“Je vous — ?”

  And hiding her face in her hands, she bent so low that I saw the short hair on her neck, and her neck itself. Then I guessed at last and said with throbbing heart, —

  “Now I may, I may—”

  She raised her face, smiling and radiant, —

  “And you must,” added she, blinking, and, as it were, commanding me for the future.

  At that moment they called us to lunch. At that lunch, I might have eaten knives and forks without knowing it.

  A man grows accustomed to nothing so easily as to happiness. All that had passed was simply a series of miracles, but two days later it seemed to me perfectly natural that Tola was my betrothed. I thought that it ought to be so, that she was mine; and for this reason solely, that no other man loved her as I did.

  Finally, the news of my betrothal went about through the city, and I began to receive congratulations from my comrades. Tola and I drove out beyond the suburbs with her parents, on which occasion many persons saw us together. I remember that drive perfectly. Tola, in a sack trimmed with otter-skin, and a cap trimmed with the same fur, looked like a vision, for her transparent complexion seemed more delicate with the dark bronze color of the trimmings. All turned to look after us, and so admired was she that some of my acquaintances stood as if fixed to the pavement.

  Beyond the barriers, when we had passed rows of cottages, each lower than the other, we reached the open country at last. In the fields, between rows of trees, lay clear water, and on this, light in long streaks was shining. The meadows were flooded; the groves had no leaves; but we felt the presence of spring. Then came the moment of darkness, during which there is great calm in the world; such a calm took possession also of us. After the violent impressions of preceding days, I felt a great and sweet calmness. I had before me the dear face of Tola, rosy from the movement of air, but also soothed in that peace and thoughtful. We were both silent, and only looked at each other from moment to moment and smiled. For the first time in life I understood the meaning of undimmed, perfect happiness. As I was very young and had lived through little, I had, in fact, no heavy sins on my conscience, but, like all men, I bore with me my own load of defects, faults, and failures. Behold, at that moment this burden dropped from my shoulders. I felt in my bosom no bitterness. I had not the least dislike for people; I was ready to forgive and help every one. I felt renewed altogether, just as if love had taken the soul out of me and put into my body an angel immediately.

  And this had happened because it was permitted me to love, and she, that dear one sitting opposite, had been given to me. What is more, for that very reason the four persons in that carriage were not merely what is called happy; they were better than ever they had been before. All the pettinesses of society, the paltry ambitions, the pitiful views of existence; all that which debases life and makes it repulsive, flat, and deceitful, — we had shaken away, together with the former sorrow and bitterness. Tola’s parents had barely opened their house to this blessed guest when we began to live more broadly and loftily than ever before.

  Hence I could not understand why people so often reject that which in life is the one, the supreme good. Still oftener do they squander it. I know those petty wise-saws which circulate like counterfeit money: that love withers, grows old, passes away, vanishes, and that finally habit alone is the bond between man and woman. Now I will show that this truth relates solely to stupid or pitiful people. There are chosen souls, who know how to avoid that condition; I have met such in the world, hence I myself have the wish and the will to become one of them. If this flame to-day makes me so happy, my first duty, and the most direct task of selfishness, is that it should not quench, that it should not even decrease in the future. Therefore I will defy that future! it has time on its side. I have my great love and good will. To live with Tola and cease to love her, — we will see about that!

  All at once an irresistible desire mastered me to begin that life at the earliest. I knew that society customs did not permit betrothed persons to marry before the end of certain weeks, or months, but I remembered that I had to deal with exceptional people. I was convinced that Tola would aid me, and I determined to involve her in the affair.

  On our return home, when they left us alone, I confessed my thoughts to her. She listened with immense delight. I saw that not only the plan itself, but even discussion concerning it, had for her the charm of a lover’s conspiracy, and simply carried her away. At moments she had the look of a child to whom people promise some wonderful amusement which is soon to appear, and she could not restrain herself from dancing through the room. We did not mention the matter that evening, however; but at tea I told of my hopes for the future, and the paths which were opening before me. Tola’s parents listened as though those hopes had been realized. Could I have supposed those people of dove-like simplicity to be acting through politeness, I should have called that politeness the very wisest, for seeing their faith and confidence I said to myself, Though I were to lay down my head I will not deceive you.

  I took leave at a late hour. Tola hastened after me to the entrance, and repeated, in a whisper, —

  “Let it be so; let it be so. Why delay? I am not fond of delay! let it be so. Good-night. I fear only mamma, mamma will be thinking of the wedding outfit.”

  I did not understand very clearly why she should make a wedding outfit, since young ladies, as young ladies, must have at all times a certain supply of dresses. But in its own way every expression of that sort made me happy to a high degree, since it confirmed in some way that I was not dreaming, that in truth I was going to marry Tola. While returning home I repeated involuntarily: Wedding clothes, wedding clothes! I do not foresee that through them any great difficulty can rise. I saw, however, with the eyes of my soul a multitude of dresses, bright, dark, many-colored, and I fell in love with each of them in turn. Then it occurred to me that I must arrange a house in which to receive Tola. I found new delight in this thought. I needed money a little, but determined in spite of that to arrange all at the earliest. I could not sleep in the night, for I had my head full of dresses, tables, cupboards, and armchairs. Some time since I could not sleep because of suffering; later I could not sleep from delight.

  Next morning I visited the cabinet-maker. He understood in a flash what I needed. He showed me various pieces of furniture. At sight of these I saw tangibly my future life with Tola, just as if I had known it all, but my heart began to palpitate. The cabinet-maker advised me to paint the walls, as paper would need a long time to dry. The active man promised to undertake that task for a proper reward.

  From his place I went to two intimate comrades to invite them as best men; of my own family I had not a living soul. Their congratulations and embraces were mingled with other impressions in my head, and roused there a genuine chaos.

  I found Tola in the drawing-room. I had barely kissed her hands when she came to my ear on tiptoe and whispered one sentence, —

  “They have permitted!”

  The last shadow on my happiness vanished. Tola was as radiant with delight as a burning candle is with fire. We walked hand in hand through the room and conversed. She told me how everything had happened.

  “At first mamma said that that was impossible, and then she said: ‘Thou dost not even understand how very unbecoming it is for a young lady to hasten her wedding.’ Then I answered that we were both hastening it. Mamma raised her eyes to the ceiling, and shrugged her shoulders. Papa laughed, embraced me, kissed me on the forehead, and even on the hand. ‘Thou hast always a weakness for her,’ said mamma; ‘but one must consider society a little.’

  “‘Society! society!’ said papa. ‘Society will not give them happiness; they must find happiness for themselves; and as we have done everything just the opposite of society, let it be the same to the end. It is Lent now; but immediately after Easter they can marry, and the wedding outfit may be finished afterward.’

  “Mamma yielded, for papa always insists on his point. (I suppose you will be like him too.) Then I embraced mamma; I did not let her speak a word. Only later could she say, ‘All is done in mad fashion.’ But I carried my point at last. Are you satisfied?”

  I had been so much in love, or so timid, that I had never gone so far as to take her in my arms. Then for the first time I wanted to embrace her; but she put me away gently, saying, —

  “It is so nice to walk arm in arm, like good children.”

  And so we walked on. I told her that I had thought of our house, and had given orders to paint the walls, not in oil, for that was very costly, but in some color which dries quickly, and is exactly like oil. Tola repeated, “Which dries quickly;” and it is unknown why we both began to laugh, likely for the reason that our mutual delight and happiness could not find room in us. We decided that the little drawing-room should be red, for though that color is common, heads appear on a red background perfectly. The dining-room was to be in bright green tiles, the adjoining room in faience; of others we did not talk, for Tola’s shoestring was loose, and she went to the next room to tie it.

  After a while she returned with her father, who called me a water-burner and a Tartar; but at the same time he promised that the ceremony should take place on Tuesday after the holidays.

  During the first days our love was all emotion and had ceaseless tears in its eyes; but afterward it bloomed out in gladness, like a flower in spring, and we laughed then whole days.

  Because of the lateness of the holidays, spring was in the world. The trees were in bud. Before Holy Week Tola and I, with her parents, made visits. People looked at us curiously everywhere; at times this was annoying. Some older ladies put glasses on their eyes at sight of me; but I had to pass the ordeal. Tola, joyous and fresh as a bird, rewarded me a hundredfold for those irksome visits.

  I looked myself to the painting of the rooms. Because of the weather everything dried in a twinkle. The bedroom I had painted in rose-color.

  My love increased daily. I was sure now that even were Tola to change, were she even to grow ugly, I should say to myself, “Misfortune has touched me;” but I would not cease to love her. A man in that state yields himself up so completely that he knows not where his own I ceases.

  We amused ourselves often like children; at times we teased each other. When, for example, I came in the morning and found her alone, I looked through the room, as if not observing her; I looked for her, and asked, “Is there no one here who is loved?” She searched in the corners, shook her bright head, and answered, “No! it seems not.”— “But that young lady?”— “Oh, perhaps she is a little!” Then after a while she added in a whisper, “And perhaps greatly.”

  At that time a new feeling involved itself in my love. Not only did I love Tola, but I liked her beyond everything. I was dying for her companionship. I could pass whole hours with her talking about anything. At times we talked deeply and seriously touching our future, though in general I avoided all discussions and theories on the theme of what marriage should be; for I thought why must I enclose in prearranged formulas that which should develop spontaneously from love itself. There is no need to lay before flowers theories of how they should bloom.

  Good Friday passed silently, gloomily. On the streets there was mist, and a light rain was falling. We and Tola’s parents went to the cemetery; we put each what we chose on the plates of beggars. Tola, dressed in black, serene, calm, and dignified, appeared beautiful as never before. At moments, in the gloom of the church, or in the light of the candles, her face was perfectly angelic. That day she caught a slight cold; and I raced through all the cellars, looking for old Malaga, which some one had advised her to drink.

  I passed Easter at the house of Tola’s parents. Not having any one of my own family, I understood for the first time what it is to have persons dear to one, and to be dear to some one else. The next Sunday there was perfect spring.

  Before Easter I had brought some sort of order into our house. The garden had begun to grow green, and the old cherry-trees were in blossom.

  Just before the holidays, too, came from the press my doctoral essay about the Neoplatonists. Tola undertook to read it. Poor thing! she blinked, broke her little head, but read from a feeling of duty.

  And now memories of the wedding — no, rather, pictures of it — crowd into my head, confused, in disorder, filled with single impressions, somewhat feverish. I see the whole place full of flowers; on the stairs, and in the rooms. There is a hurrying in the house, the arrival of guests, a multitude of strange or little known faces. Tola in the drawing-room, arrayed in a white robe, with a veil, was as beautiful as a vision, but somehow different from what she was usually; she appeared more dignified, as it were, less near. The feeling of a certain haste and movement remained with me. Everything that happened after entering the church seems indefinite: the church, the altar, the candles on the altar, at the sides brilliant toilets of ladies, curious eyes, whispers. Tola and I kneeling before the altar took each the other’s hand, as if in greeting; and after a time our voices were heard, sounding like strange voices, “I take thee to myself,” etc. I hear till this moment the organ and the mighty, resonant hymn, “Veni Creator,” which broke forth in the choir, as suddenly as a cloud-burst. I have no recollection whatever of leaving the church; of the wedding there is left in my mind the blessing of her parents, and the supper. Tola sat at my side; and I remember that from moment to moment she raised her hands to her cheeks, which were burning. Through the bouquets on the table I saw various faces, which I should not recognize now. Our health was drunk with applause and great clinking of glasses. About midnight I took my wife home.

  Of the road there will always remain in my mind the memory of her head resting on my shoulder, and her white veil with the odor of violets.

  Next morning I waited for her at tea in the dining-room; meanwhile she, after dressing, went by another door to the garden, for I saw her through the window against the background of the cherry-tree. I ran to her immediately; she turned, pushed her head toward the tree, as if wishing to hide from me.

  I thought that she was jesting; so creeping up quietly, I caught her by the waist, and said, —

  “Good-morning. But who is hiding from her husband? What art thou doing here?”

  Then I saw that she was blushing, that she was avoiding my eyes and turning away from me really.

  “What is the matter with thee, Tola?” asked I.

  “See,” answered she, confused, “the wind is shaking the blossoms from the cherry-trees.”

  “Let it take them,” said I, “if only thou wilt stay with me.”

  And I bent her head toward mine; but she whispered with closed eyes, —

  “Do not look at me; go away—”

  But at the same time her lips pushed toward me almost passionately, and I met them with delight.

  The breeze began really to cast white blossoms on our heads.

  I woke and saw the naked walls of my room.

  I had had typhus, — and a very bad typhus; I had lain two weeks unconscious in fever.

  But even a fever is sometimes the mercy of God.

  When I regained consciousness I learned that Panna Antonina’s parents had taken her to Venice.

  But I, lonely as before, finish my confession, which is strange, perhaps. I was so immensely happy in my visions that I wrote them down at once, so that life’s irony might not be lost. I conclude the above reminiscences without sorrow, and with my former faith, that among all sources of happiness, that from which I drank during the fever is the clearest and best.

  A life which love has not visited, even in a dream, is worse than mine.

  CHARCOAL SKETCHES.

  CHAPTER I.

  IN WHICH WE MAKE THE ACQUAINTANCE OF THE HEROES, AND BEGIN TO HOPE THAT SOMETHING WILL FOLLOW.

  IN Barania-Glova, in the chancery of the village-mayor, it was as calm as in time of sowing poppy-seed. The mayor, a peasant no longer young, whose name was Frantsishek Burak, was sitting at the table, and scribbling something on paper with strained attention; the secretary of the Commune, Pan Zolzik, young and full of hope, was standing at the window defending himself from flies.

  There were as many flies in the chancery as in a cowhouse. All the walls were spotted from them, and had lost their original color. Spotted in like manner were the glass on the image hanging over the table, the paper, the seal, the crucifix, and the mayor’s official books.

  The flies lighted on the mayor too, as on an ordinary councilman; but they were attracted particularly by Pan Zolzik’s head, which was pomaded, and also perfumed with violet. Over his head a whole swarm was circling; they sat at the parting of his hair and formed black, living, movable spots. Pan Zolzik from time to time raised his hand warily, and then brought it down quickly on his head; the slap of his palm was heard, the swarm flew upward, buzzing, and Pan Zolzik, seizing his hair, picked out the corpses and threw them on the floor.

  The hour was four in the afternoon. Silence reigned in the whole village, for the people were at work in the fields; but outside the chancery window a cow was scratching herself against the wall, and at times she showed her puffing nostrils through the window, with saliva hanging from her muzzle.

  At moments she threw her heavy head against her back to drive away flies; at moments she grazed the wall with her horn; then Pan Zolzik looked out through the window, and cried, —

  “Aa! hei! May the—”

  Then he looked at himself in the glass hanging there at the window, and arranged his hair.

  At last the mayor broke the silence.

  “Pan Zolzik,” said he, with a Mazovian accent, “write that rapurt; it is somehow awkward for me. Besides, you are the writer [secretary].”

  But Pan Zolzik was in bad humor, and whenever he was in bad humor the mayor had to do everything himself.

 

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