Children of the Soil. Henryk Sienkiewicz
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to observe the young woman further. In fact, Mass was over soon. Plavitski went out immediately after the blessing, for he had two duties before him,—the first, to pray on the graves of his two wives who were lying under the church; the second, to conduct Pani Yamish to her carriage. Since he wished to neglect neither of these, he had to count with time. Pan Stanislav went with him; and soon they found themselves before the stone slabs, erected side by side in the church wall. Plavitski kneeled and prayed awhile with attention; then he rose, and wiping away a tear, which was hanging really on his lids, took Pan Stanislav by the arm, and said, “Yes, I lost both; still I must live.”
Meanwhile Pani Yamish appeared before the church door in the company of her husband, of those two neighbors who had spoken to her before Mass, and of young Gantovski. At sight of her Pan Plavitski bent to Pan Stanislav’s ear and said,—
“When she enters the carriage, take notice what a foot she has yet.”
After a while both joined the company; bows and greetings began. Pan Plavitski presented Pan Polanyetski; then, turning to Pani Yamish, he added, with the smile of a man convinced that he says something which no common person could have hit upon,—
“My relative, who has come to embrace his uncle, and squeeze him.”
“We will permit only the first; otherwise he will have an affair with us,” said the lady.
“But Kremen[2] is hard,” continued Plavitski; “he will break his teeth on it, though he is young.”
Pani Yamish half closed her eyes. “That ease,” said she, “with which you scatter sparks, c’est inoui! How is your health to-day?”
“At this moment I feel healthy and young.”
“And Marynia?”
“She was at early Mass. We wait for you both at five. My little housekeeper is breaking her head over supper. A beautiful day.”
“We shall come if neuralgia lets me, and my lord husband is willing.”
“How is it, neighbor?” asked Plavitski.
“I am always glad to go,” answered the neighbor, with the voice of a crushed man.
“Then, au revoir.”
“Au revoir,” answered the lady; and turning to Pan Stanislav, she reached her hand to him. “It was a pleasure for me to make your acquaintance.”
Plavitski gave his arm to the lady, and conducted her to the carriage. The two neighbors went away also. Pan Stanislav remained a while with Gantovski, who looked at him without much good-will. Pan Stanislav remembered him as an awkward boy; from the “Little Bear,” he had grown to be a stalwart man, somewhat heavy perhaps in his movements, but rather presentable, with a very shapely, light-colored mustache. Pan Stanislav did not begin conversation, waiting till the other should speak first; but he thrust his hands into his pockets, and maintained a stubborn silence.
“His former manners have remained with him,” thought Pan Stanislav, who felt now an aversion to that surly fellow.
Meanwhile Plavitski returned from Yamish’s carriage.
“Hast taken notice?” asked he of Pan Stanislav, first of all. “Well, Gantos,” said he then, “thou wilt go in thy brichka, for in the carriage there are only two places.”
“I will go in the brichka, for I am taking a dog to Panna Marynia,” answered the young man, who bowed and walked off.
After a while Pan Plavitski and Pan Stanislav found themselves on the road to Kremen.
“This Gantovski is uncle’s relative, I suppose?” asked Pan Stanislav.
“The tenth water after a jelly. They are very much fallen. This Adolph has one little farm and emptiness in his pocket.”
“But in his heart there is surely no emptiness?”
Pan Plavitski pouted. “So much the worse for him, if he imagines anything. He may be good, but he is simple. No breeding, no education, no property. Marynia likes him, or rather she endures him.”
“Ah, does she endure him?”
“See thou how it is: I sacrifice myself for her and stay in the country; she sacrifices herself for me and stays in the country. There is no one here; Pani Yamish is considerably older than Marynia; in general, there are no young people; life here is tedious: but what’s to be done? Remember, my boy, that life is a series of sacrifices. There is need for thee to carry that principle in thy heart and thy head. Those especially who belong to honorable and more prominent families should not forget this. But Gantovski is with us always on Sunday for dinner; and to-day, as thou hast heard, he is bringing a dog.”
They dropped into silence, and drove along the sand slowly. The magpies flew before them from birch to birch, this time in the direction of Kremen. Behind Plavitski’s little carriage rode in his brichka Pan Gantovski, who, thinking of Pan Stanislav, said to himself,—
“If he comes as a creditor to squeeze them, I’ll break his neck; if he comes as a rival, I’ll break it too.”
From childhood, he had cherished hostile feelings toward Polanyetski. In those days they met once in a while. Polanyetski used to laugh at him; and, being a couple of years older, he even beat him.
Plavitski and his guest arrived at last, and, half an hour later, all found themselves at table in the dining-room, with Panna Marynia. The young dog, brought by Gantovski, taking advantage of his privilege of guest, moved about under the table, and sometimes got on the knees of those present with great confidence and with delight, expressed by wagging his tail.
“That is a Gordon setter,” said Gantovski. “He is simple yet; but those dogs are clever, and become wonderfully attached.”
“He is beautiful, and I am very grateful to you,” answered Marynia, looking at the shining black hair and the yellow spots over the eyes of the dog.
“Too friendly,” added Plavitski, covering his knees with a napkin.
“In the field, too, they are better than common setters.”
“Do you hunt?” asked Pan Stanislav of the young lady.
“No; I have never had any desire to do so. And you?”
“Sometimes. But I live in the city.”
“Art thou much in society?” inquired Plavitski.
“Almost never. My visits are to Pani Emilia, my partner Bigiel, and Vaskovski, my former professor, an oddity now,—those are all. Of course I go sometimes to people with whom I have business.”
“That is not well, my boy. A young man should have and preserve good social relations, especially when he has a right to them. If a man has to force his way, the question is different; but as Polanyetski, thou hast the right to go anywhere. I have the same story, too, with Marynia. The winter before last, when she had finished her eighteenth year, I took her to Warsaw. Thou’lt understand that the trip was not without cost, and that for me it required certain sacrifices. Well, and what came of it? She sat for whole days with Pani Emilia, and they read books. She is born a recluse, and will remain one. Thou and she might join hands.”
“Let us join hands!” cried Pan Stanislav, joyously.
“I cannot, with a clear conscience,” answered Marynia; “for it was not altogether as papa describes. I read books with Emilia, it is true; but I was much in society with papa, and I danced enough for a lifetime.”
“You have no fault to find?”
“No; but I am not yearning.”
“Then you did not bring away memories, it seems?”
“Evidently there remained with me only recollections, which are something different.”
“I