sand, and the soul pain, into pearls; sadness and solitude are the means. But not always. It depends on the soul. Sadness and solitude sometimes conceal weariness, emptiness, and stupidity. These three full sisters like to dwell in palaces built of sadness and solitude, seeking that which they have never lost. It does not follow from this that there are no charms in solitude. Sadness has none, at least for a sad person. Solitude for the soul is something like a time of sleep for the body. Nay, more; that misty monad, the soul, seems to dissolve in solitude, to separate, to vanish, to cease its existence almost; words and thoughts end in that silent region; the soul is annihilated for a season, separates on all sides from its own centre. All this is called rest.
Solitude is the worst term that the human mind has had wit to invent; solitude is never alone, silence always goes with it.
It is a pity that the misty garments of this lady called Solitude are borne most frequently by that seductive page whose name is Laziness.
But sometimes, say the poets, solitude gives a creative moment. The soul is lost then and trembles, inclining to receive some vision flying in from beyond.
For this reason only fools or sages love solitude greatly.
What was the countess?
Let us see. It is time to descend from cloudy heights to life's realities. Let the countess enter! How? As a young maiden—can there be anything more charming under the sun? Such a beautiful mixture of blood, body, perfumes, flowers, sun rays—and what else?
Our illusions.
Fly in, golden butterfly.
CHAPTER XII
Sad, indeed, had been the previous life of the countess. During her father's life she had sat whole days in a chamber which was lonely and almost poor, listening to the twittering of sparrows outside the windows, or the quarrels of girls in the kitchen.
The old count came home every evening wearied and broken with ceaseless pouring from the empty into the void, as he called his affairs. Nothing succeeded with him. In his time he had been active and industrious; he had wished to give the aristocracy an example of how men with escutcheons should apply themselves to labor and industry, and as a result, he lost his property. There remained to him in return experience which he would have been glad to sell for a few thousand, and still one other thing which he would not have sold, that is, his reminiscences and his family pride.
In him the cement of that experience and that pride was his hatred of life, of men, of the whole world. This was natural. His own people did not receive him, and those who did receive the man, received him in such fashion that the fable of the dying lion and the asses' hoofs came to one's memory. If he had only had a son! The young eagle might fly from the nest with new strength, seeking light and the sun—but a daughter! The old man did not deceive himself: a daughter must become either an old maid, or marry after his death the first man who met her. For this reason the count did not love his daughter as much as he should have loved. In spite of that the daughter loved him sincerely. She loved him because he had white hair, because he was unfortunate, finally, because she had no one else to love. Moreover, he was for her the last volume of the story which she was weaving on in her mind.
Frequently in the evening her father told her in his plaintive voice of the ancient deeds of their family, full of glitter and glory, old histories pleasant for counts and countesses; and she while listening to them fixed her whole soul in that past.
Often it seemed to her that from the golden web of the legend some winged figure tore itself free, half a hussar knight with a crooked sabre in his grasp, an eagle-like son of the steppe and of battle. He waved his hand, and the steppes were cleared of Tartars. One might say, "I can see the Crimea and the blue waves beyond." Hei! the usual dreams of a maiden! As wide as the steppes are, so many are the songs of his actions; and then he is so covered with glory, though youthful; so bloody, though so beloved. He bent his forehead before some female figure. The usual dream of a magnate's daughter! That female figure is she; he a Herburt or a Koretski.
And as she was reared, so did she imagine; and these imaginings had no use, nay, they were perhaps harmful, though attractive. So, when the old man finished the stories, and remembering the present, added with bitterness, "My fault, my fault!" she wound her arms around his neck, then, saying usually, "Not thy fault, papa; those times will return again."
But those times did not return. The old man died, and no knight appeared as a guardian, no knight cut from the blackened background of a picture. The form which appeared had nothing in common with knighthood. That head with severe face and broad forehead, the cold face of a modern thinker, in no manner, even in the dreams of a maiden, did it fit to a bronze helmet with ostrich plumes. Other powers must have pulsated in the forehead of a man leading winged regiments against Tartars.
But, on the other hand, Yosef was something entirely new for the countess, something which made her admire. There were not many words in him, but there was force. In a short time he became for her everything; she found in the man decision, energy, and swiftness of action. Perhaps she could not explain to herself that that also was manhood, only different from the manhood of the past; or was she unable to discern that? The old count succeeded in nothing. Yosef when he had taken up her affairs did in one day more than the count had ever done in ten. He understood that the countess needed some resources, so as not to appeal in small things to the kindness and pocket of Pani Visberg. At this thought she trembled. He had foreseen it. He rescued radically the remnant of her income; and his acts in this regard were like the cut of a lancet, ever sure, always efficient. Naturally, Yosef managed by the aid of a jurist, an acquaintance, who, though young, would have talked love of God into Satan. But why did not the old count help himself in a similar fashion?
This brought the countess to a certain idea: Aristocracy she imagined to herself in the person of her father, democracy in the person of Yosef. "Oh, what people they must be!" thought she, almost with dread, "terrible people who know how to crush obstacles, another kind of people." Books told the rest to her.
The countess went far in such thoughts. Once when she asked Yosef for details concerning his past, she heard him answer with perfect freedom, "My father was a blacksmith." She could hardly understand how he dared tell such a thing, so natural did it seem to her that if that were the case he ought not to mention it. Why did he not conceal it? These words were really a hammer which struck the soul of the countess most heavily.
She surveyed Yosef with an astonished glance, as if seeking a leather apron on him, or traces of sparks on his hands. Besides, it is proper to confess that, despite all her gratitude to him and Pani Visberg, she judged at first, in silence it is true, that the coronet inclined those people to her; she judged that in sheltering the daughter of a lord they did that somewhat to do themselves honor. But she learned that touching Yosef she was thoroughly mistaken. He pronounced the word count just as he did the word Jew, gipsy, or noble, not even turning attention to the special sense of those sounds.
Did he not understand? She could not admit that, though really the question of aristocracy lay thus far untouched in his mind. She suspected him, however, of ignoring it purposely. But that was not enough,—the countess noticed in Yosef's treatment of her a certain loftiness or rather indulgence. He was considerate and kind toward her, but in such a manner as if he wished to show that his action was the yielding of strength before weakness, the indulgence of a strong man for a child; though, on the other hand, how safe she felt under such protection!
It seemed to her as if there was nothing impossible to Yosef. She could sleep quietly and calmly; he was on guard. She tried, however, at once to relate herself to him differently; she wished to dazzle him with her culture. Meanwhile it came out that Yosef corrected her ideas gently,—showed her what was right in them, what was erroneous. Briefly, to her great disgust, he taught and enlightened her. She tried to impose by her talent, and on a certain occasion she sat down at the piano as if by chance and displayed cascades of melody before him; but what? That tormented Augustinovich sat down after her and played far better. This fellow also knew how to do everything, he knew everything!
The countess went in deep thought to her chamber that evening. But that she comprehended and understood these relations showed that her intelligence was not among the least, and it was not wonderful that she thought of these relations so soon after the death of her father, for even the very despair of a "well-bred" woman has in it a certain coquetry more or less conscious, though always innocent.
So a silent battle had begun between a new child of the people and an aristocratic young lady. It was developed by those relations which we have mentioned, relations which were barely tangible. This struggle was the more dangerous for him since he did not suspect it. The countess was not able to dazzle him, but she roused in him the most lively sympathy. For him she became a kind of beloved child whose fate he held in his hand, as it seemed to him.
Occupied with her actively, he neglected Helena; his visits to her became rarer. He pursued more the thought of doing something which might be agreeable to the countess than he fled before the thought of doing something disagreeable to Helena.
As for the countess, it is easy to understand that in her feelings for him there was not and could not be anything which contained hate in it. A somewhat roused vanity might lead rather to love than to hatred. To tell the truth, Countess Lula wished simply that that energetic democrat might in future bend to her aristocratic knees his submissive and enamoured head.
But she had not put the object clearly till she noticed that Yosef was a handsome man. We will state in parenthesis that Countess Leocadia was twenty years old, and that for some time there had been roused in her soul various yearnings and disquiets, of which she could not render account to herself. In the language of poets, that would have been called the echo of a desire "to love and be loved, and perhaps even to die young." But whatever the question was, we may be satisfied by knowing that it furnished Lula with a thread of continual thinking of Yosef, the confidence which she had in him. Her gratitude for protection experienced from day to day increased her sympathy.
It is true that the old countess in her time had told Lula that a well-bred young lady must not love; but Mother Nature whispered to her something quite different. In truth, those two mothers are often in disagreement. This is one reason why in the souls of most women a broad robust feeling rarely springs up and becomes vigorous in them; on the contrary, a thousand nervous little loves are planted, less winged, but less binding.
Lula verified the fact, then, that Yosef was intellectual, noble, and a handsome man; we will not dare to guarantee which quality it was that she emphasized most. That evening, however, when she was going to sleep she gave herself this question, which in the sequel was important, "But if he loved me?"
Instead of an answer she ran with bare feet and half dressed to the glass. Authors alone are permitted to see pictures of this sort. The night-cap was on her head, and from under the cap came to her white shoulders tresses of dark hair which disappeared under her night-dress. With gleaming eyes and moving breast she gazed at the glass. "But if he loved me," repeated she, "and if he were to kneel here pale and burning—" At that moment a blood-red blush covered her face and neck; she blew out the light.
Thenceforth peculiar changes began to appear in her; sometimes a strange disquiet mastered her, she fell into thoughtfulness; sometimes she walked as if drowsy, as if oppressed, weakened; at another time she covered her head on Malinka's breast, and kissed her without reason. Yosef she saw daily.
And so days and months passed; but by degrees some change began to take place in Yosef too. Gradually that dear child had ripened in his soul and become a beautiful woman in full bloom. His glance when he looked at her had not that former complete transparency and calmness. Formerly he might have lulled her to sleep on his breast, and laid her as he would a child on a couch; to-day that would have caused a surprisingly different sensation. The idyl grew stronger in the spirit of both, till at last, after so many and so many days, or so many and so many months, the following conversations took place in the lodgings of Pani Visberg and those of Yosef.
"If thou wert in love, Malinka?"
"Then, my Lula, I should be very happy, and I should love very much; and seest thou, my Lula, the Lord God would arrange so that the man should love me also."
"But if he did not love?"
Malinka rubbed her forehead with her hand.
"I do not know, I do not know, but it seems to me that there is a difference between loving and loving. I should love this way—O God! I do not know how to tell it—this way is how I should love—"
Malinka threw her arms around the neck of her friend, and pressing her to her bosom, covered her with fondling and kisses.
"My Lula, he would have to love me then."
And like two doves they hid their heads on the breasts of each other.
There was silence.
"Malinka!" said Lula at last, with tears in her voice.
"Lula, my heartfelt!"
"Malinka, I love."
"I know, Lula."
"Old man!" said Augustinovich to Yosef.
"What news?"
"May I be —— if this is new. Old man, I saw thee kissing the countess's veil. May I be hanged if thou didst not kiss it! Well, thou art fond of kissing—wait, I have a parasol here, perhaps thou wilt kiss the parasol; if that does not suit thee, then perhaps my last year's cloak. The sleeve lining is torn, but otherwise it is a good cloak. May I be!—Give me the pipe—I know what this means, old man; that fool of a Visberg does not know, but I know."
Yosef covered his face with his hands.
Augustinovich looked at him in silence, shuffled his feet under the table, coughed, muttered something through his teeth; finally he said in a voice of emotion,—
"Old man!"
Yosef made no answer.
Augustinovich shook him by the shoulder with sympathy.
"Well, old man, do not grieve, be not troubled—thou art concerned about Helena."
Yosef trembled.
"About Helena. Thou art honest, old man. What is to be done with her now?—I know! If thou wish, old man, I will marry her. By Jove, I will marry her!"
Yosef stood up. Beautiful resolution shone on his broad forehead, and though on his frowning brows thou couldst read pain and struggle, thou couldst see that the victory would fall where Yosef wished it. He pressed Augustinovich's hand.
"I am going out."
"Where art thou going?"
"To Helena."
Augustinovich stared at him.
"To He-le-na?"
"Yes," answered Yosef. "Enough of deceit and hesitation! To Helena with a request for her hand."
Augustinovich looked at him as he went out, and shaking his head, muttered through his teeth,—
"See, stupid Adasia,1 how people act."
Then he filled his pipe, turned on the bed, and snored with redoubled energy.