Next morning after the arrival of the Polanyetskis in Kremen, it was Sunday. Pan Stanislav himself rose late, for they had come at one o’clock the night previous. In Kremen the servants had been waiting with bread and salt for them. Marynia, laughing and weeping in turn, examined every corner in the house, and after that was unable to fall asleep, from emotion, till almost daylight. For all these reasons Pan Stanislav did not permit her to rise; but since she wanted to go to Mass at Vantory rather early, so as to pray at the church for her mother, he promised to have the carriage ready, and let her know when it was time. Immediately after breakfast he went out to look at his new inheritance. It was the second half of May, and the day was exceptionally beautiful. Rain had fallen in the night, and the sun was shining on little pools in the yard; and on the buildings it was reflected in diamond brightness in raindrops hanging on the leaves, and it made the wet roofs of the barns, cow-houses, and sheep-houses gleam. In that glitter, and in the bright May green of the trees, Kremen seemed altogether charming. Around the buildings there was hardly any movement, for it was Sunday; but at the stable were busied some men, who had to drive to church. This silence and sleepiness struck Pan Stanislav strangely. Having intended for some time to buy Kremen, he had been there repeatedly, and knew that it was a neglected property. Mashko had begun, it is true, to build a granary, which was covered with a red roof, but he had not finished it. He had never lived in the place himself, and toward the end could not expend anything on the property, hence neglect was visible at every step. But never had it seemed to Pan Stanislav neglected so absolutely as now, when he was able to say to himself, “This is mine.” The buildings were somehow leaning; the walls in them not very solid; the fences were inclining and broken; under the walls were lying fragments of various broken agricultural implements. Everywhere the earth seemed desirous of drawing into itself that which was on its surface; everywhere was seen a kind of passive abandonment of things to themselves; everywhere carelessness was visible. Of agriculture Pan Stanislav knew only this, that there was need to be careful in expenses; for the rest, he had not the least conception of it, save some general information, which had struck his ears in childhood. But, looking at his kingdom, he divined that cultivation of its fields must coincide exactly with that carelessness which he saw around; he had a clear feeling that if anything was done there it was rather from custom, from routine, as it were, and because of this alone, that some such thing had been done ten, twenty, a hundred years earlier. That exertion, that untiring, watchful energy, which is the basis of commerce, of industry, and of city industry in general,—of that there was not a trace. “If I brought nothing more than that to this torpor,” said Pan Stanislav, “it would be very much, for there is an absolute lack of energy. Besides, I have money, and at least this much knowledge,—that I know to begin with that I know nothing, and second, I know that I must learn and inquire.” He remembered, besides, from his Belgian times, that even abroad, even there in Belgium, the spirit of man and the exertion of will meant more than the most powerful machines. And in this regard he counted on himself, and he was able to count. He felt that he was a persistent and active man. Everything taken in hand by him hitherto had to move, whether it would or not. He felt, besides, that in business he had a head that was not fantastic, but one reckoning accurately; and, thanks to this feeling, not only did he not lose confidence at sight of the neglect which he saw before him, but he found in it something like a spur. That torpor, that neglect, that inertia, that sleepiness, seemed to challenge him; and, casting his eyes around, he said to them almost with pleasure, “That’s all right; we’ll have a trial!” And he was even in a hurry for the trial.

These first reviews and thoughts did not spoil his humor, but took much time. Looking at his watch, he saw that if he wished to be in Vantory for Mass, it was time to start at once; giving the order, then, to attach the horses, he returned hastily to the house, and knocked at Marynia’s door.

“Lady heiress!” called he, “the service of God!”

“Yes, yes!” answered the gladsome voice of Marynia through the door, “I am ready.”

Pan Stanislav went in, and saw her in a light summer robe, like that in which he saw her at his first visit in Kremen. She had dressed thus purposely; and he, to her great delight, understood her intention, for he exclaimed, stretching out his hands to her,—

“Panna Plavitski!”

And she, as if embarrassed, put her nose up to his face, and pointed to the cradle, in which Stas was sleeping.

Then they drove to the church with Papa Plavitski. It was a spring day, bright, full of warm breezes and gladness. In the groves the cuckoos were calling, and on the fields striding storks were visible. Along the road hoopoos and magpies flew from tree to tree before the carriage. From time to time a breeze sprang up and flew over the green fleeces, as over waves, bending the blades of grass, and forming quivering shades on the green of the fields. Around about was the odor of the soil, of grass, of spring. He and she were seized by a swarm of reminiscences. In her was called forth, though a little blunted by life in the city, that love of hers for land, and the country, the forest and green fields, the fruits in the fields, the pastures narrowing in the distance, the broad expanses of air, and that extent of the sky which is far greater than in cities. All this filled her with a half-conscious feeling which verged on the intoxication of delight. And Pan Stanislav remembered how once, in the same way, he had ridden to church with Pan Plavitski, and how, in like manner, the hoopoos and magpies flew from tree to tree before him. But now he felt at his side that rosy woman, whom he had seen then for the first time,—that former Panna Plavitski. In one word, he made present in his mind all that had taken place between them: the first acquaintance, and that charm with which she possessed him; their later disagreement; that strange part which Litka played in their lives; their marriage, later life, and the hesitations of happiness; the changes which, under the influence of that clear spirit, took place in him, and the present clearing up of life. He had also a blissful feeling that the evil had passed; that he had found more than he had dreamed of; that at present, it is true, misfortunes of every kind might come on him; but with reference to relations with her, his life had become clear once for all, and very honorable, almost equally the same as “the service of God,” and as much more sunny than the past as that horizon which surrounded them was sunnier than that of the city. At this thought, happiness and affection for her overflowed his heart. Arriving at Vantory, he repeated “eternal repose” for the soul of that mother to whom he was thankful for such a wife, with no less devotion than Marynia herself. It seemed to him that he loved that dust, buried under the church, with the same filial affection as the dust of his own mother.

But now the bell sounded for Mass. In the church again old memories thronged into his mind. Everything around him was known somehow, so that at moments he felt the illusion that he had been there yesterday. The nave of the church was filled with the same gray crowd of peasants, and the odor of sweet flag; the same priest was celebrating Mass at the altar: the same birch branches, moved by the breeze, were striking the window from the outside; and Pan Stanislav thought again, as before, that everything passes, life passes, pains pass, hopes, impulses, pass, directions of thought and whole systems of philosophy pass, but Mass, as of old, is celebrated, as if in it alone were eternal indestructibility. Marynia alone was a new form in the old picture. Pan Stanislav, looking at moments on her calm face, and her eyes raised to the altar, divined that she was praying with her whole soul for their future life in the country; hence he accommodated himself to her, and prayed with her.

But after Mass, on the church square, neighbors surrounded them, old acquaintances of Pan Plavitski and Marynia. Plavitski, however, looked around in vain for Pani Yamish; she had been in the city for a number of days. Councillor Yamish was cured completely from catarrh of the stomach; and therefore well, and made young, at the sight of Marynia he fell into genuine enthusiasm.

“Here is my pupil!” cried he, kissing her hand, “the house mistress! my golden Marynia! Aha! the birds have come back to the old nest. But how beautiful she is always, as God is true,—a young lady, just a young damsel to look at, though I know that there is a son in the house.”

Marynia was blushing from delight; but at that moment the Zazimskis approached, with their six children, and with them also Pan Gantovski, called commonly “Little Bear,” the former unsuccessful rival for Marynia, and the incomplete slayer of Mashko. Gantovski approached awkwardly and with some confusion, as if dazzled by Marynia’s beauty, and seized with sorrow for the happiness which had missed him. In fact, Marynia greeted him with comic awkwardness; but Pan Stanislav stretched his hand to him in friendliness, with the magnanimity of a conqueror, and said,—

“Oh, I find here acquaintances even from years of childhood. How are you?”

“In the old fashion,” answered Gantovski.

But Pan Yamish, who was in excellent humor, said, looking teasingly at the young man,—

“He has his cares in regulating peasant privileges.”

Gantovski grew still more confused, for the whole neighborhood was talking of those troubles. For some years the poor fellow had been barely able to live in that Yalbrykov of his. The regulation of peasant privileges and the selling of timber might have brought him to the open road at length, when in opposition to all the conditions, which more than once had been near settlement, there rose the eternal unchangeable reproach on the part of his Yalbrykov neighbors that “the lord heir rides on a white horse, fires from pistols, and looks into the girls’ eyes.”

Gantovski, though accustomed from years of youth to various country troubles, lost at times his patience and cried out in genuine despair,—

“Well, dog blood! what has one to do with the other? May the brightest thunderbolts shake every one of you!”

But after such a convincing dictum, the Yalbrykov peasant representatives assembled as usual a new mature council, and, after a careful consideration of everything, for and against, announced again, while scratching the backs of their heads, that all would be right, but that “the lord heir rides on a white horse, fires from pistols, and looks at the girls.”

Meanwhile Marynia, who had as much attachment for Pan Yamish as if he had been one of the family, when she heard that he was a straw widower, invited him to dinner. But beyond expectation Plavitski, angry because he had not found Pani Yamish in Vantory, and mindful of his Sunday whist parties with “Gantos,” invited Gantovski too, in consequence of which the Polanyetskis drove ahead very hurriedly, so that Marynia might have time to make needful arrangements. Behind them came Plavitski and the councillor; Gantovski dragged on in the rear in his brichka drawn by a lean Yalbrykov nag.

Along the road Plavitski said to Councillor Yamish,— “I cannot tell you. My daughter is happy. He is a good man and an energetic piece, but—”

“But what?” asked Pan Yamish.

“But flighty. Thou hast in mind, neighbor, that he pressed me so hard for some wretched twelve thousand rubles that I was forced to sell Kremen. And what then? Then he bought back that same Kremen. If he had not squeezed me, he would not have had to buy Kremen, for he would have had it for nothing with Marynia after my death. He is a good-natured man, but here” (and while he was saying this, Plavitski tapped his forehead with his finger) “there is something lacking! What is true, is not a sin.”

“Hm!” answered Yamish, who did not wish to cause bitterness to Plavitski by the remark that if Kremen had remained longer in his hands nothing would have been left of it.

Plavitski sighed, and said,—

“But for me in my old age new toil, for now everything must go by my head.”

With difficulty did Pan Yamish restrain himself from shouting, “May God forbid!” but he knew Pan Stanislav well enough to know that there was no danger. Plavitski did not believe much in what he himself said; he was a little afraid of his son-in-law, and he knew well that now everything would go by another head.

Thus conversing, they drove up to the porch. Marynia, who had arranged everything already for the dinner, received them with Stas in her arms.

“I wanted to present my son to you before we sat down to table,” said she; “a big son! a tremendous boy! a nice son!”

And in time to these words she began to sway him toward Pan Yamish. Pan Yamish touched Stas’s face with his fingers, whereupon the “nice son” first made a grimace, then smiled, and all at once gave out a sound which might have a certain exceptionally important meaning for investigators of “esoteric speech;” but for an ordinary ear it recalled wonderfully the cry of a magpie or a parrot.

Meanwhile Gantovski came, and having hung up his overcoat on a peg in the entrance, he was looking in it for a handkerchief, when, by a strange chance, Rozulka, young Stas’s nurse, found herself also in the entrance, and approaching Gantovski, embraced his knees, and then kissed his hands. “Oh! how art thou, how art thou? What wilt thou say?” asked the heir of Yalbrykov.

“Nothing! I only wished to make obeisance,” said Rozulka, submissively.

Gantovski bent a little to one side, and began to search for something with his fingers in his breast pocket; but evidently she had come only to bow to the heir, for, without waiting for a gift, she kissed his hand again, and walked away quietly to the nursery.

Gantovski went with a heavy face to the rest of the company, muttering to himself in bass,—

“Um-dree-dree! Um-dree-dree! Um-dramta-ta!”

Then all sat down at the table, and a conversation began about the return of the Polanyetskis to the country. Pan Yamish, who, of himself, was an intelligent man, and, as a councillor, must be wise by virtue of his office, and eloquent, turned to Pan Stanislav, and said,—

“You come to the country without a knowledge of agriculture, but with that which is lacking mainly to the bulk of our country residents,—a knowledge of administration, and capital. Hence, I trust, and I am sure, that you will not come out badly in Kremen. Your return is for me a great joy, not only with reference to you and my beloved pupil, but because it is also a proof of what I say always, and assert, that the majority of us old people must leave the land; but our sons, and if not our sons, our grandsons, will come back; and will come back stronger, better trained in the struggle of life, with calculation in their heads, and with the traditions of work. Do you remember what I told you once,—that land attracts, and that it is genuine wealth? You contradicted me, then, but to-day—see, you are the owner of Kremen.”

“That was through her, and for her,” answered Pan Stanislav, pointing to his wife.

“Through her, and for her,” repeated the councillor; “and do you think that in my theory there is no place for women, and that I do not know their value? They divine with heart and conscience where there is real obligation, and with their hearts they urge on to it. But land is a real obligation, as well as real wealth.”

Here Pan Yamish, who, in the image and likeness of many councillors, had this weakness, that he was fond of listening to himself, closed his eyes, so as to listen still better, and continued,— “Yes, you have returned through your wife! Yes, that is her merit; and God grant us that such women be born more frequently! But in your way you have all come out of the soil, and therefore soil attracts you. We ought to have the plough on our escutcheons, all of us. And I tell you more, not only did Pan Stanislav Polanyetski return, not only did Pani Marynia Polanyetski return, but the family of the Polanyetskis returned, for in it was awakened the instinct of whole generations, who grew out of the soil, and whose dust is enriching it.”

When he had said this, Pan Yamish rose, and taking a goblet, exclaimed,—

“In the hands of Pani Polanyetski, the health of the family of the Polanyetskis!”

“To the health of the family of the Polanyetskis!” cried Gantovski, who, having a feeling heart, was ready to forgive the family of the Polanyetskis all the sufferings of heart through which he had passed by reason of them.

And all went with their glasses to Pani Marynia, who thanked them with emotion; but to Pan Stanislav, who approached her, she whispered,—

“Ai, Stas, how happy I am!”

But when all in the company found themselves again at their places, Papa Plavitski added, on his part,—

“Keep the soil to the very last! that is what I have been advocating all my life.”

“That is certain!” confirmed Gantovski.

But in his soul he thought, “If it were not for those dog blood troubles!”

And at that very time, in the nursery, Rozulka was singing little Stas to sleep with the sad village song,—

After dinner, the guests were making ready to separate; but Plavitski kept them for a “little party,” so that they went away only when the sun was near setting. Then the Polanyetskis, having amused themselves first with little Stas, went out on the porch, and further, to the garden, for the evening was calm and clear. Everything reminded them of that first Sunday which they had spent there together; it seemed to them like some wonderful and pleasant dream, and reminiscences of that kind were there without number at every step. The sun was going down in the same way, large and shining; the trees stood motionless in the stillness of evening, reddening at the tops from the evening light; on the other side of the house the storks were chattering in the same way on their nests; there was the same mood of all things around them, cherishing and vesperal. They began to walk about, to pass through all the alleys, go to the fences, look at the fields, which lost themselves in the distance, at the narrow strips of woods barring the horizon, and to say quiet things to each other, and also as quietly as that evening was quiet. All this which surrounded them was to be their world. Both felt that that village was taking them into itself; that some relation was beginning to weave itself between them and it; that henceforth their life must flow there, not elsewhere,—laborers, devoted to the “service of God” in the field.

When the sun had gone down, they returned to the porch; but, as on that first occasion, so now they remained on it, waiting for perfect darkness. But formerly Marynia had kept at a distance from Pan Stanislav; now she nestled up to his side, and said, after some silence,—

“It will be pleasant for us here with each other, Stas, will it not?”

And he embraced her firmly, so as to feel her at his very heart, and said,—

“My beloved, my greatly beloved!”

Then from beyond the alder-trees, which were wrapped in haze, rose the ruddy moon; and the frogs in the ponds, having learned, evidently, that the lady had returned, she whom they had seen so often at the shore, called in the midst of the evening silence, in one great chorus,—

“Glad! glad!”

THE END.