Complete works of henryk.., p.371
Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz, page 371
Then, thinking that she might have said too much, and said it too definitely, she began to straighten the fold of her dress, so as to incline her head.
“I came, for another thing, to beg your pardon,” said Pan Stanislav. “To-day at dinner I told a pack of nonsense to Pan Plavitski, saying that Panna Ploshovski had changed her will, perhaps, and left him a whole estate. Beyond my expectation he took it seriously. I should not wish to have him deceive himself; and if you will permit me, I will go at once to him and explain the matter somehow.”
“I have explained it to him already,” said Marynia, smiling; “he scolded me, and that greatly. You see how you have involved matters. You have cause indeed to beg pardon.”
“Therefore I beg.”
And, seizing her hand, he began to cover it with kisses; and she left it with him completely, repeating as if in sarcasm, but with emotion, —
“Ah, the wicked Pan Stas, the wicked Pan Stas!”
That day Pan Stanislav felt on his lips till he fell asleep the warmth of Marynia’s hand; and he thought neither of Mashko nor Gantovski, but repeated to himself with great persistence, —
“It is time to decide this.”
CHAPTER XXV.
Kresovski, with a doctor and a case containing pistols, entered one carriage, Pan Stanislav with Mashko another, and the two moved toward Bielany. The day was clear and frosty, full of rosy haze near the ground. The wheels turned with a whining on the frozen snow; the horses were steaming, and covered with frost; on the trees abundant snow was resting.
“Frost that is frost,” said Mashko. “Our fingers will freeze to the triggers. And the delight of removing one’s furs!”
“Then be reconciled; make no delay. My dear man, tell Kresovski to begin the work straightway.”
Here Mashko wiped his damp eye-glass, and added, “Before we reach the place, the sun will be high, and there will be a great glitter from the snow.”
“Finish quickly, then,” answered Pan Stanislav. “Since Kresovski is in time, there will be no waiting for the others; they are used to early rising.”
“Dost know what makes me anxious at this moment?” asked Mashko. “This, that there is in the world one factor with which no one reckons in his plans and actions, and through which everything may be shattered, involved, and ruined, — human stupidity. Imagine me with ten times the mind that I have, and unoccupied with the interests of Pan Mashko. Imagine me, for example, some great statesman, some Bismark or Cavour, who needs to gain property to carry out his plans, and who calculates every step, every word, — what then? A beast like this comes along, stupid beyond human reckoning, and carries all away on his horns. That is something fabulous! Whether this fellow will shoot me or not, is the least account now; but the brute has spoiled my life-work.”
“Who can calculate such a thing?” said Pan Stanislav. “It is as if a roof were to fall on thy head.”
“For that very reason rage seizes me.”
“But as to his shooting thee, don’t think of that.”
Mashko recovered, wiped his glass again, and began, —
“My dear, I see that from the moment of our starting thou hast been observing me a little, and now ’tis thy wish to add to my courage. That is natural. On my part, I must calm thee; and on my word I give assurance that I will not shame thee. I feel a little disquiet, — that is simple; but knowest why? That which constitutes danger of life, the firing at one, is nothing. Let weapons be given me and him; let us into the woods. God knows that I should fire away at that idiot half a day, and meet his shots half a day. I have had a duel already, and know what it is. It is the comedy that disconcerts one, the preparations, the seconds, the idea that men will look at thee, and the fear touching how thou wilt appear, how thou wilt acquit thyself. It is simply a public exhibition, and a question of self-love, — nothing more. For nervous natures a genuine trial. But I am not over nervous. I understand, also, that in this regard I am superior to my opponent, for I am more accustomed to men. ’Tis true such an ass has less imagination, and is not able to think; for example, how he would look as a corpse; how he would begin to decay, and so on. Still I shall be able to command myself better. Besides, I will tell thee another thing: Philosophy is philosophy; but in matters like this the decisive elements are temperament and passion. This duel will not bring me to anything, will not save me in any regard; on the contrary, it may bring me to trouble. But still I cannot deny it to myself, so much indignation has collected in my soul, I so hate that idiot, and would like so to crush and trample him, — that I cease to reason. Thou mayest be certain of one thing, — that as soon as I see the face of the blockhead I shall forget disquiet, forget the comedy, and see only him.”
“I understand that well enough,” said Pan Stanislav.
And the spots on Mashko’s face increased and became blue from the frost, wherewith he had a look as stubborn as it was ugly.
Meanwhile they arrived. Almost simultaneously squeaked the carriage bringing Gantovski, with Yamish and Vilkovski. When they alighted, these gentlemen saluted their opponents; then the seven, counting the doctor, withdrew to the depth of the forest to a place selected on the preceding day by Kresovski.
The drivers, looking at the seven overcoats outlined strangely on the snow, began to mutter to themselves.
“Do you know what is going to happen?” asked one.
“Is it my first time?” answered the other.
“Let the world grow polite; let fools go to fight!”
Meanwhile the seven, clattering on in their heavy overshoes, and blowing lines of white steam from their nostrils, went toward the other end of the forest. On the way, Yamish, somewhat against the rules binding in such cases, approached Pan Stanislav, and began, —
“I wished sincerely that my man should beg pardon of Pan Mashko, but under the conditions it is not possible.”
“I proposed to Mashko, too, to tone down that note, but he would not.”
“Then there is no escape. All this is immensely foolish, but there is no escape!”
Pan Stanislav did not answer, and they walked on in silence. Pan Yamish began to speak again, —
“But I hear that Marynia Plavitski has received some inheritance?”
“She has, but a small one.”
“And the old man?”
“He is angry that the whole property is not left to him.”
Yamish tapped his forehead with his glove. “He has a little something here, that Plavitski;” then, looking around, he said, “Somehow we are going far.”
“We shall be on the ground in a moment.”
And they went on. The sun had risen above the undergrowth; from the trees there fell bluish shadows on the snow; but more and more light was coming into the forest every instant. The crows and daws, hidden somewhere among the tree-tops, shook the snow, dry as down, and it fell without noise to the ground, forming under the trees little pointed piles. Everywhere there was immense silence and rest. Men alone were disturbing it to shoot at each other.
They halted at last on the edge of the forest where it was clean. Then Yamish’s short discourse concerning the superiority of peace over war was listened to by Mashko and Gantovski with ears hidden by fur collars. When Kresovski loaded the pistols, each made his choice; and the two, throwing their furs aside, stood opposite each other with the barrels of their weapons turned upward.
Gantovski breathed hurriedly; his face was red, and his mustaches were in icicles. From his whole posture and face it was clear that the affair disconcerted him greatly; that through shame and force of will he controlled himself; and that, had he followed the natural bent of his feelings, he would have sprung at his opponent and smashed him with the butt of his pistol, or even with his fist. Mashko, who previously had feigned not to see his opponent, looked at him now with a face full of hatred, stubbornness, and contempt. His cheeks were all in spots. He mastered himself more, however, than Gantovski; and, dressed in a long frock-coat, with a high hat on his head, with his long side-whiskers, he seemed too stiff, too much like an actor playing the rôle of a duelling gentleman.
“He will shoot ‘the bear’ like a dog,” thought Pan Stanislav.
The words of command were heard, and two shots shook the forest stillness. Mashko turned then to Kresovski, and said coolly, —
“I beg to load the pistols.”
But at the same moment at his feet appeared a spot of blood on the snow.
“You are wounded,” said the doctor, approaching quickly.
“Perhaps; load the pistols, I beg.”
At that moment he staggered, for he was wounded really. The ball had carried away the very point of his kneepan. The duel was interrupted; but Gantovski remained some time yet on the spot with staring eyes, astonished at what had happened.
After the first examination of the wound he approached, however, pushed forward by Yamish, and said as awkwardly as sincerely, —
“Now I confess that I was not right in attacking you. I recall everything that I said, and I beg your pardon. You are wounded, but I did not wish to wound you.” After a moment, when he was going away with Yamish and Vilkovski, he was heard to say, “As I love God most sincerely, it was a pure accident; I intended to fire over his head.”
Mashko did not open his mouth that day. To the question of the doctor if the wound caused much pain, he merely shook his head in sign that it did not.
Bigiel, who had just returned from Prussia with his pockets full of contracts, when he heard all that had happened, said to Pan Stanislav, —
“Mashko seems an intelligent man, but, as God lives, every one of us has some whim in his head. He, for example, has credit; he has many splendid business cases; he might have a considerable income, and make a fortune. But no, he wants to force matters, strain his credit to the utmost, buy estates, give himself out as a great proprietor, a lord, — be God knows what, only not what he is. All this is wonderful, and the more so that it is so common. More than once I think that life in itself is not bad, but that all ruin it through want of mental balance, and certain devilish whims, — through a kind of wasp, which every one has behind his collar. I understand that a man wants to have more than he has, and to mean more than he means; but why strive for it in fantastic fashion? I am first to recognize energy and cleverness in Mashko; but, taking everything into consideration, he has something here, as God is true, he has.”
Bigiel now tapped his forehead with his finger a number of times.
Meanwhile Mashko, with set teeth, was suffering, since his wound, though not threatening life, was uncommonly painful. In the evening he fainted twice in presence of Pan Stanislav. Afterward, weakness supervened, during which that boldness of spirit which had upheld the young advocate through the day gave way completely. When the doctor departed, after dressing the wound, Mashko lay quietly for a time, and then began, —
“But I am in luck!”
“Do not think of that,” answered Pan Stanislav; “thou wilt get more fever.”
But Mashko continued, however, “Insulted, ruined, wounded, — all at one blow.”
“I repeat to thee that this is no time to think of that.”
Mashko rested his elbow on the pillow, hissed from pain, and said, —
“Never mind; this is the last time that I shall converse with a decent man. One week or two from now I shall be of those whom people avoid. What do I care for this fever? There is something so unendurable in ruin so complete, in a wreck of fate so utter, that the first idiot, the first goose that comes along will say: ‘I knew that long ago; I foresaw that.’ So it is: all of them foresee everything after the event; and of him whom the thunderbolt has struck, they make in addition a fool, or a madman.”
Pan Stanislav recalled Bigiel’s words at that moment. But Mashko, by a marvellous coincidence, spoke on in such fashion as if wishing to answer those words.
“And dost think that I did not give account to myself that I was going too sharply; that I was hurrying with too much force; that I wanted to be something greater than I was; that I carried my nose too high? No one will render me that justice; but knowest thou that I said it to myself? But I said to myself, too: ‘It is needful to do this; this is the one way to rise to distinction. Maybe things are wrong, maybe life, in general, goes backward; but had it not been for that adventure unforeseen, and of unfathomable stupidity, I should have succeeded just because I was such as I was. If I had been a modest man, I should not have got Panna Kraslavski. With us it is necessary always to pretend something; and if the devils take me, it is not through my pride, but that blockhead.”
“But how the deuce art thou to know surely that thy marriage will fail?”
“My dear man, thou hast no knowledge of those women. They agreed on Pan Mashko through lack of something better, for Pan Mashko had good success. But if any shadow falls on my property, my position, my station, they will throw me aside without mercy, and then roll mountains on to me to shield themselves before the world of society. What knowledge hast thou of them? Panna Kraslavski is not Panna Plavitski.”
A moment of silence followed, then Mashko spoke further, with a weakening voice: “She could have rescued me. For her I should have gone on another road, — a far quieter one. In such conditions Kremen would have been saved; the debt on it would have fallen away, as well as Plavitski’s annuity. I should have waded out. Dost thou know that, besides, I fell in love with her in student fashion? It came so, unknown whence. But she chose rather to be angry with thee than love me. Now I understand; there is no help for it.”
Pan Stanislav, who did not relish this conversation, interrupted it, and spoke with a shadow of impatience, —
“It astonishes me that a man of thy energy thinks everything lost, while it is not. Panna Plavitski is a past on which thou hast made a cross, by proposing to Panna Kraslavski. As to the present, thou wert attacked, it is true; but thou hast fought, thou wert wounded, but in such a way that in a week thou wilt be well; and finally, those ladies have not announced that they break with thee. Till thou hast that, black on white, thou hast no right to talk thus. Thou art sick, and that is why thou art reading funeral services over thyself prematurely. But I will tell thee another thing. It is for thee to let those ladies know what has happened. Dost wish, I will go to them to-morrow, then they will act as they please; but let them be informed by thy second, not by city gossips.”
Mashko thought a while, and said: “I wished to write in every case to my betrothed; but if thou go, it will be better. I have no hope that she will hold to me, but it is needful to do what is proper. I thank thee. Thou wilt be able to present the affair from the best side, — only not a word touching troubles of any kind. Thou must lessen the sale of the oak to zero, to a politeness which I wished to show thee. I thank thee sincerely. Say that Gantovski apologized.”
“Hast thou some one to sit with thee?”
“My servant and his wife. The doctor will come again, and bring a surgeon. This pains me devilishly, but I am not ill.”
“Then, till we meet again.”
“Be well. I thank thee — thou art—”
“Sleep soundly.”
Pan Stanislav went out. Along the way he meditated on Mashko’s course, and meditated with a species of anger:
“He is not of the romantic school; still he is inclined to pretend something of that sort. Panna Plavitski! he loved her — he would have gone by another road — she might have saved him! — this is merely a tribute to sentimentality, and, besides, in false coin, since a month later he proposed to that puppet — for money’s sake! Maybe I am duller-witted; I do not understand this, and do not believe in disappointments cured so easily. Had I loved one woman, and been disappointed, I do not think that I should marry another in a month. Devil take me if I should! He is right, however, that Marynia is of a different kind from Kraslavski. There is no need whatever to discuss that; she is different altogether! different altogether!”
And that thought was immensely agreeable to Pan Stanislav. When he reached home, he found a letter from Bukatski, who was in Italy, and a card from Marynia, full of anxiety and questions concerning the duel. There was a request to send news early in the morning of what had happened, especially to inform her if everything was really over, and if no new encounter was threatened. Pan Stanislav, under the influence of the idea that she was different from Panna Kraslavski, answered cordially, more cordially even than he wished, and commanded his servant to deliver the note at nine the next morning. Then he set about reading Bukatski’s letter, shrugging his shoulders from the very beginning. Bukatski wrote as follows: —
May Sakya Muni obtain for thee blessed Nirvana! Besides this, tell Kaplaner not to forward my three thousand rubles to Florence, but to keep them at my order. These days I have resolved to entertain the design of forming the plan of becoming a vegetarian. Dost note how decisive this is? If the thought does not annoy me, if this plan becomes a determination, and the determination is not beyond my power, I shall cease to be a flesh-eating animal; and life will cost me less money. That is the whole question. As to thee, I beg thee to be satisfied with everything, for life is not worth fatigue.
I have discovered why the Slavs prefer synthesis to analysis. It is because they are idlers, and analysis is laborious. A man can synthesize while smoking a cigar after dinner. For that matter, they are right in being idlers. It is comfortably warm in Florence, especially on Lung-Arno. I walk along for myself and make a synthesis of the Florentine school. I have made the acquaintance here of an able artist in water-colors, — a Slav, too, who lives by art; but he proves that art is swinishness, which has grown up from a mercantile need of luxury, and from over-much money, which some pile up at the expense of others. In one word, art is, to his thinking, meanness and injustice. He fell upon me as upon a dog, and asserted that to be a Buddhist and to be occupied with art is the summit of inconsistency; but I attacked him still more savagely, and answered, that to consider consistency as something better than inconsistency was the height of miserable obscurantism, prejudices, and meanness. The man was astonished, and lost speech. I am persuading him to hang himself, but he doesn’t want to. Tell me, art thou sure that the earth turns around the sun, or isn’t this all a joke? For that matter, it is all one to me! In Warsaw I was sorry for that child who died, and here too I think of her frequently. How stupid that was! What is Pani Emilia doing? People have their rôle in the world fixed beforehand, and her rôle came to her with wings and suffering. Why was she good? She would have been happier otherwise. As to thee, O man, show me one kindness. I beg thee, by all things, marry not. Remember that if thou marry, if thou have a son, if thou toil to leave him property, thou wilt do so only for this that that son may be what I am, irreparably so. Farewell burning energy, farewell mercantile house, commission firm, O transitory form, vicious toil, effort for money, future father of a family, rearer of children and trouble. Embrace for me Vaskovski. He, too, is a man of synthesis. May Sakya Muni open thy eyes to know that it is warm in the sun and cool in the shade, and to lie down is better than to stand! Thy
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