Children of the Soil. Генрик Сенкевич

returned to Pani Emilia to sit half the night by the little girl.

      In this way Pan Stanislav, who passed at Pani Emilia’s all the time free from occupation, and received, or rather dismissed with thanks, those who came to inquire for Litka’s health, saw Marynia daily. And she in truth amazed him; Pani Emilia herself did not show more anxiety for the child, and could not nurse her more carefully. In a week Marynia’s face had grown pale from watching and alarm; there were dark lines beneath her eyes; but her strength and energy seemed to grow hourly. There was in her also so much sweetness and kindness, something so calm and delicate in the services which she rendered Litka, that the child, despite the resentment which she cherished in her little soul, began to be kind to her; and when she went for some hours to her father, Litka looked for her with yearning.

      Finally the little girl’s health seemed to improve in the last hours. The doctor permitted her to walk in the chamber and sit in an armchair, which on sunny days was pushed to the door opening on the balcony, so that she might look at the street and amuse herself with the movement of people and carriages.

      At such times Pan Stanislav, Pani Emilia, and Marynia stood near her frequently; their conversation related to what was passing on the street. Sometimes Litka was wearied, and, as it were, thoughtful; at other times, however, her child nature got the upper hand, and everything amused her, – hence the October sun, which covered the roofs, the walls, and the panes of the shop windows with a pale gold; the dresses of the passers-by; the calling of the hucksters. It seemed that those strong elements of life, pulsating in the whirl of the city, entered the child and enlivened her. At times wonderful thoughts came to her head; and once, when before the balcony a heavy wagon was pushing past which carried lemon-trees in tubs, and these, though tied with chains, moved with the motion of the wagon, she said, —

      “Their hearts do not palpitate.” And then, raising her eyes to Pan Stanislav, she asked, —

      “Pan Stas, do trees live long?”

      “Very long; some of them live a thousand years.”

      “Oh, I would like to be a tree. And which does mamma like best?”

      “The birch.”

      “Then I would like to be a little birch; and mamma would be a big birch, and we should grow together. And would Pan Stas like to be a birch?”

      “If I could grow somewhere not far from the little birch.”

      Litka looked at him shaking her head somewhat sadly, said, —

      “Oh, no! I know all now; I know near what birch Pan Stas would like to grow.”

      Marynia was confused, and dropped her eyes on her work; Pan Stanislav began to stroke lightly with his palm the little blond head, and said, —

      “My dear little kitten, my dear, my – my – ”

      Litka was silent; from under her long eyelids flowed two tears, and rolled down her cheeks. After a while, however, she raised her sweet face, radiant with a smile, —

      “I love mamma very much,” said she, “and I love Pan Stas, and I love Marynia.”

      CHAPTER XVII

      Professor Vaskovski inquired every day about the health of the little one; and though most frequently they did not receive him, he sent her flowers. Pan Stanislav, meeting him somewhere at dinner, began thanking him in Pani Emilia’s name.

      “Asters, only asters!” said Vaskovski. “How is she to-day?”

      “To-day not ill, but, in general, not well; worse than in Reichenhall. Fear for each coming day seizes one; and at the thought that the child may be missing – ”

      Here Pan Stanislav stopped, for further words failed him; at last he burst out, —

      “What is the use in looking for mercy? There is nothing but logic, which says that whoso has a sick heart must die. And may thunderbolts split such existence!”

      Now came Bukatski, who, when he had learned what the conversation was, attacked the professor; even he, as he loved Litka, rebelled in his soul at thought of that death which was threatening her.

      “How is it possible to deceive oneself so many years, and proclaim principles which turn into nothing in view of blind predestination?”

      But the old man answered mildly: “How, beloved friends, estimate with your own measure the wisdom of God and His mercy? A man under ground is surrounded by darkness, but he has no right to deny that above him are sky, sun, heat, and light.”

      “Here is consolation,” interrupted Pan Stanislav; “a fly couldn’t live on such doctrines. And what is a mother to do, whose only and beloved child is dying?”

      But the blue eyes of the professor seemed to look beyond the world. For a time he gazed straightforward persistently; then he said, like a man who sees something, but is not sure that he sees it distinctly, “It appears to me that this child has fixed herself too deeply in people’s hearts to pass away simply, and disappear without a trace. There is something in this, – something was predestined to her; she must accomplish something, and before that she will not die.”

      “Mysticism,” said Bukatski.

      But Pan Stanislav interrupted: “Oh, that it were so, mysticism or no mysticism! Oh, that it were so! A man in misfortune grasps even at a shadow of hope. It never found place in my head that she had to die.”

      But the professor added, “Who knows? she may survive all of us.”

      Polanyetski was in that phase of scepticism in which a man recognizes certainty in nothing, but considers everything possible, especially that everything which at the given time his heart yearns for; he breathed therefore more easily, and received certain consolation.

      “May God have mercy on her and Pani Emilia!” said he. “I would give money for a hundred Masses if I knew they would help her.”

      “Give for one, if the intention be sincere.”

      “I will, I will! As to the sincerity of intention, I could not be more sincere if the question involved my own life.”

      Vaskovski smiled and said, “Thou art on the good road, for thou knowest how to love.”

      And all left relieved in some way. Bukatski, if he was thinking of something opposed to what Vaskovski had said, did not dare mention it; for when people in presence of real misfortune seek salvation in faith, scepticism, even when thoroughly rooted, pulls its cap over its ears, and is not only cowardly, but seems weak and small.

      Bigiel, who came in at that moment, saw more cheerful faces, and said, —

      “I see by you that the little one is not worse.”

      “No, no,” said Pan Stanislav; “and the professor told us such wholesome things that he might be applied to a wound.”

      “Praise be to God! My wife gave money for a Mass to-day, and went then to Pani Emilia’s. I will dine with you, for I have leave; and, since Litka is better, I will tell you another glad news.”

      “What is it?”

      “Awhile ago I met Mashko, who, by the way, will be here soon; and when he comes, congratulate him, for he is going to marry.”

      “Whom?” asked Pan Stanislav.

      “My neighbor’s daughter.”

      “Panna Kraslavski?”

      “Yes.”

      “I understand,” said Bukatski; “he crushed those ladies into dust with his grandeur, his birth, his property, and out of that dust he formed a wife and a mother-in-law for himself.”

      “Tell me one thing,” said the professor; “Mashko is a religious man – ”

      “As a conservative,” interrupted Bukatski, “for appearance’ sake.”

      “And those ladies, too,” continued Vaskovski.

      “From habit – ”

      “Why do they never