Читать книгу Children of the Soil - Генрик Сенкевич, Henryk Sienkiewicz - Страница 19

Professor Vaskovski inquired every day about the health of the little one; and though most frequently they did not receive him, he sent her flowers. Pan Stanislav, meeting him somewhere at dinner, began thanking him in Pani Emilia’s name.

“Asters, only asters!” said Vaskovski. “How is she to-day?”

“To-day not ill, but, in general, not well; worse than in Reichenhall. Fear for each coming day seizes one; and at the thought that the child may be missing – ”

Here Pan Stanislav stopped, for further words failed him; at last he burst out, —

“What is the use in looking for mercy? There is nothing but logic, which says that whoso has a sick heart must die. And may thunderbolts split such existence!”

Now came Bukatski, who, when he had learned what the conversation was, attacked the professor; even he, as he loved Litka, rebelled in his soul at thought of that death which was threatening her.

“How is it possible to deceive oneself so many years, and proclaim principles which turn into nothing in view of blind predestination?”

But the old man answered mildly: “How, beloved friends, estimate with your own measure the wisdom of God and His mercy? A man under ground is surrounded by darkness, but he has no right to deny that above him are sky, sun, heat, and light.”

“Here is consolation,” interrupted Pan Stanislav; “a fly couldn’t live on such doctrines. And what is a mother to do, whose only and beloved child is dying?”

But the blue eyes of the professor seemed to look beyond the world. For a time he gazed straightforward persistently; then he said, like a man who sees something, but is not sure that he sees it distinctly, “It appears to me that this child has fixed herself too deeply in people’s hearts to pass away simply, and disappear without a trace. There is something in this, – something was predestined to her; she must accomplish something, and before that she will not die.”

“Mysticism,” said Bukatski.

But Pan Stanislav interrupted: “Oh, that it were so, mysticism or no mysticism! Oh, that it were so! A man in misfortune grasps even at a shadow of hope. It never found place in my head that she had to die.”

But the professor added, “Who knows? she may survive all of us.”

Polanyetski was in that phase of scepticism in which a man recognizes certainty in nothing, but considers everything possible, especially that everything which at the given time his heart yearns for; he breathed therefore more easily, and received certain consolation.

“May God have mercy on her and Pani Emilia!” said he. “I would give money for a hundred Masses if I knew they would help her.”

“Give for one, if the intention be sincere.”

“I will, I will! As to the sincerity of intention, I could not be more sincere if the question involved my own life.”

Vaskovski smiled and said, “Thou art on the good road, for thou knowest how to love.”

And all left relieved in some way. Bukatski, if he was thinking of something opposed to what Vaskovski had said, did not dare mention it; for when people in presence of real misfortune seek salvation in faith, scepticism, even when thoroughly rooted, pulls its cap over its ears, and is not only cowardly, but seems weak and small.

Bigiel, who came in at that moment, saw more cheerful faces, and said, —

“I see by you that the little one is not worse.”

“No, no,” said Pan Stanislav; “and the professor told us such wholesome things that he might be applied to a wound.”

“Praise be to God! My wife gave money for a Mass to-day, and went then to Pani Emilia’s. I will dine with you, for I have leave; and, since Litka is better, I will tell you another glad news.”

“What is it?”

“Awhile ago I met Mashko, who, by the way, will be here soon; and when he comes, congratulate him, for he is going to marry.”

“Whom?” asked Pan Stanislav.

“My neighbor’s daughter.”

“Panna Kraslavski?”

“Yes.”

“I understand,” said Bukatski; “he crushed those ladies into dust with his grandeur, his birth, his property, and out of that dust he formed a wife and a mother-in-law for himself.”

“Tell me one thing,” said the professor; “Mashko is a religious man – ”

“As a conservative,” interrupted Bukatski, “for appearance’ sake.”

“And those ladies, too,” continued Vaskovski.

“From habit – ”

“Why do they never think of a future life?”

“Mashko, why dost thou never think of a future life?” cried Bukatski, turning to the advocate, who was coming in at that moment.

Mashko approached them and asked, “What dost thou say?”

“I will say Tu felix, Mashko, nube!” (Thou, Mashko, art fortunate in marriage!)

Then all began to offer congratulations, which he received with full weight of dignity; at the end he said, —

“My dear friends, I thank you from my whole heart; and, since ye all know my betrothed, I have no doubt of the sincerity of your wishes.”

“Do not permit thyself one,” said Bukatski.

“But Kremen came to thee in season,” interjected Pan Stanislav.

Indeed, Kremen had come to Mashko in season, for without it he might not have been accepted. But for that very cause the remark was not agreeable; hence he made a wry face, and answered, —

“Thou didst make that purchase easy; sometimes I am thankful to thee, and sometimes I curse thee.”

“Why so?”

“For thy dear Uncle Plavitski is the most annoying, the most unendurable figure on earth, omitting thy cousin, who is a charming young lady; but from morning till evening she rings changes on her never to be sufficiently regretted Kremen, through all the seven notes, adding at each one a tear. Thou art seldom at their house; but, believe me, to be there is uncommonly wearisome.”

Pan Stanislav looked into his eyes and answered, “Listen, Mashko: against my uncle I have said everything that could hit him; but it does not follow, therefore, that I am to listen patiently if another attacks Plavitski, especially a man who has made profit by him. As to Panna Marynia, she is sorry, I know, for Kremen; but this proves that she is not an empty puppet, or a manikin, but a woman with a heart; dost understand me?”

A moment of silence followed. Mashko understood perfectly whom Pan Stanislav had in mind when he mentioned the empty doll and manikin; hence the freckles on his face became brick-colored, and his lips began to quiver. But he restrained himself. He was in no sense a coward; but even the man who is most daring has usually some one with whom he has no wish to quarrel, and for Mashko Polanyetski was such a one. Therefore, shrugging his shoulders, he said, —

“Why art thou angry? If that is unpleasing to thee – ”

But Pan Stanislav interrupted, “I am not angry; but I advise thee to remember my words.” And he looked him in the eyes again.

Mashko thought, “If thou wilt have an adventure anyhow, thou canst have it.”

“Thy words,” said he, “I can remember; only do thou take counsel also from me. Permit not thyself to speak in that tone to me, else I might forget myself also, and call thee to reckoning.”

“What the deuce – ?” began Bukatski. “What is the matter with thee?”

But Pan Stanislav, in whom irritation against Mashko has been gathering for a long time, would beyond doubt have pushed matters to extremes had not Pani Emilia’s servant rushed into the room at that moment.

“I beg,” said he, with a panting voice; “the little lady is dying!”

Pan Stanislav grew pale, and, seizing his hat, sprang to the door. A long, dull silence followed, which Mashko interrupted at last.

“I forgot,” said he, “that everything should be forgiven him at present.”

Vaskovski, covering his eyes with his hands, began to pray. At length he raised his head and said, —

“God alone has bridled death, and has power to restrain it.”

A quarter of an hour later, Bigiel received a note from his wife with the words, “The attack has passed.”