Pan Ignas could say to himself that sometimes a lucky star shines even for poets. It is true that since the day of his betrothal to Lineta it had occurred to him frequently that there would be need now to think of means to furnish a house, and meet the expenses, as well of a marriage as a wedding; but, being first of all in love, and not having in general a clear understanding of such matters, he represented all this to himself only as some kind of new difficulty to be overcome. He had conquered so many of these in his life that, trusting in his power, he thought that he would conquer this too; but he had not thought over the means so far.

Others, however, were thinking for him. Old Zavilovski, in whom, with all his esteem for geniuses, nothing could shake the belief that every poet must have “fiu, fiu” in his head, invited Pan Stanislav to a personal consultation, and said,—

“I will say openly that this youngster has pleased me, though his father was, with permission, a great roisterer; nothing for him but cards and women and horses. He came to grief in his time. But the son is not like the father; he has brought to the name not discredit, but honor. Well, others have not accustomed me much to this; but the Lord God grant that I shall not forget the man. I should like, however, to do something for him at once; for though a distant relative, he is a relative, and the name is the same,—that is the main thing.”

“We have been thinking of this,” said Pan Stanislav, “but the thing is difficult. If aid be spoken of, he is so sensitive that one may make the impatient fellow angry.”

“Indeed! How stubborn he is!” said Zavilovski, with evident pleasure.

“True! He has kept books and written letters for our house a short time. But we have conceived a real liking for him; therefore my partner and I have offered him credit ourselves. ‘Take a few thousand rubles,’ said we, ‘for expenses and furnishing a house, and return them to us in the course of three years from thy salary.’ He would not: he said that he had trust in his betrothed; she would accommodate herself to him, he felt sure, and he did not want the money. Osnovski, too, wanted to offer aid but we stopped him, knowing that it was useless. Your project will be difficult.”

“Maybe, then, he has something?”

“He has, and he hasn’t. We have just learned that some thousands of rubles came to him from his mother; but with the interest he supports his father in an insane asylum, and considers the capital as inviolable. That he takes nothing from it, is certain, for before he began with us, he suffered such poverty that he was simply dying of hunger, and he didn’t touch a copper. Such is his character. And you will understand why we esteem him. He is writing something, it seems, and thinks that he will meet the expense of first housekeeping with it. Maybe he will; his name means much at present.”

“Pears on willows!” said Pan Zavilovski. “You tell me that his name means much—does it? But that’s pears on willows!”

“Not necessarily; only it will not come quickly.”

“Well, he was ceremonious with you because you were strangers, but I am a relative.”

“We are strangers, but older acquaintances than you, and we know him better.”

Zavilovski, unaccustomed to contradiction, began to move his white mustaches, and pant from displeasure. For the first time in his life he had to trouble himself about the question, would the man to whom he wished to give money be pleased to accept it? This astonished, pleased, and angered him all at once; he recalled, then, something which he did not mention to Pan Stanislav, and this was it,—how many times had he paid notes for the father of the young man?—and what notes! But see, the apple has fallen so far from the tree that now there is a new and unexpected trouble.

“Well,” said he, after a while, “may the merciful God grant the young generation to change; for now, O devil, do not go even near them!”

Here his face grew bright all at once with an immense honest pleasure. The inexhaustible optimism, lying at the bottom of his soul, when it found a real cause to justify itself, filled his heart with glad visions.

“Bite him now, lord devil,” said he, “for the beast is as if of stone!—a capable rascal! resolute in work, and character; that is what it is,—character.”

Here he stared, and, shaking his head, fixed his lips as a sign of wonder, as if to whistle, and after a moment, added,—

“Indeed! and that in a noble! As God lives, I didn’t expect it.”

But talking in this way he deceived himself, for all his life he had expected everything.

“It seems, then,” said Pan Stanislav, “that there is no help but this, Panna Castelli must accommodate herself to him.”

But the old noble made a wry face all at once. “That is talk! tfu! Will she accommodate, or will she not? the deuce knows her! She is young; and as she is young, maybe she is ready for everything; but who will give assurance, and for how long? Besides, there is her aunt and that accommodating dead man; when he shouts from under the ground, go and talk with him. As God is true, I esteem people who have acquired property; but when any one has crept out of a cottage, and not a mansion, and pretends that he lived always in palaces, he wants palaces. And so it was with old Bronich. Neither of them was lacking in vanity; the young woman was reared in such a school,—nothing but comfort and abundance. Ignas does not know them in that respect—and you do not. Such a woman as this” (here he pointed to his daughter) “would go to a garret even, once she had given her word; but that other one, she may not go easily.”

“I do not know them,” said Pan Stanislav, “though I have heard various reports; but through good-will for Ignas, I should like to know definitely what to think of them.”

“What to think of them! I have known them a long time, and I, too, do not know much. Well, judging from what Bronich herself says, the women are saints, the most worthy. And pious! Ha! they should be canonized while living! But you see it is this way,—there are women among us who bear God and the commands of faith in their hearts, and there are such, too, who make of our Catholic religion, Catholic amusement; and such talk the loudest, and grow up where no one sowed them. That’s what the case is.”

“Ah, how truly you have spoken!” said Pan Stanislav. “Well, is it not true?” inquired Zavilovski. “I have seen various things in life; but let us return to the question. Have you any method to make this wild cat accept aid, or not?”

“It is necessary to think of something; but at this moment nothing occurs to me.”

Thereupon Panna Helena Zavilovski, who, occupied with embroidery on canvas, was silent up to that moment as if not hearing the conversation, raised her steel cold eyes suddenly, and said,—

“There is a very simple method.”

The old noble looked at her.

“See, she has found it! What is this simple method?”

“Let papa deposit sufficient capital for Pan Ignas’s father.”

“It would be better for thee not to give that advice; I have done enough in my life for Pan Ignas’s father, though I had no wish to see him, and prefer now to do something for Pan Ignas himself.”

“I know; but if his father has an income assured till his death, Pan Ignas will be able to command that which he has from his mother.”

“As God is dear to me, that is true!” said Pan Zavilovski, with astonishment. “See! we have both been breaking our heads for nothing, and she has discovered it. True, as God is dear to me!”

“You are perfectly right,” said Pan Stanislav, looking at her with curiosity.

But she had inclined to the embroidery her face, which was without expression of interest, and, as it were, faded before its time.

The news of such a turn of affairs pleased Marynia and Pani Bigiel greatly, and gave at the same time occasion to speak of Panna Helena. Formerly she was considered a cold young lady, who placed form above everything; but it was said that later a way was broken through that coldness to her heart by great feeling, which, turning into a tragedy, turned also that society young lady into a strange woman, separated from people, confined to herself, jealous of her suffering. Some exalted her great benevolence; but if she was really benevolent, she did her good work so secretly that no one knew anything definite. It was difficult, also, for any one to approach her, for her indifference was greatly like pride. Men declared that in her manner there was something simply contemptuous, just as if she could not forgive them for living.

Pan Ignas had been in Prytulov, and returned only the week following the old man’s talk with Pan Stanislav,—that is, when the noble had deposited in the name of his father twice the amount of capital which had served so far to pay his expenses at the asylum. When he learned of this, Pan Ignas rushed off to thank the old man, and to save himself from accepting it; but Zavilovski, feeling firm ground under his feet, grumbled him out of his position.

“But what hast thou to say?” asked he. “I have done nothing for thee; I have given thee nothing. Thou hast no right to receive or not to receive; and that it pleased me to go to the aid of a sick relative is a kind of act permitted to every man.”

In fact, there was nothing to answer; hence the matter ended in embraces and emotion, in which these two men, strangers a short time before, felt that they were real relatives.

Even Panna Helena herself showed “Pan Ignas” good-will. As to old Zavilovski, he, grieving in secret over this, that he had no son, took to loving the young man heartily. A week later, Pani Bronich, who had visited Warsaw on some little business, went to Yasmen to learn what was to be heard about the gout, and to speak of the young couple. When she repeated a number of times, to the greater praise of “Nitechka,” that she was marrying a man without property, the old noble grew impatient, and cried,—

“What do you say to me? God knows who makes the better match, even with regard to property, omitting mention of other things.”

And Pani Bronich, who moreover endured all from the old truth-teller, endured smoothly even the mention of “other things.” Nay, a half an hour later, she spread the wings of her imagination sufficiently. Visiting the Polanyetskis on the way, she told them that Pan Zavilovski had given her a formal promise to make an entail for “that dear, dear Ignas,” with an irrepressible motherly feeling that at times he took the place of Lolo in her heart. Finally, she expressed the firm conviction that Teodor would have loved him no less than she, and that thereby sorrow for Lolo would have been less painful to both of them. Pan Ignas did not know that he had taken the place of Lolo in Pani Bronich’s heart, nor did he know of the entail discovered for him, but he noticed that his relations with people had begun already to change. The news of that entail must have spread through the city with lightning-like swiftness, for his acquaintances greeted him in some fashion differently; and even his colleagues of the bureau, honest people, began to be less familiar. When he returned from Prytulov, he had to visit all persons who had been present at the betrothal party at the Osnovskis’; and the quickness with which the visit was returned by such a man as Mashko, for example, testified also to the change in his relations. In the first period of their acquaintance, Mashko treated him somewhat condescendingly. Now he had not ceased, it is true, to be patronizing, but there was so much kindness and friendly confidence in his manner, such a feeling for poetry even. No! Mashko had nothing against poetry; he would have preferred, perhaps, if Pan Ignas’s verses were more in the spirit of safely thinking people; but in general he was reconciled to the existence of poetry, and even praised it. His favorable inclination both to poetry and the poet were evident from his look, his smile, and the frequent repetition, “but of course,—of course,—but very!” Pan Ignas, who was in many regards naÏve, but at the same exceptionally intelligent, still understood that in all this there was some pretence, hence he thought: “Why does this, as it were, thinking man pose in such style that it is evident?”

And that same day he raised this question in a talk with the Polanyetskis; at their house it was that he had made Mashko’s acquaintance.

“Were I to pose,” said he, “I should try so to pose that people could not recognize it.”

“Those who pose,” answered Pan Stanislav, “count on this, that, though people notice the posing, still, through slothfulness or a lack of civic courage, they will agree to that which the pose is intended to express. Moreover, the thing is difficult. Have you noticed that women who use rouge lose gradually the sense of measure? It is the same with posing. The most intelligent lose this sense of measure.”

“True,” answered Pan Ignas, “as it is true also that one can reproach people with everything.”

“As to Mashko,” continued Pan Stanislav, “he knows, besides, that you are marrying a lady who passes for wealthy; he knows that you are a favorite with Pan Zavilovski, and perhaps he would like to approach him through your favor. Mashko must think of the future; for they tell me that the action to break the will, on which his fate depends, is not very favorable.”

Such was the case really. The young advocate who had appeared in defence of the will had shown much energy, adroitness, and persistence.

Here ceased their conversation about Mashko, for Pani Marynia had begun to inquire about Prytulov and its inhabitants,—a subject which for Pan Ignas was inexhaustible. In his expressive narrative, the residence at Prytulov appeared, with its lindens along the road, then its shady garden, ponds, reeds, alders, and on the horizon a belt of pine-wood. Kremen, which had faded in Marynia’s memory, stood before her now as if present; and, in that momentary revival of homesickness, she thought that sometime she would beg “Stas” to take her even to Vantory, to that little church in which she was baptized, and where her mother was buried. Maybe Pan Stanislav remembered Kremen at that moment, for, waving his hand, he said,—

“It is always the same in the country. I remember Bukatski’s statement, that he loved the country passionately, but on condition ‘that there should be a perfect cook in the house, a big library, beautiful and intelligent women, and no obligation to stay longer than two days in a twelvemonth.’ And I understand him.”

“But still,” said Marynia, “it is thy wish to have a piece of land of thy own near the city.”

“To live in our own place in summer, and not with the Bigiels, as we must this year.”

“But in me,” said Pan Ignas, “certain field instincts revive the moment I am in the country. For that matter, my betrothed does not like the city, and that is enough for me.”

“Does Lineta dislike the city really?” inquired Marynia, with interest.

“Yes, for she is a born artist. I gaze on nature too, and feel it but she shows me things which I should not notice myself. A couple of days ago, we all went into the forest, where she showed me ferns in the sun, for instance. They are so delicate! She taught me also that the trunks of pine-trees, especially in the evening light, have a violet tone. She opens my eyes to colors which I have not seen hitherto, and, like a kind of enchantress going through the forest, discloses new worlds to me.”

Pan Stanislav thought that all this might be a proof of artistic sense, but also it might be an expression of the fashion, and of that universal love for painting color which people talk into themselves, and in which any young lady at present may be occupied, not from love of art, but for show. He had not occupied himself with painting; but he noticed that, for society geese, it had become of late a merchandise, exhibited willingly in Vanity Fair, or, in other words, a means to show artistic culture and an artistic soul.

But he kept these thoughts to himself; and Pan Ignas talked on,—

“Besides, she loves village children immensely. She says that they are such perfect models, and less vulgarized than the little Italians. When there is good weather, we are all day in the fresh air, and we have become sunburnt, both of us. I am learning to play tennis, and make great progress. It is very easy, but goes hard at first. Osnovski plays passionately, so as not to grow fat. It is difficult to tell what a kind and high-minded person that man is.”

Pan Stanislav, who during his stay in Belgium had played tennis no less passionately than Osnovski, began to boast of his skill, and said,—

“If I had been there, I should have shown you how to play tennis.”

“Me you might,” answered Pan Ignas; “but they play perfectly, especially Kopovski.”

“Ah, is Kopovski in Prytulov?” asked Pan Stanislav.

“He is,” said Pan Ignas.

And suddenly they looked into each other’s eyes. In one instant each divined that the other knew something; and they stopped talking. A moment of silence and even of awkwardness ensued, for Pani Marynia blushed unexpectedly; and not being able to hide this, she blushed still more deeply.

Pan Ignas, who had thought that he was the exclusive possessor of the secret, was astonished at seeing her blush, and was confused too; then, wishing to cover the confusion with talk, he went on hurriedly,—

“Yes; Kopovski is in Prytulov. Osnovski invited him, so that Lineta might finish his portraits, for later on there will be no time. Besides, there is a relative of Osnovski’s there also, Panna Ratkovski; and I think that Kopovski is courting her. She is a pleasing and quiet young lady. In August we are all going to Scheveningen, for those ladies do not like Ostend. If Pan Zavilovski had not come with such cordial assistance to my father, I should not have been able to go; but now my hands are free.”

When he had said this, he began to talk with Pan Stanislav about his position in the counting-house, which he did not wish to leave. On the contrary, he asked a leave of some months, in view of exceptional circumstances; then he took farewell and went out, for he was in a hurry to write to his betrothed. In a couple of days he was to go to Prytulov again; but meanwhile he wrote sometimes even twice a day. And on the way to his lodgings he composed to himself the words of the letter, for he knew that Lineta would read it in company with Pani Bronich; that both would seek in it not only heart but wings; and that the most beautiful passages would be read in secret to Pani Aneta, Pan Osnovski, and even Panna Ratkovski. But he did not take this ill of his beloved “Nitechka,”—nay, he was thankful to her that she was proud of him; and he used all his power to answer to her lofty idea of him. The thought did not anger him either, that people would know how he loved her. “Let them know that she was loved as no one else in the world.”

He thought then a little of Marynia too. Her blushes moved him, for he saw in them a proof of a most pure nature, which not only was incapable of evil itself, but which was even ashamed, offended, and alarmed by evil in others. And, comparing her with Pani Aneta, he understood what a precipice divided those women, apparently near each other by social position and mental level.

When Pan Ignas had gone, Pan Stanislav said,—

“Hast thou seen that Zavilovski must have noticed something? Now I have no doubt. That Osnovski is blind, blind!”

“Just his blindness should restrain and hold her back,” said Marynia. “That would be terrible.”

“That is not ‘would be,’ it is terrible. Thou seest, noble souls pay for confidence with gratitude; mean ones, with contempt.”