“But you see I was there,” said Zavilovski, joyously, at the Bigiels’. “They looked on me somewhat as they might on a panther, or a wolf, but I turned out a very tame creature; I tore no one, killed no one, answered with more or less presence of mind. No; I have long since considered that it is easier to live with people than it seems, and only in the first moments have I a wish always to run away. But those ladies are indeed very free.”

“I beg you not to put us off, but tell exactly how it was,” said Pani Bigiel.

“How it was? Well, first, I entered the inclosure of the villa, and did not know what to do further, or where the Osnovskis lived, or Pani Bronich; whether to pay them a visit at once, or whether it was necessary to visit both separately.”

“Separately,” said Pan Stanislav; “Pani Bronich has separate apartments, though they have one drawing-room, which they use in common.”

“Well, I found all in that drawing-room; and Pani Osnovski first brought me out of trouble, for she said that she would share me with Pani Bronich, and that I should make two visits at one time. I found Pani Mashko there and Pan Kopovski; and he is such a man, so beautiful that he ought to have on his head one of those velvet-crowned caps which jewellers wear. Who is Kopovski?”

“An idiot!” answered Pan Stanislav. “In that is contained his name, his manner of life, his occupation, and personal marks. Another description of the man would not be needed even in a passport.”

“Now I understand,” said Zavilovski; “and certain words which I heard have become clear for me. That gentleman was sitting, and the young ladies were painting him. Pani Osnovski, his full face in oil; Panna Castelli, his profile in water-colors. Both had print skirts over their dresses, and both were beautiful. Evidently Pani Osnovski is just beginning to paint, but Panna Castelli has had much practice.”

“Of what did they talk?” Zavilovski turned to Marynia. “First, those ladies asked about your health; I told them that you looked better and better.”

He did not say, however, that on that occasion he had blushed like a student, and that at present he consoled himself only with the thought that all had been so occupied in painting that they did not notice him, in which he was mistaken. He was confused now a little, and, wishing to hide this, continued,—

“Later we spoke of painting, of course, and portraits. I observed that Panna Castelli took something from the head of Kopovski; she answered me,—

“‘It is not I, but nature.’

“She is a witty young lady; she said this in a perfectly audible voice. I began to laugh, all the others too, and with us Kopovski himself. He must have an accommodating character. He declared later on that if he looked worse to-day than usual, it was because he had not slept enough, and that he was in a hurry for the embraces of Orpheus.”

“Orpheus?”

“That’s what he said. Pan Osnovski corrected him without ceremony; but he did not agree to the correction, saying Orpheus at least ten times, and that he remembered well. Those ladies amused themselves a little with him, but he is such a fine-looking fellow that they are glad to paint him. But what an artist Panna Castelli is! When she went to showing me various plain surfaces with the brush, and lines on the portraits of Pan Kopovski, which she had begun, she touched colors, ‘What a line, that is! and what tones these are!’ I must do her the justice to say that she looked at the time like one of the Muses. She told me that it pleases her beyond everything to paint portraits, and that she meditates on a face to begin with, as on a model, and that she dreams of those heads in which there is anything uncommon.”

“Oh, ho! and you will appear to her in a dream first, and then sit for her, I am sure,” said Marynia. “And that will be well.”

Zavilovski added with a voice somewhat uncertain,—

“She told me, it is true, that that is a tribute which she likes and extorts from good acquaintances; she did not turn to me, however, directly, with this request. Had it not been for Pani Bronich, there would have been no talk of it.” “Pani Bronich saved the Muse the trouble,” said Pan Stanislav.

“But that will be well,” said Marynia.

“Why?” inquired Zavilovski; and he looked at her with a glance at once submissive and alarmed. The idea that she might push him to another woman purposely, because she divined what was passing in his heart, attracted him, and at the same time filled him with fear.

“Because,” answered Marynia, “I, indeed, am almost unacquainted with Panna Lineta, and judge only from my first impressions and from what I hear of her; but it seems to me that hers is an uncommon nature, and that there is something deep in her heart. It is well, then, that you should become acquainted.”

“I also judge from first impressions,” answered Zavilovski, quieted; “and it is true that Pani Castelli seems to me less shallow than Pani Osnovski. In general, those are beautiful and pleasant ladies; but—maybe I cannot define it, because I am not acquainted enough with society—but, coming away from them, I had a feeling as if I had been travelling on the railway with exceedingly charming foreign ladies, who amused themselves by conversing very wittily—but nothing more. Something foreign is felt in them. Pani Osnovski, for example, is exactly like an orchid,—a flower very peculiar and beautiful, but a kind of foreign flower. Panna Castelli is also that way, and in her there is nothing homelike. With them there is no feeling that one grew up on the same field, under the same rain and same sunshine.”

“What intuition this poet has!” said Pan Stanislav.

Zavilovski became so animated that on his delicate forehead the veins in the form of the letter Y became outlined more distinctly. He felt that his blame of those ladies was also praise for Marynia, and that made him eloquent.

“Besides,” continued he, “there exists a certain instinct which divines the real good wishes of people; it is not divined in that house. They are pleasant, agreeable, but their society has the appearance of form only; therefore I think that an earnest man, who becomes attached to people easily, might experience there many deceptions. It is a bitter and humiliating thing to mistake social tares for wheat. As to me, that is just why I fear people; for though Pan Stanislav says that I have intuition, I know well that at the root of the matter I am simple. And such things pain me tremendously. Simply my nerves cannot endure them. I remember that when still a child I noticed how people acted toward me in one way before my parents, and in another when my parents were absent; that was one of the great vexations of my childhood. It seemed to me contemptible, and pained me, as if I myself had done something contemptible.”

“Because you have an honest nature,” said Pani Bigiel.

He stretched forth his long arms, with which he gesticulated, when, forgetting his timidity, he spoke freely, and said,—

“O sincerity! in art and in life, that is the one thing!”

But Marynia began, in defence of those ladies: “People, and especially men, are frequently unjust, and take their own judgments, or even suppositions, for reality. As to Pani Osnovski and Lineta, how is it possible to suspect them of insincerity? They are joyful, kind, cordial, and whence should that come if not from good hearts?” Then, turning to Zavilovski, she began at him, partly in earnest, partly in jest, “You have not such an honest nature as Pani Bigiel says, for those ladies praise you, and you criticise them—”

But Pan Stanislav interrupted her with his usual vivacity: “Oh, thou art an innocent, and measurest all things with thy own measure. Wilt thou understand this, that petty cordiality and kindness may flow also from selfishness, which likes to be cosey and comfortable.

“If you,” said he, turning to Zavilovski, “pay such homage to sincerity, it is sitting before you! You have here a real type of it.”

“I know that! I know that!” said Zavilovski, with warmth.

“But is it thy wish to have me otherwise?” inquired Marynia, laughing.

He laughed also, and answered: “No, I would not. But, by the way, what a happiness it is that thou are not too small, and hast no need of heels; for shouldst thou wear them, chronic inflammation of the conscience would strike thee for deceiving people.”

Marynia, seeing that Zavilovski’s eyes were turned toward her feet, hid them under the table involuntarily, and, changing the subject, said,—

“But your volume is coming out these days, I think?”

“It would have been published already, but I added one poem; that causes delay.” “And may we know what the poem is called?”

“Lilia” (Lily).

“Is it not Lilia-Lineta?”

“No; it is not Lilia-Lineta.”

Marynia’s face grew serious. For her, it was easy to divine from the answer that the poem was to her and about her; hence she felt a sudden vexation, because she alone and one other, Zavilovski, knew this, and that there had arisen between them, for this cause, a sort of secret known to them only. This seemed to her not in accord with that honesty of hers mentioned a moment earlier, and a kind of sin against “Stas.” For the first time, she saw the mental trouble into which a woman may fall, even though she be most in love with her husband and most innocent, if only the not indifferent look of another man fall on her. It seemed to her impossible, in any case, to lead her husband into the secret of her supposition. For the first time, she was seized by a certain anger at Zavilovski, who felt this straightway with his nerves of an artist, just as the barometer reflects a change of atmosphere; and, being a man without experience, he took the matter tragically. He imagined that Marynia would close her doors on him, would hate him, that he would not be able to see her; and the world appeared in mourning colors all at once to him. In his artistic nature there existed a real mixture of selfishness and fantasy with genuine tenderness, well-nigh feminine, which demanded love and warmth. Having become acquainted with Marynia, he cleaved to her with the selfishness of a sybarite, to whom such a feeling is precious, and who thinks of nothing else; next, his fancy raised her to poetic heights, and enhanced her charm a hundredfold, made her a being almost beyond the earth; and, finally, his native sensitiveness, to which loneliness and the want of a near heart caused actual pain, was so moved by the goodness with which he was received, that from all this was produced something having every appearance of love. A physical basis was lacking to this feeling, however. Besides his capacity for impulses, as ideal as the soul itself is, Zavilovski, like most artists, had the thoughts of a satyr. Those thoughts were sleeping at that time. He arrayed Marynia in so many glories and so much sacredness that he did not desire her; and if, against every likelihood, she were to cast herself on his neck unexpectedly, she would cease to be for him Æsthetically that which she was, and which he wished her to be in future,—that is, a stainless being. All the more, therefore, did he judge that he could permit himself such a feeling, and all the more was he grieved now to part with that intoxication which had lulled his thought in such a beautiful manner, and filled the void of his life. It had been so pleasant for him, on returning home, to have a womanly figure at whose feet he had placed his soul,—to have one of whom to dream, and to whom he might write verses. Now he understands that if she discovers definitely what is taking place in him, if he does not succeed in hiding this better than hitherto, their relations cannot endure, and the former void, more painful than ever, will surround him a second time. He began then to think how he was to escape this, and how, not only not to lose anything of what he had enjoyed so far, but to see Marynia still oftener. In his quick imagination, there was no lack of methods. When he had made a hasty review, he found and chose one which, as it seemed to him, led directly to his object.

“I will fall in love, as it were, with Panna Castelli,” said he to himself, “and will confess to Pani Polanyetski my torments. That not only will not separate us, but will bring us nearer. I will make her my patroness.”

And straightway he begins to arrange the thing as if he were arranging objects. He imagines that he is in love with that “dreamy queen;” that he is unhappy, and that he will confess his secret to Marynia, who will listen to him willingly, with eyes moist from pity, and, like a real sister, will place her hand on his head. This play of fancy seemed to him so actual, and his sensitiveness was so great, that he composed expressions with which he would confess to Marynia; he found simple and touching ones, and he did this with such occupation that he himself was moved sincerely.

Marynia, returning home with her husband, thought of that poem entitled “Lilia,” which had delayed the issue of the book. Like a real woman, she was somewhat curious about it, and feared it a little. She feared too in general the difficulty which the future might bring in the relation with Zavilovski. And under the influence of these fears she said,—

“Knowest thou of what I am thinking? That Lineta would be a great prize for Zavilovski.” “Tell me,” answered Pan Stanislav, “what shot this Zavilovski and that girl into thy head.”

“I, my Stas, am not a matchmaker, I say only that it would not be bad. Aneta Osnovski is rather a hot head, it is true; but she is so lively, such a fire spark.”

“Abrupt, not lively; but believe me that she is not so simple as she seems, and that she has her own little personal plan in everything. Sometimes I think that Panna Lineta concerns her as much as she does me, and that at the root of all this something else is hidden.”

“What could it be?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t know, perhaps, because I don’t care much. In general, I have no faith in those women.”

Their conversation was interrupted by Mashko, who was just driving in by the road before their house; and, seeing them, he hastened to greet Marynia, and said then to Pan Stanislav,—

“It is well that we have met, for to-morrow I am going away for a couple of days, and to-day is my time for payment, so I bring thee the money.”

“I have just been at your father’s,” said he, turning to Marynia. “Pan Plavitski seems in perfect health; but he told me that he yearns for the country and land management, therefore he is thinking whether to buy some little place near the city, or not. I told him that if we win the will case he can stay at Ploshov.”

Marynia did not like this conversation, in which there was evident, moreover, a slight irony; hence she did not wish to continue it. After a while Pan Stanislav took Mashko to his study,—

“Then is all going well?” asked he.

“Here is the instalment due on my debt,” answered Mashko; “be so kind as to give a receipt.”

Pan Stanislav sat down at his desk, and wrote a receipt.

“But now there is another affair,” continued Mashko: “I sold some oak in Kremen once, on condition that I might redeem it, returning the price and a stipulated interest. Here is the price and the interest. I trust that thou hast nothing to add; I can only thank thee for a real service rendered, and shouldst thou ever need something of me, I beg thee,—without any ceremony, I beg thee to come to me, service for service. As is known to thee, I like to be grateful.”

“This monkey is beginning to patronize me,” thought Pan Stanislav. And if he had not been in his own house, he might have uttered the silent remark aloud; but he restrained himself and said,—

“I have nothing to add; such was the contract. Besides, I have never considered that as business.”

“All the more do I esteem it,” answered Mashko, kindly.

“Well, what is to be heard in general?” inquired Pan Stanislav. “Thou art moving with all sails, I see. How is it with the will?”

“On behalf of the benevolent institutions a young little advocate is appearing named Sledz (herring). A nice name, isn’t it? If I should call a cat by that name, she would miau for three days. But I’ll pepper that herring and eat him. As to the lawsuit? It stands this way, that at the end of it I shall be able to withdraw from law in all likelihood, which, moreover, is not an occupation befitting me—and I will settle in Kremen permanently.”

“With ready money in thy pocket?”

“With ready money in my pocket, and in plenty. I have enough of law. Of course, whoso came from the country is drawn to it. That is inherited with the blood. But enough of this matter, for the present. To-morrow, as I told thee, I am going away; and I recommend my wife to thee, all the more that Pani Kraslavski has gone just now to an oculist in Vienna. I am going besides to the Osnovskis’ to ask them too to remember her.”

“Of course we shall think of her,” said Pan Stanislav. Then the conversation with Marynia occurred to him, and he asked,—

“Thy acquaintance with the Osnovskis is of long standing?”

“Rather long, though my wife knows them better. He is a very rich man; he had one sister who died, and a miserly uncle, after whom he received a great fortune. As to her, what shall I say to thee? she read when still unmarried all that came to her hand; she had pretensions to wit, to art,—in a word, to everything to which one may pretend,—and in her way fell in love with Kopovski: here she is for thee in toto.”

“And Pani Bronich and Panna Castelli?”

“Panna Castelli pleases women rather than men; moreover, I know nothing of her, except that it is said that this same Kopovski tried for her, or is trying now, but Pani Bronich—” Here Mashko began to laugh. “Pani Bronich the Khedive conducted in person over the pyramid of Cheops; the late Alphonso of Spain said every day to her in Cannes, ‘Bon jour, Madame la Comtesse.’ In the year 56, Musset wrote verses in her album, and Moltke sat with her on a trunk in Karlsbad,—in one word, she has been at every coronation. Now, since Panna Castelli has grown up, or rather luxuriated up to five feet and some inches, Aunt ‘Sweetness’ makes those imaginary journeys, not on her own account, but her niece’s, in which for some time past Pani Osnovski helps her so zealously that it is difficult to understand what her object is. This is all, unless it is thy wish to know something of the late Pan Bronich, who died six years ago, it is unknown of what disease, for Pani Bronich finds a new one every day for him, adding, besides, that he was the last of the descendants of Rurik, not stating, however, that the second last descendant—that is, his father—was manager for the Rdultovskis, and made his property out of them. Well, I have finished,—‘Vanity fair!’ Be well, keep well, and in case of need count on me. If I were sure that such a need would come quickly, I would make thee promise to turn to no one but me. Till we meet!”

When he had said this, Mashko pressed his friend’s hand with indescribable kindness; and when he had gone, Pan Stanislav, shrugging his shoulders, said,—

“Such a clever man apparently, and doesn’t see the very same vanity in himself that he is laughing at in others! How different he was such a little while ago! He had almost ceased to pretend; but when trouble passed, the devil gained the upper hand.”

Here he remembered what Vaskovski had said once about vanity and playing a comedy; then he thought,—

“And still such people have success in this country.”