Complete works of henryk.., p.762
Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz, page 762
The memoirs were read at Vasilkevich’s rooms; there was even a proposition to print them, though it was not brought into effect somehow. But Augustinovich wrote a paper after Gustav’s death. Very eloquently did he describe the man’s career. He showed him from years of childhood, when he was still happy. The charm of the description of those spring moments of life was so great that it seemed as though the sun of May had shone upon the writer. Then the picture grew sombre. It was seen how the deceased had left his native cottage; how the dog, the old servant, ran after him howling. Then still darker: life hurled him about, tossed him, rent him. Again a ray shone as if on a cloud. In rainbow form Pani Helena appeared to him — he stretched his arms toward that light. “The rest you know,” wrote Augustinovich. “Let him sleep now, and dream of her. The field swallow will sing her name above his grave. Let him rest in peace. The spark is quenched, the bowl is broken — that is Gustav.”
But it happens usually that people after his death speak much of a man whom during life they almost buffeted. Let us give peace then to Gustav, and follow the further fortune of our acquaintances, and especially of Yosef, the hero of this volume.
With him nothing had changed, but he himself from the time of his first visit to Pani Helena went about as if in meditation and was silent.
Augustinovich accustomed himself more and more to the new condition.
At the general’s the guests danced as before. At the engineer’s they pounded on the piano. The countess sang in the evening. Gustav’s room was occupied by a shoemaker who had two scrofulous descendants and a wife with a third misery. In the place where thoughts from a noble head had circled and words of warmth had dropped, were now heard the thread and the shoemaker’s stirrup.
The widow did not hear of Gustav’s death immediately; Yosef concealed it, fearing too violent an impression. Later he was astonished to find that she received the news with sadness, it is true, but with no sign of despair. We have much to tell of those new relations; in the succeeding part we shall pass to them directly.
CHAPTER VII
Yosef, according to his promise given Gustav, visited Helena, and after the second visit went away in love. He returned late at night. The stars were twinkling on a serene sky; from the Dnieper came the cool, but bracing breath of water. Light streaks of mist wound in a long line on the east. There was music in the air and music in Yosef’s breast. He was in love! It seemed to him that the serene night had visited his betrothal with happiness. Full happiness is both a remembrance and a hope. Yosef felt yet in his palms the small hands of Helena; he remembered that moment, thought of the tenderness of the morrow, looked forward to that moment. A wonderful thing! She took farewell of him with the word, “Remember;” but who could forget happiness, especially when the future is smiling with it?
He loved! Pressed by the power and the charm of the night, the trembling of the stars and the majesty of dark expanses, he cast a look full of fire to the remotest borders of heavenly loneliness, and whispered with quivering lips, —
“If Thou exist! Thou art great and good.”
Notwithstanding the condition set up before this statement, that for Yosef was very much.
He recognized greatness and goodness. He said, “If Thou art.” If those words had been spoken about some being, they would be conditional; spoken to some being they were an affirmation of existence: “Thou art.”
In spite of all his realism let us not wonder so much at these words. The lips which pronounced them had drunk freshly from the cup of ecstasy.
When Yosef reached home, Augustinovich was sleeping in the best fashion possible; his snoring was heard even on the stairway. He drew out the song of slumber, now short, now long, now lower, now higher, now puffing, now blowing, now whistling.
Yosef roused him.
He determined finally to embrace him.
Augustinovich stared at him with astonished eyes, and at the first moment cried, —
“Go to the—”
Yosef laughed joyously.
“Good-night!” said Augustinovich. “I will tell thee to-morrow where thou art coming from — now I wish to sleep — good-night.”
The next day was Sunday. In the morning Yosef poured the tea; Augustinovich, lying in bed yet, and looking at the ceiling, was smoking a pipe. Both were thinking of the day previous.
Finally Augustinovich was the first to speak, —
“Dost thou know what has come to my head?”
“No.”
“Then I will tell thee. I will tell thee that it is not worth while to attach one’s life to the first woman that comes along; as I wish well to Jove, it is not! There are better things in this world.”
“Whence did those ideas come to thee?”
“Straight from the pipe. A man so binds himself to an idea, grows one with it completely, and then something comes and, behold! of those palaces as much remains as of the smoke which I blow out at this moment.”
An immense roll of smoke rose up from Augustinovich’s lips, and striking the ceiling was scattered on all sides.
The conversation was stopped for a while.
“Yosef, hadst thou been in love before knowing Gustav and Pani Helena?”
“Had I lo-v-ed?” drawled Yosef, looking at the light through his glass of tea. “What? had I loved? Yes, I turned my head for a moment, but that did not push me out of life’s ordinary conditions, it did not lead me out of the order of the day. I will say sincerely, though, that I have not been in love.”
Augustinovich, raising the stem of his pipe, began to declaim with solemnity, —
“O woman! helpless down! O giddy creature!”
“Well, what is it?” asked Yosef, laughing.
“Nothing, my reminiscences. Ei, it was different with me. I was as mad as a maniac a couple of times. Once, even in spite of misery, I tried to be an orderly person; it was difficult, but I tried.”
“And how did it end?”
“Prosaically. I was giving lessons in a certain house. There were two children, a little son and a grown-up daughter. I taught the son and fell in love with the daughter. I told her this one evening, and tears came to my eyes. She was confused a little, and then she laughed. Thou wilt not believe, Yosef, what an ugly laugh that was, for she saw how much the confession had cost me, and besides she had enticed me on, to begin with. She went at once with a complaint to her ‘mamma.’”
“Well, what did the mamma do?”
“The ‘mamma’ told me first that I was a scrub, whereupon I bowed to her; second she told me to go my way, and third she threw a five-ruble note on the floor before me. I picked up the note, for it belonged to me, and from it I got drunk that evening and next morning also.”
“And then?”
“Then the next evening and the third morning.”
“And so on?”
“No. On the fourth day I had an immense cry, and later, when I had cured myself a little, not of drinking, but of love, I tried to fall in love with the first woman I met; but I could not love any more, I give thee my word of honor.”
“And hast thou no hope for the future?”
Augustinovich thought a moment, and answered, —
“No, I have no respect now for women. As much as I believed in them before, as much as I honored and loved them as the highest reward of toil and effort, that much do I like them now, dost understand? That excludes love.”
“But happiness.”
“Not a word about happiness. So to-day I whistle when I want to cry, and therefore envy thee.”
Yosef looked quickly at Augustinovich.
“What dost thou envy me?”
“Thy relation with Pani Helena. Do not frown, and do not wonder that I know those things well. Ho, ho! we have had a little experience. For that matter I will tell thee that I wanted myself to fall in love with Pani Helena. I prefer such women. Though, on the other hand — But do I know that thou wilt not be angry?”
“Talk on.”
“I was afraid to fall in love with her. There is no denying that she is an unhappy woman, but, by the beard of the Prophet! what is that to me? I know only that the inheritance goes from hand to hand, and that whoso approaches her is happy for the ages. B-r-r! By my honor I should not wish to be the heir to such a legacy, even for a friend.”
Yosef put the glass of partly drunk tea on the table, and turning to Augustinovich said coldly, —
“Yes; but since I am the executor of the will, be so kind as to speak of the inheritance more considerately.”
“Well, I will tell thee in perfect seriousness not this, who or what the widow is, but what thou shouldst do. I speak disinterestedly. I speak even to my own harm. The affair is of this kind.” Augustinovich sat up in bed. “I know thee, I know her; she will rush into thy arms herself. Initiative on the part of a woman — Ho! that is not good! Love must be a conquest. In a month thou wilt be sick of her, thou wilt be tortured and throw her to the devil. Yosef, I wish thee well — marry Helena while there is time.”
Yosef frowned more than before, and answered abruptly, —
“I will do what I think is proper.”
And really that little word “marry” had not come to his head yet. While kissing the widow’s hands he had not thought of the consequences of the kisses. He was angry at himself, and at this more especially, that some one had reminded him of duties of conscience. A day later, two days later, he would have reminded himself of them beyond fail. The reminder coming from another took away from this thought the charm of spontaneous action which flows from love and made it constraint.
The evening of that day Augustinovich met Vasilkevich.
“Knowest thou that Yosef visits the widow now?” asked he.
“What wonder?”
“The woman is in love with him to distraction. Think what will come of that, and judge what Yosef ought to do.”
“He ought to love her too,” answered Vasilkevich, with his usual decision.
“Yes; and then?”
“Then let them marry.”
Augustinovich waved his hand impatiently.
“One other question. How wouldst thou act with Pani Helena?”
“If I loved her?”
“Yes.”
“I should marry her without hesitation.”
Augustinovich stopped him, and with his hand on his heart began to speak in a tone of deep conviction, —
“Seest thou, I am much indebted to Yosef, for that matter thou knowest this best of all, I should like then to pay him honestly, — yes, to pay him with advice. He is in a strange position, and still, dost understand, there are certain laws of honor which we are not permitted to break. I should not wish that any man at any time could say to Yosef, ‘Thou hast acted dishonorably.’ I say openly I should not wish that. Thou canst do much, thou hast influence over him.”
Vasilkevich, instead of letting himself be persuaded, grew angry.
“But why push into affairs which are not thine? Leave him freedom. It is only a little while since he began to visit her. Ei! Augustinovich, does this come from thy heart? If Helena is anything to thee, then may I — But this is interfering — thou lovest to pose and speak well-sounding words. Play no comedy! Thou art making a sacrifice as it were by losing lodgings through Yosef’s marriage, but that is mere levity. Thou art deceiving thyself without knowing it. Have no fear as to Yosef; if thou wert like him, no more would be needed. What hast thou to do with this matter? Thou hast not tact to the value of a copper.”
“Keep these lessons for thy own use! Then thou wilt not interfere between them?”
“If this undefined relation were to last long, I should be the first to try and persuade, and finally to force Yosef to marry her; but to interfere to-day would be stupid.”
Augustinovich went home, greatly confused; a feeling of truth told him, however, that the Lithuanian was right, and that on his part it would be really meddling and a desire for posing, nothing more.
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.
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