CHAPTER IV
Autumn was approaching. It was cold in the rooms of the poorer students. Wrapped in their blankets and wearing caps, they warmed themselves with study. The rooms of those who had something with which to heat their stoves were swarming with comrades. No one visited the club any longer. At first there were efforts to select some other place for a club, but it ended in nothing, because Gustav on the one hand, and on the other Yosef, who had acquired considerable influence among students, resisted together; more especially Yosef, who held that clubs consumed too much time and were of small utility. He desired to introduce reform in this regard, and at last he succeeded. In spite of all opposing opinions he combated for that idea in the University, and especially at Vasilkevich's rooms, where students met with more willingness than elsewhere.
Vasilkevich roomed with Karvovski, or rather the latter with Vasilkevich, for though Karvovski was very wealthy (he was that pale youth who had played on the piano to his comrades in the club) and paid by far the greater part of the rent for their lodgings, the soul and the pivot of this male housekeeping was our Lithuanian.
The friendship between these two young men deserved admiration and even envy. One, delicate, pampered, beautiful, with a head full of the loftiest dreams, mild-mannered and beloved of all, slipped lightly through life in comfort and plenty. The other, a genuine Lithuanian, ugly in appearance, pock-marked, with closely cut hair and flashing eyes, vivacious, laborious, energetic, and profoundly instructed, was for the first as a guardian or elder brother.
Vasilkevich possessed a warm heart, and was made, as the phrase runs, for the palm of the hand. Once when Karvovski fell dangerously ill, he nursed him night and day with real unparalleled self-denial, and when at last he recovered, the Lithuanian wept and scolded him from delight. "Oh, thou jester," said he, "what a trick for thee to fall ill; but just try it a second time!"
The students called them a chosen pair, and an old blind grandfather (minstrel) of the Ukraine who begged not far from their lodgings and to whom they gave frequent alms, spoke of them as the "kind-hearted young lords."
Many circumstances united them, but especially one which we shall mention immediately. They spent a summer vacation in the country at Karvovski's. Karvovski had a sister, weakly and not comely, but with wonderful kindness of heart, quiet, calm, a genuine angel, with a sunburnt little face and a fragile figure. That young maiden was loved by Vasilkevich; he loved her in his own way, very deeply, with faith in her and in his love, and, what is more, she loved him. Her parents did not know much of the matter, or if they did know they had no wish to hinder the young people. The maiden was ill-favored, he was honest and reliable; these facts balanced the small inequality of social position. Moreover, they did not wish to deprive their son of a society which in every regard could be only of use to him.
This Lithuanian had another good side; he loved his parents beyond everything,—the "old people," as he called them. These old people lived in remotest Jmud, near Livonia; they were poor, their son helped them. His father was a forester. The old man had a small home in the wilderness; round about him the forest sounded and the wave plashed; beyond the forest and the wave were other forests and other waves,—a remote corner it was behind the lakes. The devil lived there, according to local traditions, but somehow that devil did not trouble the old people. Such was the place in which Vasilkevich first saw the light of day.
When as a boy he went fishing, he met ducks beyond the lake, he found nests in the swamps. He was of a healthy and active disposition. Nature had cradled him; he was taught by birds, water, and trees. From the fern of the forest to the birch which knew not where in the heavens to put its head, all was for him a book the first words of which he himself learned to read. The birds of the Commonwealth explained their laws to him; once he saw how beavers made dams with their tails in the rivers; he knew that by following the voice of the bee-eater he could find hidden bee-nests; he knew how to take their young from the badgers. He even brought home young wolves to the house with him.
When he had grown up sufficiently, his father taught him to read; the old man drew out of a box some rusty coins, and sent the boy to school; then difficult times set in. There was need to learn; so he learned. It would be a long tale to tell how much and what he passed through before he reached the University and began to be the man whom we know at present.
His parents returned his love a hundred-fold.
In truth, they were a pair of doves whitened by age, loving each other, in agreement and happiness.
Happiness and peace dwelt in that cottage. Such bright spots on the earth are met with, though rarely, like oases in a desert. The old people enjoyed each other, and went side by side as in the first days after marriage; they called each other falcon and berry. What joy there was when that son came home for vacation, no tongue can tell, no pen can describe. With Vasilkevich came Karvovski. The old people loved and petted him also, but he was not for them as their Yasek, whom they simply called "Ours."
Often when the young men were tired from racing a whole day through the wilderness, the old people after going to bed talked in a low voice about them. This is what Karvovski heard once through their chamber partition,—
"He is a handsome boy, that Karvovski," said the old man.
"But ours is handsomer," answered the old woman.
"Oh, handsomer, handsomer!"
Meanwhile that "Ours" was what is called ugly, but through the prism of parental love he seemed the most beautiful on earth. It is not reality itself, but the heart with which we approach it that gives things their form and color.
But let us return to Kieff and to our acquaintances.
It is nothing wonderful that with such hosts as Vasilkevich and Karvovski their dwelling, in which among other things stood a perfect stove, became a centre for many students. Even the intelligence of the University assembled there; literary evenings were established. All who felt a vein for letters made public their productions in those rooms. The long autumn evenings were turned into genuine literary sessions. It would be difficult to enumerate the burning thoughts which were uttered there by youthful lips.
Vasilkevich, Karvovski, Yosef, in a little while Gustav, and especially Augustinovich, took the lead in those meetings. Yosef tried his creative powers, but somehow he did not succeed, he had not the talent, simply; he did not know how to fashion, how to create, how to attach his own ideas to that golden thread of fantasy which bathes all things in rainbow tints before it gives them to the world warmed and illuminated, or bright as a summer night's lightning.
But in recompense he had another kind of power. He judged soundly, and what is more, with keenness. After he had read a production of his own he analyzed it in presence of all; joyous laughter continued till late in the apartments. In like manner did he treat the productions of others; if he ridiculed the chips flew from those first offerings placed on the altar of art. He was able so to arrange his voice and expression of face to the current of his words that when he wished the gloomiest subject roused the most laughter. This obtained for him great consideration. Those who, feeling a sympathy for the moon, struck the sentimental chords of their hearts, dreaded him as they might have dreaded Satan.
Vasilkevich described his Lithuanian lakes and forests pithily. From time to time Karvovski permitted himself lyric verses in which dew, tears, lilies of the valley, and sighs spoke with each other in the manner of people. In this case it was not a question of judgment, but of the love of a village shepherd for a birch of the field which after his death "took up and withered," according to the words of those pathetic verses.
There were better and worse things in that assembly; humor appeared often, but at times something superior which was worth listening to, especially since by degrees through exercise and criticism capacities of greater or less power were manifested.
But Augustinovich towered above every one at all times. It happened more than once, God forgive, that he came drunk to the meeting, his manuscript crushed, soiled, and written fragmentarily on anything; but when he began to read all else was forgotten, the soul clung to his words. More than one student used hands and head, drew out of himself all that was best, wrote a thing that was more or less good, but common. "That lurking soul" caught up a pen right there in the room amid noise and conversation, but sheets and sheets flew from his hand and dropped under the table. When he had finished writing he picked up the sheets, arranged them, and sat down with indifference; but all listened, and more than one man envied him secretly. His figures were as if living, so complete were they; under the wave of his words thought flowed in a hundred colors, like a serpent glittering with jewels. When he spoke of love you felt the beating of a beloved heart on your own; when he rose with the strength of enthusiasm, the thunder of words roared, and the mind dazzled by lightning flashes quivered in fear; when in the low fall of words he depicted some feeling touchingly, the odor of roses and myrtle was discovered in the air, the fern blossomed in the moonlight, from some place beyond the forest and the pine wood, the song of a maiden floated out on the dew.
Ah, he was gifted! Beautiful words and beautiful thoughts fell from him of themselves, not having apparent connection with the man. Those were blossoms on a quagmire. Revelations of humor, in which moral fall accompanied cynicism, testified best of all to this.
"Ei, Augustinovich! Augustinovich!" said the students to him then, "with thy gifts, were there not such a devil in thee, what couldst thou not do, O thou scapegrace!"
"For this very reason I wish to drown him. Have ye not something here to drink?" replied he.
Gustav had been present at those meetings a few times; but he did not like Karvovski, simply because all liked him. The more difficult his career was, the more clouds obscured the horizon of his love, the more irritable and embittered did he become. Passionate and unsuccessful attachments have this peculiarity, that they develop hatreds just as passionate. Such a hatred not directed to any person or thing yet had occupied Gustav's breast and was resting like rust in it. He hated all who had what he lacked. He felt as if wronged, and for every wrong such natures are accustomed to pay, even though they pay only in theory.
He withdrew, therefore, from the society of students, though among them alone existed hearts which could beat for him. He knew this, and in spite of his hatred for all men he loved students; still he shut himself up within his own bosom. Sympathy humiliated him. He suspected the existence of pity in all places, and was afraid of it.
Finally, they learned this, that Yosef had promised him not to visit Helena. This information had not come from Yosef, but from Gustav himself; he had told it in a moment of irritation. Naturally this raised Yosef in the opinion of his comrades. Gustav was angry. Between him and Yosef a dark cloud of dislike had intervened.
The widow spoke to him of Yosef with greater and greater insistence, with increasing force, with rising passion. A process of ill-omen for Gustav, as Gustav himself thought, took place in her. The deceased Potkanski became more and more incarnate in Yosef; in this new figure Potkanski was dissolved and lost. By degrees, and just through long separation, the enthusiastic heart of Helena remembered Yosef more and more, but now for the sake of himself.
A new epoch of resuscitated happiness for the widow, of dying hope for Gustav, emerged gradually, urged on by the rude hand of necessity,—an epoch born of tears, chance, and pain.
"I may not, I may not be long in peace!" thought he. "But happen what may, I will not bring him here a second time."
Every one will divine easily what was hidden under a reflection of that sort. Gustav judged that he would be able to stifle himself by work, he was more and more wearied; happy moments he had only in sleep.
Once he dreamed that he was at Helena's knees and kissing her hands; he felt distinctly her dear palms on his heart. Then in the dream excitement of passion he found her lips with his lips, and almost suffered from excess of delight.
After that came awakening.
He saw her daily,—he was so near to her and always so distant.
He grew thinner and more emaciated; in his eyes shone feverish gleams of unbending will. That fever exhausted him, but kept him on his feet.
"I am curious to know what will come of this," muttered he through his parched lips.
But there was one side almost sublime in this gloomy exertion of suffering. Gustav was not dreaming. He took life as it was, not as it might be. In spite of the sad condition of his health, he knew how to work, and worked more than ever. To come from Pani Helena and sit down to toil needed no common strength,—such victories he won over his own nature daily. He gathered about him a number of the most capable men, and as it were to compare them with the assemblies at Vasilkevich's, he organized a circle laboring only scientifically. He and two fellow-students were writing a grammar of the Lettish languages; in spite of continual disputes with his coworkers, he stood at the head of this labor, and what he stole from suffering he gave to it.