Children of the Soil

My dear, I embrace thee and Litka most heartily. Write to me of her health minutely, and love me as I do thee.

When he had finished reading, Pan Stanislav put the letter in the side-pocket of his coat, which he buttoned. Then he pushed his hat down to the back of his head, and felt a certain intense desire to break his cane into small bits and throw them into the river: he did not do this, however; he only began to mutter, while gritting his teeth, —

“Yes; very well. Thou knowest Polanyetski! Be confident that he will not injure thee! Thou wilt come out in safety.”

Then he addressed himself as follows, —

“Thou hast thy deserts; for she is an angel, and thou art not worthy of her.” And again a desire seized him to break his cane into bits. Now he saw clearly that the soul of that maiden had been ready to give itself with all faith and trust to him; and he prepared for her one of those painful and wounding disillusions, the memory of which, fixed once and forever, pains eternally. To sell the claim was nothing; but to sell it to a man wishing to buy it with the intention which Mashko had, was to say to the woman, “I do not want thee; marry him, if it please thee.” What a bitter disillusion for her, after all that he had said to her on that Sunday, – after those words friendly, open, and at the same time intended to enter her heart! They were chosen for that purpose, and he felt that she had taken them in that sense. He might repeat as often as he pleased that they bound him to nothing; that in the first meeting and in the first conversation which a man has with a woman, he merely pushes out horns, like a snail, and tries the ground to which he has come. That would be no consolation to him now. Besides, he was not merely not in humor for self-justification, but wished rather to give himself a slap on the face. He saw for the first time so definitely that he might have received Marynia’s heart and hand; and the more real that possibility was to him, the more the loss seemed irreparable. Moreover, from the moment of reading that letter, a new change appeared in him. His own reasoning that now he ought to let Marynia go, seemed pitiful and paltry. With all his faults, Pan Stanislav had a grateful heart; and that letter moved him to a high degree, by the kindness and understanding, by the readiness to love, which were revealed in it. Hence the remembrance of Marynia became rosy in his heart and mind all at once, – became rosy even with such power that he thought, —

“As God is in heaven, I shall fall in love with her now!” And such a tenderness seized him that in presence of it even anger at himself had to yield. He joined the company after a while, and, pushing forward a little with Pani Emilia, said, —

“Give me this letter.”

“With the greatest pleasure. Such an honest letter, is it not? And you did not confess to me that she suffered somewhat at parting; but I will not reprove, since she herself takes you under her protection.”

“If it would help, I would beg you to beat me; but there is nothing to be said, for those are things incurable.”

Pani Emilia did not share this opinion; on the contrary, seeing Pan Stanislav’s emotion, she felt sure that an affair in which both sides had such vivid feelings was in the best state and must end satisfactorily. At that very thought her sweet face became radiant.

“We shall see after some months,” said she.

“You do not even divine what we may see,” said Pan Stanislav, thinking of Mashko.

“Remember,” continued Pani Emilia, “that he who once wins Marynia’s heart will never be disappointed.”

“I am certain of that,” answered he, gloomily; “but also such hearts, when once wounded, do not return again.”

They could not speak further, for Litka and Pan Vaskovski caught up with them. After a while the little girl took Pan Stanislav, as usual, for her own exclusive property. The forest, sunk in the mild morning light of a fair day, occupied her uncommonly; she began to inquire about various trees; every little while she cried out with pleasure, —

“Mushrooms!”

But he answered mechanically, thinking of something else, —

“Mushrooms, kitten, mushrooms.”

At last the road descended, and they beheld Thumsee under their feet. In the course of half an hour they came down to a beaten path, stretching along the shore, on which were visible here and there wooden foot-piers, extending a few yards into the lake. Litka wished to look from near by at big fish which were visible in the clear water. Pan Stanislav, taking her by the hand, led her out on to one of the piers.

The fish, accustomed to crumbs thrown by visitors, instead of fleeing, approached still nearer, and soon a whole circle surrounded Litka’s feet. In the blue water were visible the golden-brown backs of the carp, and the gray spotted scales of the salmon trout, while the round eyes of these creatures were fixed on the little girl as if with an expression of entreaty.

“Coming back, we will bring lots of bread,” said Litka. “How strangely they look at us! What are they thinking of?”

“They are thinking very slowly,” said Pan Stanislav; “and only after an hour or two will they say: ‘Ah! here is some little girl with yellow hair and rosy dress and black stockings.’”

“And what will they think of Pan Stas?”

“They will think that I am some gypsy, for I have not yellow hair.”

“No. Gypsies have no houses.”

“And I have no house, Litka. I had the chance of one, but I sold it.”

He uttered this last phrase in a certain unusual manner, and in general there was sadness in his voice. The little girl looked at him carefully; and all at once her sensitive face reflected his sadness, just as that water reflected her form. When they joined the rest of the company, from time to time she raised her sad eyes with an inquiring and disturbed expression. At last, pressing more firmly his hand, which she held, she asked, —

“What troubles Pan Stas?”

“Nothing, little child; I am looking around at the lake, and that is why I do not talk.”

“I was pleasing myself yesterday, thinking to show Pan Stas Thumsee.”

“Though there are no rocks here, it is very beautiful But what house is that on the other side?”

“We will take dinner there.”

Pani Emilia was talking merrily with Vaskovski, who, carrying his hat in his hand, and seeking in his pockets for a handkerchief to wipe his bald head, gave his opinions about Bukatski, —

“He is an Aryan,” concluded he; “and therefore in continual unrest, he is seeking peace. He is buying pictures and engravings at present, thinking that thus he will fill a void. But what do I see? This, those children of the century bear in their souls an abyss like this lake, for example; besides, the abyss in them is bottomless, and they think to fill it with pictures, strong waters, amateurship, dilettantism, Baudelaire, Ibsen, Maeterlinck, finally dilettante science. Poor birds, they are beating their heads against the sides of their cages! It is just I tried to fill this lake by throwing in a pebble.”

“And what can fill life?”

“Every sincere idea, all great feelings, but only on condition that they begin in Christ. Had Bukatski loved art in the Christian way, it would have given him the peace which he is forced to seek.”

“Have you told him that?”

“Yes, that and many other things. I urge him and Pan Stanislav always to read the Life of Saint Francis of Assisi. They are not willing to do so, and laugh at me. Yet he was the greatest man and the greatest saint of the Middle Ages, – a saint who renewed the world. If such a man were to come now, a renewal in Christ would follow, still more sincerely and with greater completeness.”

Midday approached, and with it heat. The forest began to have the odor of resin; the lake became perfectly smooth in the calm air full of glitter, and, while reflecting the spotless blue of the sky, seemed to slumber.

At last they reached the house and the garden, in which them was a restaurant, and sat under a beech-tree at a table already laid. Pan Stanislav called a waiter in a soiled coat, ordered dinner, then looked about silently at the lake and the mountains around it. A couple of yards from the table grew a whole bunch of iris, moistened by a fountain fixed among stones. Pani Emilia, looking at the flowers, said, —

“When I am at a lake and see irises, I think that I am in Italy.”

“For nowhere else are there so many lakes or so many irises,” answered Pan Stanislav.

“Or so much delight for every man,” added Vaskovski. “For many years I go there in the autumn to find a refuge for the last days. I hesitated long between Perugia and Assisi, but last year Rome gained the day. Rome seems the anteroom to another life, in which anteroom light from the next world is visible already. I will go there in October.”

“I envy you sincerely,” said Pani Emilia.

“Litka is twelve years old,” began Vaskovski.

“And three months,” interrupted Litka.

“And three months: therefore for her age she is very small and a great little giddy-head; it is time to show her various things in Rome,” continued Vaskovski. “Nothing is so remembered as that which is seen in childhood. And though childhood does not feel many things completely, nor understand them, that comes later, and comes very agreeably, for it is as if some one were to illuminate on a sudden impressions sunk in shadow. Come with me to Italy in October.”

“In October I cannot; I have my woman’s reasons, which detain me in Warsaw.”

“What are they?”

Pani Emilia began to laugh.

“The first and most important, but purely womanly, reason, is to marry that gentleman sitting there so gloomy,” said she, pointing to Pan Stanislav, “but really so much in love.”

He woke from thoughtfulness, and waved his hand. But Vaskovski inquired with his usual naïveté of a child, —

“Always with Marynia Plavitski?”

“Yes,” replied Pani Emilia. “He has been in Kremen, and it would be vain for him to deny that she took his heart greatly.”

“I cannot deny,” answered Pan Stanislav.

But further conversation was interrupted in an unpleasant manner, for Litka grew weak on a sudden. In a moment she was choking, and had one of her attacks of palpitation of the heart, which alarmed even doctors. The mother seized her at once in her arms; Pan Stanislav ran to the restaurant for ice; Vaskovski began to draw the garden bench with effort toward the table, so that she might stretch on it and breathe with more freedom.

“Thou art wearied, my child, art thou not?” asked Pani Emilia, with pale lips. “See, my love, it was too far – Still the doctor permitted. So anxious! But this is nothing; it will pass, it will pass! My treasure, my love!” And she began to kiss the damp face of the little girl.

Meanwhile Pan Stanislav came with ice, and after him the mistress of the place hurried out with a pillow in her hand. They laid the little girl on the bench, and while Pani Emilia was wrapping the ice in a napkin, Pan Stanislav bent over the child and asked, —

“How art thou, kitten?”

“I was only choking a little; but I am better,” answered she, opening her mouth, like a fish to catch breath.

She was not much better, however, for even through her dress one could see how violently the little sick heart was beating in her breast. But under the influence of ice, the attack decreased gradually, and at last ceased altogether, leaving behind only weariness. Litka began again to smile at her mother, who also recovered from her alarm somewhat. It was needful to strengthen the child before they returned home. Pan Stanislav ordered dinner, which was scarcely touched by any one except Litka, for all looked at her from moment to moment with secret fear lest the choking might seize her a second time. An hour passed in this way. Guests began now to enter the restaurant. Pani Emilia wished to go home, but she had to wait for the carriage, which Pan Stanislav had sent for to Reichenhall.

The carriage came at last, but new alarm was in wait for them. On the road, though they moved at a walk and the road was very smooth, even light jolting troubled Litka, so that when they were just near Reichenhall, a choking attacked her again. She begged permission to get out of the carriage; but it appeared that walking wearied her. Then Pani Emilia decided to carry the child. But Pan Stanislav, anticipating that motherly devotion, which moreover was not at all in proportion to the woman’s strength, said, —

“Come, Litus, I will carry thee. If not, mamma will weary herself and be sick.”

And without asking further, he lifted her lightly from the ground, and carried her with perfect ease on one arm only; to assure both her and Pani Emilia that it did not trouble him in the least, he said playfully, —

“When such a kitten is walking on the ground, she seems not at all heavy; but now, see where those great feet are hanging. Hold on by my neck; thou wilt be steadier.”

And he went on, as firmly as he could, and quickly, for he wished the doctor to attend her as soon as possible; as he went, he felt her heart beating against his shoulder, and she, while grasping him with her thin, meagre arms, repeated, —

“Let me down; I cannot – Let me down!”

But he said, —

“I will not. Thou seest how bad it is to be tired out from walking. In future we will take a big easy armchair on wheels; and when the child is wearied, we will seat her in it, and I will push her.”

“No, no!” said Litka, with tears in her voice.

He carried her with the tenderness of an elder brother or a father; and his heart was overflowing: first, because really he loved that little maid; and second, because this came to his head of which he had never thought before, – or, at least, had never felt clearly, – that marriage opens the way to fatherhood and to all its treasures of happiness. While carrying that little girl, who was dear to him, though a stranger, he understood that God had created him for a family; not only to be a husband, but a father; also that the main object and meaning of life were found specially in the family. And all his thoughts flew to Marynia. He felt now with redoubled force that of women whom he had met so far he would have chosen her for a wife before all, and would wish her to be the mother of his children.

CHAPTER VII

During some days that succeeded the choking, Litka was not ill, but she felt weak; she went out, however, to walk, because the doctor not only ordered her to go, but recommended very urgently moderate exercise up hill. Vaskovski went to the doctor to learn the condition of her health. Pan Stanislav awaited the old man’s return in the reading-room, and knew at once from his face that he was not a bearer of good tidings.

“The doctor sees no immediate danger,” said Vaskovski; “but he condemns the child to an early death, and in general gives directions to watch over her, for it is impossible, he says, to foresee the day or the hour.”

“What a misfortune, what a blow!” said Pan Stanislav, covering his eyes with his hand. “Her mother will not be able to survive her. One is unwilling to believe in the death of such a child.”

Vaskovski had tears in his eyes. “I asked whether she must suffer greatly. ‘Not necessarily,’ said the doctor; ‘she may die as easily as if falling asleep.’”

“Did he tell the mother anything about her condition?”

“He did not. He said, it is true, that there was a defect of the heart; but he added that with children such things often disappear without a trace. He has no hope himself.”

Pan Stanislav did not yield to misfortune easily.

“What is one doctor!” said he. “We must struggle to save the child while there is a spark of hope. The doctor may be mistaken. We must take her to a specialist at Monachium, or bring him here. That will alarm Pani Emilia, but it is difficult to avoid it. Wait; we can avoid it. I will bring him, and that immediately. We will tell Pani Emilia that such and such a celebrated doctor has come here to see some one, and that there is a chance of taking counsel concerning Litka. We must not leave the child without aid. We need merely to write to him, so that he may know how to talk to the mother.”

“But to whom will you write?”

“To whom? Do I know? The local doctor here will indicate a specialist. Let us go to him at once, and lose no time.”

The matter was arranged that very day. In the evening the two men went to Pani Emilia. Litka was well, but silent and gloomy. She smiled, it is true, at her mother and her friend; she showed gratitude for the tenderness with which they surrounded her; but Pan Stanislav had not power to amuse her. Having his head filled with thoughts of the danger which threatened the child, he considered her gloom a sign of increasing sickness and an early premonition of near death, and with terror he said in his soul that she was not such as she had been; it seemed as if certain threads binding her to life had been broken. His fear increased still more when Pani Emilia said, —

“Litka feels well, but do you know what she begged of me to-day? To go back to Warsaw.”

Pan Stanislav with an effort of will put down his alarm, and, turning to the little one, said while feigning joyfulness, —

“Ah, thou good-for-nothing! Art thou not sorry for Thumsee?”

The little maid shook her yellow hair.

“No!” answered she, after a time, and in her eyes tears appeared; but she covered these quickly with her lids, lest some one might see them.

“What is the matter with her?” thought Pan Stanislav.

A very simple thing was the matter. In Thumsee she had learned that her friend, her “Pan Stas,” her dearest comrade, was to be taken from her. She had heard that he loved Marynia Plavitski; until then she had felt sure that he loved only her and mamma. She had heard that mamma wanted him to marry Marynia; but up to that time she, Litka, had looked on him as her own exclusive property. Without knowing clearly what threatened her, she felt that this “Pan Stas” would go, and that a wrong would be done her, the first which she had experienced in life. She would have suffered less if some one else had inflicted the wrong; but, just think, her mamma and “Pan Stas” were wronging her! That seemed a vicious circle out of which the child knew not how to escape and could not. How could she complain to them of what they were doing! Evidently they wanted this, wished it; it was necessary for them, and they would be happy if it happened. Mamma said that “Pan Stas” loved Panna Marynia, and he did not deny; therefore Litka must yield, must swallow her tears, and be silent in presence of her mamma even.

And she hid in herself her first disappointment in life. Yes, she had to yield; but because grief is a bad medicine for a heart sick already, this yielding might be more thoroughly and terribly tragic than any one around her could imagine.

The specialist came two days later from Monachium, and remaining two days, confirmed fully the opinion of the doctor in Thumsee. He set Pani Emilia at rest, though he told Pan Stanislav that the life of the child might continue months and years, but would be always as if hanging on a thread which might break from any cause. He gave directions to spare the little girl every emotion, as well joyous as sad, and to watch over her with the greatest alertness.

They surrounded her therefore with care and attention. They spared her even the slightest emotion, but they did not spare her the greatest, which was caused by Marynia’s letters. The echo of the one which came a week later struck her ears, which were listening then diligently. True, it might dispel her fears touching “Pan Stas,” but it was a great shock to her. Pani Emilia had hesitated all day about showing Pan Stanislav that letter. He had been asking daily for news from Kremen; she had to lie simply to conceal the arrival of the letter. Finally, she felt bound to tell the truth, so that he might know the difficulties which he had to encounter.

The next evening after receiving the letter, when she had put Litka to sleep, she began conversation herself on this subject.

“Marynia has taken it greatly to heart that you sold the claim on Kremen.”

“Then you have received a letter?”

“I have.”

“Can you show it to me?”

“No; I can only read you extracts from it. Marynia is crushed.”

“Does she know that I am here?”

“It must be that she has not received my letter yet; but it astonishes me that Pan Mashko, who is in Kremen, has not mentioned it to her.”

“Mashko went to Kremen before I left Warsaw; and he was not sure that I would come here, especially as I told him that doubtless I should change my plan.”

Pani Emilia went to her bureau for the package of letters. Returning to the table, she trimmed the lamp, and, sitting opposite Pan Stanislav, took the letter from the envelope.

“You see,” said she, “that for Marynia it is not a question of the sale alone. You know that her head was a little imaginative, therefore this sale had for her another meaning. A great disenchantment has met her indeed!”

“I should not confess to any other person,” said Pan Stanislav, “but I will to you. I have committed one of the greatest follies of my life, but I have never been so punished.”

Pani Emilia raised her pale blue eyes to him with sympathy.

“Poor man, are you so captivated, then, by Marynia? I do not ask through curiosity, but friendship, for I should like to mend everything, but wish to be certain.”

“Do you know what conquered me?” broke in Pan Stanislav, excitedly, – “that first letter. In Kremen she pleased me; I began to think about her. I said to myself that she would be more agreeable and better than others. She is such precisely as I have been seeking. But what next? Long before, I had said to myself that I would not be a soft man, and yield what belongs to me. You understand that when a man makes a principle of anything, he holds to it even for pride’s sake. Besides, in each one of us there are, as it were, two distinct persons; the second of these criticises whatever is done by the first one. This second man began to say to me: ‘Drop this affair; you cannot live with the father.’ In truth, he is unendurable. I resolved to drop the affair. I got rid of the claim. That is how it happened. Only later did I find that I could not dismiss the thought of Panna Plavitski; I had always this same impression: ‘She is such as thou art seeking.’ I saw that I had committed a folly, and was sorry. When that letter came, and I convinced myself that on her side there was a feeling that she could love me and be mine, I loved her. And I give you my word that either I am losing my head, or this is true. It is nothing while a man is fancying something; but when he sees that there were open arms before him, what a difference! That letter conquered me; I cannot help myself.”

“I prefer not to read you all this letter,” said Pani Emilia, after a while. “Naturally she writes that the brief dream ended by an awakening more sudden than she had looked for. She writes that Pan Mashko is very considerate in money questions, though he wishes them to turn to his profit.”

“She will marry him, as God is in heaven!”

“You do not know her. But of Kremen she writes: ‘Papa has a wish to dispose of his property, and settle in Warsaw. Thou knowest how I love Kremen, how I grew up with it; but in view of what has happened, I doubt whether my work can be of service. I shall make one more struggle to defend the dear bit of land. Still papa says that his conscience will not let him imprison me in the country, and this is all the more bitter, since it is as if I were the question. Indeed, life seems at times to be touching on irony. Pan Mashko offers papa three thousand life annuity, and the whole amount for the parcelling of Magyerovka. I do not wonder that he seeks his own profit, but through such a bargain he would get the property for almost nothing. Papa himself said to him, “In this way, if I live one year I shall get from Kremen three thousand, for Magyerovka is mine anyhow.” Pan Mashko answered that in the present state of affairs the creditors would take the money for Magyerovka; but if papa agrees to the conditions proposed he will receive ready money and may live thirty years, perhaps longer. Which is true also. I know that this project pleases papa in principle; the only question with him is to get as much as he can. In all this there is one consolation, – that if we live in Warsaw, I shall see thee, dear Emilia, and Litka oftener. Sincerely and from my whole soul do I love you both, and know that on your hearts at least I can count always.’”