Yosef’s lodgings were open; the house guard was putting them to rights. From him Yosef learned details of the old count and his daughter. This man did not like either of them; he emphasized their stinginess, though he imagined that they must be very poor, because they did not pay room rent very regularly. “The young lady is haughty,” said he; “all day she does nothing but play and sing. It is hard for her without a husband, but what is to be done?” He did not advise Yosef to make their acquaintance.

  “How proud these people are,” said he; “but in their pockets, dear lord, there is emptiness.”

  “And is the old countess long dead?” inquired Yosef.

  “About three years. They have been rich, I suppose, but he lost his property in wheat which, as they say, he had to furnish in company with others at Odessa. That business impoverished many people. The old countess was better than others of her family. She was an honorable lady, but she fell to grieving, and died. They have lived here five years.”

  “Do they know many people?”

  “It must be that they do not, for I have not seen any one visit them.”

  Yosef, while waiting for Augustinovich, lay down on the bed, and when he commanded to bring him a glass of tea, he fell asleep quickly. When he woke up, he felt a trifle ill. Augustinovich had not come yet, though it was quite dark. He arrived at last in perfect humor.

  The lady with whom he had become acquainted, Pani Visberg, had a daughter Malinka. Augustinovich examined them both by auscultation. He prescribed dancing for the daughter and horseback riding for the mother. Besides, he promised to visit them and to bring Yosef.

  “The old lady said that the summons to the count was ready, which does not concern me,” said Augustinovich. “She has even visited the count, but found only the countess, who pleased her. The countess was much frightened when she learned the object of the old lady’s visit. I asked Pani Visberg why she claimed a miserable two thousand when she represented herself as the wife of a Crœsus. She answered that her late husband’s name was Cleophas, not Crœsus. ‘If it were mine,’ said she, ‘I surely would not annoy them, but all that money belongs to my child.’ Then I pressed the hand of that child under the table, with real feeling. I was simply moved — word of honor, I was moved. When going, I kissed the old lady’s hand. The young lady’s name is Malinka — a pretty name, Malinka, though the point is not in this, whether her name is pretty or ugly — Why art thou so pale, Yosef?”

  “I am not entirely well, and I cannot sleep. I fell asleep while waiting for thee. Give me a glass of tea.”

  Augustinovich poured out the tea, and lighting his pipe lay on the bed. Yosef pushed an armchair up to the bureau, and taking a pen began to write.

  He soon stopped, however. Thoughts crowded into his head; he leaned back in the chair and gave them free course. Another man would have dreamed. Yosef collected and summed up his own past; he thought over the conditions in which he was then, he cast up the future. Regarding this future, it was difficult for him to remain in the rôle of a cool reasoner. The words “That is the young doctor, papa,” came to his memory involuntarily. To be a doctor and to some extent a high-priest of science; to rule on one side by reason, on the other by significance, property, reputation, — Yosef had not become indifferent yet to reputation, — to attract glances, rouse laughter, win hearts — Here he remembered Helena. In the region of feeling he was not free now to choose. He felt bound; still he would like to see eyes turning to him, and the smile of the maiden’s lips, and hear the words so prettily whispered, “That is the young doctor.” For the first time he could not free himself of the thought that Helena might be a hindrance to his campaign of advancement. He determined to settle with that thought. Her education was not in the way, she was educated; she was twenty-one years of age, he twenty-four — the difference, though too small, did not constitute a hindrance. What reasons could he have to fear that Helena might be a weight on him some time? Conscience declared that the first cause was his own vanity. He knew women little, and he wanted to know them much and to rule them. But there were other considerations which Yosef did not admit. He loved too little. In his soul lay enormous capitals of feeling; he had barely offered a small part of them in the name of Helena. He bore within him a dim consciousness of his powers; that foreboding deprived him of rest. He wanted to reach the foundation of things, but it was not easy for even such a self-conscious head as Yosef’s to reach final results.

  Besides, he did not know himself whether possible future triumphs were equal in value to Helena. To have near him for all future time a woman so charming and loving was the same as to seize in its flight a winged dream of happiness shooting by, but if besides he knew how many of those coming triumphs would be of tangible value, how many would deceive him, how many faces there were before him, he would not hesitate in the choice. But he had not met deceit yet face to face.

  Such meditations wearied Yosef. The lamp in the room grew dim, he began to doze. Some sudden knocking above roused him again. “They are not sleeping up there, either,” thought he. He remembered the countess and her gladsome smile. “How lightly and calmly such a girl must sleep! But there is some truth in this, that girls are like birds. A man toils and labors and meditates, and they — But that one upstairs is quite a pretty bird. I should like to see her asleep. But it is late now, half-past one, and I — What is that?” He sprang quickly to his feet.

  A violent pulling at the bell brought him to his senses perfectly. He opened the door, and raising the lamp saw the countess before him. She was as pale as a corpse; she held a candle in one hand, with the other she protected the flame of it. She wore a cap, and a dressing-gown through which her neck and bosom were evident.

  “Pan Doctor!” cried she, “my father is dying!”

  Yosef, without saying a word, seized his medicine case, and enjoining on Augustinovich to hurry upstairs with all speed, he ran himself after her. In the first chamber was the small bed of the countess, with the blanket thrown aside, and left just a moment before; in the next room lay the count. He was breathing or rather rattling loudly, for he was unconscious; there was bloody foam on his lips, and his face was livid.

  In a moment Augustinovich ran in, uncombed and hardly dressed. Both occupied themselves with the sick man without regard to the young girl, who had knelt at the foot of the bed, and was nearly unconscious.

  All at once Yosef and Augustinovich looked each other in the eyes; both had seen that there was not the least hope.

  “O my God! my God! Call in some one else, perhaps,” burst out the countess, in tears.

  “Run for Skotnitski,” cried Yosef.

  Augustinovich ran, although he felt certain that on returning with the doctor he would not find the count among the living.

  Meanwhile Yosef, with all energy and presence of mind, worked at the patient. He bled him; then, looking at the clock, declared that the attack was over.

  “Thank God! There is hope then?” cried the countess.

  “The attack is over!” repeated Yosef.

  Meanwhile Augustinovich came with the doctor.

  Doctor Skotnitski declared that the sick man was saved for that time, but without ceremony he added that in case of a second attack death would ensue unfailingly. He commanded to watch the sick man and not leave him for an instant. Our friends sat all night at his bedside.

  Next morning early the count regained consciousness and asked for a priest. Augustinovich had to go for one. He brought some parish priest or chaplain, who read the usual prayers and litany, then heard the sick man’s confession, gave him communion, and anointed him with holy oil.

  For a number of hours the count was conscious; he spoke with Yosef, blessed his daughter, spoke of his will, in a word, did everything which is usual when people are dying in a Christian and honest way of going from this world to the other. The whole day passed in these ceremonies. When dusk came Yosef persuaded the countess to take some rest; for the poor girl, though of a firm constitution, was barely able to stand on her feet from watching and suffering.

  She resisted long, and agreed only when he almost commanded her to do so. When leaving the room she gave her hand, thanking him for his care of her father. Yosef looked at her more carefully then. She might have been twenty, perhaps even less, for her well-developed form caused one to consider her older than she was really. She had a large but agreeable mouth, blue, clever eyes, and dark hair. In general, her face was uncommonly sympathetic. She had a beautiful forehead shaded with hair; the expression of her face, and her movements indicated a developed aristocratic type of beauty. Moreover, she had very small hands.

  The count fell asleep an hour after she had gone out. Yosef and Augustinovich sat by a shaded lamp; both were wearied and thoughtful. Augustinovich spoke first in a low voice, —

  “Tell me what will become of the countess when he—” He indicated with his head the sick man, and closing his eyes drew a finger along his throat.

  “I am thinking of that myself,” replied Yosef. “Perhaps some one of the family may be found.”

  “But if he is not found?”

  “It will be necessary to talk with her. They are poor, evidently; the guard told me that their rent is not paid yet. But it cannot be that they have no blood relatives somewhere, or at least acquaintances.”

  “Well, in every case speak of this later,” said Augustinovich, who did not like to dwell long on one subject.

  “Wait,” interrupted Yosef; “at least one idea comes to my head. So far no one has been here, and it is impossible that that poor girl” — he indicated with his eyes the room where the countess was sleeping— “impossible for that poor girl to stay here alone after his death. Tell me, is thy acquaintance, Pani Visberg, a pious woman?”

  “As pious as a chalice cover!”

  “Honest, simple?”

  “In an unheard-of degree: but what connection has that with the countess?”

  “I wish to place the countess in her care.”

  “But the lawsuit?”

  “Just because of that.”

  Here the sick man moved suddenly. Yosef looked at him quickly, then whispered, —

  “One instalment of rent stands in my way, but this and that may be arranged, perhaps something can be done after his death.”

  “Oi, rent, rent!” whispered Augustinovich. “To keep us awake I must tell thee a little tale. I have never paid rent, I was enraged whenever rent was even mentioned, and I never could accustom any house-owner to refuse taking it. At last I succeeded with one. He was an old little fellow, and stupid as the ears of Midas. Well, once I was sitting in a small garden which belonged to him, and because the season was summer and the time night, for want of a better occupation I was counting the stars in the sky. I was dreaming somewhat; a starry night, as thou knowest, brings a dreamy state of mind. Thereupon that ass came to me and spoke absurdly. He simply wanted me to pay him. I rose from my place, and outlining in solemnity with my hand a bow between the east and the west, I asked mysteriously, —

  “‘Dost see this immensity and those millions of the lights of God?’

  “‘I see,’ answered he, frightened somewhat by the tone of my inquiry; ‘but—’

  “‘Silence!’ said I, in an imperious voice. And removing my hat I raised my eyes, and looking at the astonished man I thundered, —

  “‘Useless dust! compare thy five rubles—’”

  On a sudden a suppressed groan interrupted Augustinovich. The count had become livid, he was twisted up, the fingers of his hands were balled into lumps; the second attack had come evidently.

  At that moment Yosef rushed to the sick man and straightened his arm almost by force.

  “Ys! — Bleed him!” said he in a low voice.

  There was silence. By a wonderful chance the lamp at that moment grew darker. From instant to instant was heard the quick low voice of Yosef, —

  “His pulse? Water!”

  “He is stifling,” whispered Augustinovich.

  Both held the breath in their breasts; the dull sound of the lance was heard. The steel sank in the old man’s flesh, but blood did not come.

  “This is the end! All is useless!” said Yosef, drawing a deep breath.

  Drops of sweat came out on his forehead.

  “He lived — he lived till he died,” said Augustinovich, with the most indifferent mien in the world. “We have done our part, now to sleep.”

  CHAPTER XI

  The count died really, and was buried according to Christian ceremonial. After his death Yosef paid a visit to the old lady. It was a question of securing guardianship for the countess, since no one of the family had come forward.

  The count had left very scanty means of maintenance, and even if he had left more the countess was too young to manage a house alone.

  Because of the lofty piety and exceeding delicacy of conscience of Pani Visberg, it was not difficult for Yosef to arrange the business he had mentioned. He persuaded her that she had killed the count by her lawsuit, and therefore she was bound to give protection to the daughter of her victim. The lady was greatly terrified at the executioners of hell, with whom Yosef threatened her, and on the other hand she judged that the companionship of the countess, who was of society and highly educated as Yosef declared, would not be without profit to Malinka.

  Pani Visberg was an honorable woman in the full sense of the word; she had not much wit, it is true, and still less acquaintance with society. The best proof of this was that she considered Augustinovich the acme of elegance, polish, and good tone. Yosef she feared a little, from the time of his first visit. But she was content in soul that such distinguished young men, as she said, were inclined to her lowly threshold.

  Malinka, who in many regards resembled her mother, was seriously smitten with Augustinovich. She had induced the old lady to take a permanent residence in Kieff; for that matter Pani Visberg had come to the city somewhat with that intent. She wished to show her daughter to the world, for Malinka was nineteen years of age, and during those nineteen years she had been once in Kieff, once in Jitomir, and had sat out the rest of the time at home. Fortune permitted a residence in the city. The late Pan Visberg had been in his day an official in the customhouse, though in a funeral speech over his grave these words had been uttered: “Sleep, Cleophas Visberg! for during long ages the nations (all Europe) will admire thy integrity and stern rectitude.” We say Cleophas Visberg left to his wife, inconsolable in her sorrow, about nine times one hundred thousand zlotys, and he would have left more if inexorable Fate had not cut short his days. He entered the kingdom of shadows more sated with years than with income.

  But this income fell to good hands, for both ladies had excellent hearts. They helped widows and orphans; they paid their servants, male and female, regularly; they paid tithes to their church faithfully; in a word, they performed all Christian deeds which concern soul and body.

  They received the countess with open arms, and with as much cordiality as if they had been her relatives. Malinka, an honest though simple maiden, was in love out and out with the noble orphan. How much she promised herself from the first glance to be kind and obliging to her, how much she wished to comfort her, how much she dreamed of a pure friendship with her in the future, it would be difficult to tell; enough that Yosef found as good protection for the countess as if she had been in the house of her own parents — it could not have been better.

  It is true that the countess was well fitted to rouse sympathy. The silent and deep sorrow which weighed her down at the moment did not remove her so far from reality that she could not be charming to those who were kind to her. She thanked Yosef with tears in her eyes; stretched to him a hand, which he, with emotion rare in him, pressed to his lips. “As I love God!” said Augustinovich, “I almost wept when she looked at me. May the devils take me if she is not a hundred times more beautiful than I am.”

  In fact, that new figure, attended already with words of sympathy, had connected itself with the fate of the heroes of this book. That a countess like her could not remain without influence on them is understood easily. Whether the future will attach angel wings to the shoulders of the countess, or show in her charming body a barren, hypocritical soul, the continuation will teach us.

  Hei! hei! If this life resembled a book; if it were possible to give people souls such as are created in thought; but then would these be people like the rest of mankind? It would be all one, however, for poison cakes are the food of this world, as the boy said. The human soul is like a spring; it carries poison far, and what man can guarantee that poison is not lying at the bottom of his own soul, and that he would not create poisoned characters? The soul is blank paper! God writes on one side, and Satan on the other; but God and Satan are only symbols in this case. In fact, there is another hand; the world is that hand really. The world writes on the soul, good and bad people write on it, moments of happiness write there, suffering writes more enduringly than all. But there are souls like mussels. The mussel changes grains of sand, and the soul pain, into pearls; sadness and solitude are the means. But not always. It depends on the soul. Sadness and solitude sometimes conceal weariness, emptiness, and stupidity. These three full sisters like to dwell in palaces built of sadness and solitude, seeking that which they have never lost. It does not follow from this that there are no charms in solitude. Sadness has none, at least for a sad person. Solitude for the soul is something like a time of sleep for the body. Nay, more; that misty monad, the soul, seems to dissolve in solitude, to separate, to vanish, to cease its existence almost; words and thoughts end in that silent region; the soul is annihilated for a season, separates on all sides from its own centre. All this is called rest.

  Solitude is the worst term that the human mind has had wit to invent; solitude is never alone, silence always goes with it.

  It is a pity that the misty garments of this lady called Solitude are borne most frequently by that seductive page whose name is Laziness.

 

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