Children of the Soil. Henryk Sienkiewicz

has sacrificed the future of his child to his own comfort, and, besides, he is frivolous. In this case the annuity is placed as it were on Kremen; but Kremen, as a ruined estate, on which there is need to spend money, has a fictitious value. If Mashko puts it in order, very well; if not, in the most favorable event he will fall behind in payment, and Plavitski may not see a copper for years. What will he do then? He will take Kremen back. But before that time Mashko will contract new debts, even to pay the old ones; and, in case of his bankruptcy, God knows how many creditors will stretch their hands after Kremen. Finally, all depends on the honesty of Mashko, who may be a correct man, but he is carrying on business riskily; if he takes one false step, it may ruin him. Who knows if this very purchase of Kremen be not such a step?—for, wishing to bring the estate into order, he must draw on his credit to the utmost. I have seen men who succeeded a long time until they turned to buying great estates.”

      “The ready money for Magyerovka will remain with the Plavitskis always,” said Pan Stanislav, as if wishing to quiet his own fears for their future.

      “If old Plavitski does not eat it up, or play it away, or waste it.”

      “I must think of something. I caused the sale; I must help.”

      “Thou?” asked Bigiel, with astonishment. “I thought that thy relations were broken forever.”

      “I shall try to renew them. I will visit the Plavitskis to-morrow.”

      “I do not know that they will be glad to see thee.”

      “And I myself do not know.”

      “Dost wish I will go with thee? For it is a question of breaking the ice. They may not receive thee alone. It is a pity that my wife is not here. I sit by myself whole evenings and play on the violoncello. During the day I have time enough too; I can go with thee.”

      Pan Stanislav, however, refused, and next day he dressed himself with great care and went alone. He knew that he was a presentable man; and though usually he did not think much of this, he resolved now to omit nothing which might speak in his favor. On the way he had his head full of thoughts as to what he should say, what he should do in this case or that one, and he tried to foresee how they would receive him.

      “I will be as simple and outspoken as possible,” said he to himself; “that is the best method absolutely.”

      And, before he noted it, he found himself at the Hotel Rome. His heart began to beat then more quickly.

      “It would not be bad,” thought he, “if I should not find them at home. I could leave a card and see later on if Plavitski would acknowledge my visit.”

      But straightway he said to himself, “Don’t be a coward,” and went forward. Learning from the servant that Plavitski was at home, he sent in his card, and after a while was invited to enter.

      Plavitski was sitting at a table writing letters, drawing at intervals smoke from a pipe with a great amber mouthpiece. At sight of Pan Stanislav he raised his head, and, looking at him through gold-rimmed glasses, said,—

      “I beg, I beg!”

      “I learned from Bigiel that you and Panna Plavitski were in Warsaw,” said Pan Stanislav, “and I came to pay my respects.”

      “That was very pretty on thy part,” answered Plavitski, “and, to tell the truth, I did not expect it. We parted in a bitter manner and through thy fault. But since thou hast felt it thy duty to visit me, I, as the older, open my arms to thee a second time.”

      The opening of the arms, however, was confined to reaching across the table a hand, which Pan Stanislav pressed, saying in his own mind,—

      “May the Evil One take me, if I come here to thee, and if I feel toward thee any obligation!” After a while he asked, “You and your daughter are coming to live in Warsaw?”

      “Yes. I am an old man of the country, accustomed to rise with the sun and to work in the fields; it will be grievous for me in your Warsaw. But it was not right to imprison my child; hence I made one sacrifice more for her.”

      Pan Stanislav, who had spent two nights in Kremen, remembered that Plavitski rose about eleven in the forenoon, and that he labored specially about the business of Kremen, not its fields; he passed this, however, in silence, for he had a head occupied with something else at that moment. From the chamber which Plavitski occupied, an open door led to another, which must be Marynia’s. It occurred to Pan Stanislav, who was looking in the direction of that door from the time of his entrance, that perhaps she did not wish to come out; therefore he inquired,—

      “But shall I not have the pleasure of seeing Panna Marynia?”

      “Marynia has gone to look at lodgings which I found this morning. She will come directly, for they are only a couple of steps distant. Imagine to thyself a plaything, not lodgings. I shall have a cabinet and a sleeping-room; Marynia also a very nice little chamber,—the dining-room is a trifle dark, it is true; but the drawing-room is a candy-box.”

      Here Plavitski passed into a narrative concerning his lodgings, with the volubility of a child amused by something, or of an old lover of comfort, who smiles at every improvement. At last he said,—

      “I had barely looked around when I found myself at home. Dear Warsaw is my old friend; I know her well.”

      But at that moment some one entered the adjoining room.

      “That is Marynia, surely,” said Plavitski. “Marynia, art thou there?” called he.

      “I am,” answered a youthful voice.

      “Come here; we have a guest.”

      Marynia appeared in the door. At sight of Pan Stanislav, astonishment shone on her face. He, rising, bowed; and when she approached the table, he stretched out his hand in greeting. She gave him her own with as much coldness as politeness. Then she turned to her father, as if no one else were present in the room,—

      “I have seen the lodgings; they are neat and comfortable, but I am not sure that the street is not too noisy.”

      “All streets are noisy,” answered Plavitski. “Warsaw is not a village.”

      “Pardon me; I will go to remove my hat,” said Marynia. And, returning to her room, she did not appear for some time.

      “She will not show herself again,” thought Pan Stanislav.

      But evidently she was only arranging her hair before the mirror, after removing her hat; she entered a second time, and asked,—

      “Am I interrupting?”

      “No,” said Plavitski, “we have no business now, for which, speaking in parenthesis, I am very glad. Pan Polanyetski has come only through politeness.”

      Pan Stanislav blushed a little, and, wishing to change the subject, said,—

      “I am returning from Reichenhall; I bring you greetings from Pani Emilia and Litka, and that is one reason why I made bold to come.”

      For a moment the cool self-possession on Marynia’s face vanished.

      “Emilia wrote to me of Litka’s heart attack,” said she. “How is she now?”

      “There has not been a second attack.”

      “I expect another letter, and it may have come; but I have not received it, for Emilia addressed it very likely to Kremen.”

      “They will send it,” said Plavitski; “I gave directions to send all the mail here.”

      “You will not go back to the country, then?” asked Pan Stanislav.

      “No; we will not,” answered Marynia, whose eyes recovered their expression of cool self-possession.

      A moment of silence followed. Pan Stanislav looked at the young lady, and seemed to be struggling with himself. Her face attracted him