CHAPTER XI
The count died really, and was buried according to Christian ceremonial. After his death Yosef paid a visit to the old lady. It was a question of securing guardianship for the countess, since no one of the family had come forward.
The count had left very scanty means of maintenance, and even if he had left more the countess was too young to manage a house alone.
Because of the lofty piety and exceeding delicacy of conscience of Pani Visberg, it was not difficult for Yosef to arrange the business he had mentioned. He persuaded her that she had killed the count by her lawsuit, and therefore she was bound to give protection to the daughter of her victim. The lady was greatly terrified at the executioners of hell, with whom Yosef threatened her, and on the other hand she judged that the companionship of the countess, who was of society and highly educated as Yosef declared, would not be without profit to Malinka.
Pani Visberg was an honorable woman in the full sense of the word; she had not much wit, it is true, and still less acquaintance with society. The best proof of this was that she considered Augustinovich the acme of elegance, polish, and good tone. Yosef she feared a little, from the time of his first visit. But she was content in soul that such distinguished young men, as she said, were inchned to her lowly threshold.
Malinka, who in many regards resembled her mother, was seriously smitten with Augustinovich. She had induced the old lady to take a permanent residence in Kieff; for that matter Pani Visberg had come to the city somewhat with that intent. She wished to show her daughter to the world, for Malinka was nineteen years of age, and during those nineteen years she had been once in Kieff, once in Jitomir, and had sat out the rest of the time at home. Fortune permitted a residence in the city. The late Pan Visberg had been in his day an official in the customhouse, though in a funeral speech over his grave these words had been uttered: "Sleep, Cleophas Visberg! for during long ages the nations (all Europe) will admire thy integrity and stern rectitude." We say Cleophas Visberg left to his wife, inconsolable in her sorrow, about nine times one hundred thousand zlotys, and he would have left more if inexorable Fate had not cut short his days. He entered the kingdom of shadows more sated with years than with income.
But this income fell to good hands, for both ladies had excellent hearts. They helped widows and orphans; they paid their servants, male and female, regularly; they paid tithes to their church faithfully; in a word, they performed all Christian deeds which concern soul and body.
They received the countess with open arms, and with as much cordiality as if they had been her relatives. Malinka, an honest though simple maiden, was in love out and out with the noble orphan. How much she promised herself from the first glance to be kind and obliging to her, how much she wished to comfort her, how much she dreamed of a pure friendship with her in the future, it would be difficult to tell; enough that Yosef found as good protection for the countess as if she had been in the house of her own parents—it could not have been better.
It is true that the countess was well fitted to rouse sympathy. The silent and deep sorrow which weighed her down at the moment did not remove her so far from reality that she could not be charming to those who were kind to her. She thanked Yosef with tears in her eyes; stretched to him a hand, which he, with emotion rare in him, pressed to his lips. "As I love God!" said Augustinovich, "I almost wept when she looked at me. May the devils take me if she is not a hundred times more beautiful than I am."
In fact, that new figure, attended already with words of sympathy, had connected itself with the fate of the heroes of this book. That a countess like her could not remain without influence on them is understood easily. Whether the future will attach angel wings to the shoulders of the countess, or show in her charming body a barren, hypocritical soul, the continuation will teach us.
Hei! hei! If this life resembled a book; if it were possible to give people souls such as are created in thought; but then would these be people like the rest of mankind? It would be all one, however, for poison cakes are the food of this world, as the boy said. The human soul is like a spring; it carries poison far, and what man can guarantee that poison is not lying at the bottom of his own soul, and that he would not create poisoned characters? The soul is blank paper! God writes on one side, and Satan on the other; but God and Satan are only symbols in this case. In fact, there is another hand; the world is that hand really. The world writes on the soul, good and bad people write on it, moments of happiness write there, suffering writes more enduringly than all. But there are souls like mussels. The mussel changes grains of sand, and the soul pain, into pearls; sadness and solitude are the means. But not always. It depends on the soul. Sadness and solitude sometimes conceal weariness, emptiness, and stupidity. These three full sisters like to dwell in palaces built of sadness and solitude, seeking that which they have never lost. It does not follow from this that there are no charms in solitude. Sadness has none, at least for a sad person. Solitude for the soul is something like a time of sleep for the body. Nay, more; that misty monad, the soul, seems to dissolve in solitude, to separate, to vanish, to cease its existence almost; words and thoughts end in that silent region; the soul is annihilated for a season, separates on all sides from its own centre. All this is called rest.
Solitude is the worst term that the human mind has had wit to invent; solitude is never alone, silence always goes with it.
It is a pity that the misty garments of this lady called Solitude are borne most frequently by that seductive page whose name is Laziness.
But sometimes, say the poets, solitude gives a creative moment. The soul is lost then and trembles, inchning to receive some vision flying in from beyond.
For this reason only fools or sages love solitude greatly.
What was the countess?
Let us see. It is time to descend from cloudy heights to life’s realities. Let the countess enter! How? As a young maiden—can there be anything more charming under the sun? Such a beautiful mixture of blood, body, perfumes, flowers, sun rays—and what else?
Our illusions.
Fly in, golden butterfly.