CHAPTER V
Nothing could be more irritating than the relations of these students.
They lived together.
At last Gustav on returning one day from Pani Helena's found Yosef's effects packed. Yosef himself was occupied in arranging his books and linen.
Both were silent till all was ready; then Yosef said,—
"Gustav, farewell! I am moving out."
Gustav reached him his hand without saying a word. They parted coldly.
On the road Vasilkevich met Yosef.
"Ho! What is this?" inquired he. "Art thou moving?"
"Thou knowest my relations with Gustav, judge thyself if I can live with him longer."
"But this is clear, it was not well for thee to leave him in his present condition of health."
"I understand, but I assure thee that I can only irritate him. Thou knowest what I have done for Gustav; he has no real reason to dislike me; but still—"
Vasilkevich pressed his hand.
Yosef's new lodgings were in a house of several stories. They consisted of two large and good-looking rooms. Besides the money which he had brought from home, Yosef immediately after his arrival found means which permitted him to save his capital to the utmost. He began to think then of a more comfortable mode of life, and at last arranged things far better really than at the beginning. From the first glance one might note ease and plenty in the new dwelling. The bed was made in good order every day, the floor swept, and in the small porcelain stove a cheerful fire burned daily, toward evening—it was so comfortable there that the soul rejoiced!
For that matter, the whole house was far better arranged than the other, it was even elegant. On the first story lived some general with his wife and two daughters, as ugly as two winter nights; on the second story lived Yosef, and a French engineer from whom the rooms were hired; and on the third some reduced count, a man immensely rich on a time, perhaps, but at that moment bankrupt; he lived in three or four rooms with his grown-up daughter and two or three servant-maids from the Ukraine. Such were Yosef's neighbors.
Soon they gave evidence of themselves, for all day in the engineer's rooms groaned a piano at which children were learning to play all the contra-dances ever danced up to that time in any land; at the general's were continual amusements, dances, and evening parties. Whole nights through there was stamping there, as in a mill, servants moving about on the stairway; there was no lack of noise and rattle.
The count alone lived quietly. There is nothing wonderful in this, that he and his daughter sat there meditating sadly over their own ruin like Jews over the ruins of Jerusalem. Yosef of course did not know them yet, but at times about dusk, by the clatter on the stairs and the heavy tread, he divined that the old count was taking his daughter to walk; but not being fond of titles or coronets, he had in truth no curiosity to look at them.
Once, however, he saw something which interested him more. A certain day, while going to his room, he saw between the first story and the second a certain bust bent over the banisters with a head altogether shapely, blue eyes, and dark hair. Those eyes, shaded by a hand, were looking carefully for something in the half light of the passage. Seeing Yosef, the head pushed forward, and with it the body, and when the student hurried on, wishing to see the young lady more nearly, he saw only two small feet in black boots and white stockings. The feet were fleeing upstairs with all speed.
"Ah, that is the countess then!" thought he.
The countess roused his curiosity. He did not know himself why in the dusk sitting in front of the fire he saw definitely before him that pair of eyes covered with the hand, the white forehead surrounded with curls of dark hair, and the feet in black boots.
A couple of evenings later when at an advanced hour he had put out the light and lain down in bed, he heard some voice singing a melancholy song in Italian. The passage and Yosef's room also were filled with those tones, youthful, resonant, sympathetic; the fond and passionate adjurations and reproaches were given out with a marvellous charm; in the stillness of night the words came forth clearly.
"Ah! the countess is singing!" murmured Yosef.
Next morning early, he knew not why, while dressing and rubbing his hands with soap stubbornly, he sang with much pathos as if to lend himself energy.
But soon he ceased; the widow came to his mind instead of the countess. "That woman either loves me already, or she would love me very soon," thought he. He wished the return of those moments during which he had looked into her eyes. "What a strange woman!" thought he. "How that Potkanski must have loved her—ha! and Gustav!" He frowned. "If I go there, will he not grieve to death, will he not poison himself? That love will ruin him—h'm! Each answers for himself. But I am curious to know what she says since I do not visit her."
Thenceforth that moment recurred to his mind frequently when she, so pale and with outstretched arms, exclaimed, "I have found thee, my Kazimir!"
If only he wished, he could go to her, love her, and be loved by her.
This plan of probable love did not let him sleep. Like every young man, he felt the need of love; his heart beat violently, as if it wanted to burst, broken by its own strength. And so far he knew no woman except the widow. The black boots and white stockings of the countess passed before his eyes, but that slight imagining vanished into nothingness.
He remembered meanwhile how on a certain time during conversation he had held the widow's hand; he remembered what a wish he had had to kiss it, but he remembered also how ominously Gustav's eyes were glittering at that moment. Jealousy seized him. Occasionally a scarcely visible cloud, regret for a premature promise, sped past in his soul and hid somewhere in its darkest caves. Then he repeated in a very tragic tone, "I have promised, I will not go."
One thing more angered him,—to people respected and more advanced in life this would seem a paradox, the quiet of life angered him. Science came to him easily, he did not expend all his powers, and this roused distaste in him. Fresh, active natures, like young soldiers, feel a need of bathing in the fire of battle. This desire of his to fight which at a more advanced age seems to us improbable, becomes in certain years, and quite seriously, one of the needs of the spirit. Let us remember Yosef's monologue in Gustav's room, the first day of his coming to Kieff. He wanted then to throw down the gauntlet in the name of science or the name of feeling, before the whole world. Young eagles try to fly with a cloud above them and an abyss underneath. Even the most common man, before learning that he is a turtle, has moments in which he thinks himself an eagle.
In such a condition was Yosef, and in this case there was simply no one with whom to be at sword's-points.
In the University he had a greater or less number of adherents, a field in the wide world might open, but Yosef did not know this wide world yet.
Suddenly something happened which snatched him from his lethargy.
Augustinovich had acted in a way that offended the honor of students. They determined to expel him.
That was not his first offence, but the students had always passed those matters over among themselves, not wishing to be compromised in public opinion; now the measure had been exceeded. We will not acquaint the reader with the offence; what concern have we with foulness? It is enough that a court composed of students had decided to expel the offender. From such decisions there was no appeal, for the University authorities always confirmed them; an appeal would only make it more widely known.
Indignation among students was great; no one took the part of Augustinovich except Yosef, who rousing half the University exerted his power to save the man.
"You wish to expel him," said he, at a very stormy meeting. "You wish to expel him? But do you think that after he has left the University he will not bring shame to you? What will he do with himself? Where will he go? How will he find means of living? How will he maintain himself? And do you know why he fell? No!—Ask him when he has eaten a dinner. We are among ourselves. Raise either of his feet, the right or the left, all the same! If under his boots you find one sound sole, expel him. As to me I declare, and may the thunderbolts split any one who will say otherwise, that we ought to save, not to ruin him. Give him salvation, give him bread—take him on your own responsibility!"
"Who will answer for him?" asked one of Augustinovich's opponents.
"I!" shouted Yosef in a thundering voice; and he threw his cap on the floor.
There was uproar and confusion in the room. Vasilkevich supported Yosef with all his influence, others insisted on his expulsion, there was no "small uproar." Yosef sprang onto a bench, and turning to Augustinovich shouted,—
"They forgive thee! Come with me."
He left the room, rubbing his hands with internal delight, and cried,—
"It would be a pity to lose such a head! Besides, let them eat the devil if they act without me now!"
"Why didst thou save me?" inquired Augustinovich.
Yosef turned a severe face toward him and said,—
"To-day thou wilt move into my lodgings."
Meanwhile another drama was played in Pani Helena's lodgings. She was a most peculiar person; she could not exist, she knew not how to exist, without attaching her life to some feeling. Her first chance had been fortunate; she proved a model wife and mother. It had seemed to her that she found salvation in Yosef, and now months had passed since she had seen him; and she desired him the more, the more persistently Gustav resisted.
The last struggle of these directly opposing forces had to come.
"If thou wilt not return him to me," said the widow in tears, one evening, "I will go myself to find him. I am ready to kneel down before thee and beg on my knees for him, Gustav! Thou sayest that Kazimir begged thee to have care over me; so I implore thee in his name. O God, O God! Thou dost not understand that it is possible to suffer; thou hast never loved, of course."
"I, Pani! have never loved?" repeated Gustav, in a very low voice; and in his eyes real pain was evident. "Perhaps thou art speaking the truth. Then thou hast observed nothing, hast seen nothing? I know not myself that I have loved any one except—O God, what do I utter!—except thee alone."
He threw himself at Helena’s feet.
Great silence followed. One might have said that the two persons had become stone,—she bent backward, with her hands over her face, he at her feet. They continued in this posture, both oblivious of everything around them. But a moment comes when the greatest pain is conquered.
He rose soon, a new man; he was very calm. He roused her, and spoke in a low voice, interrupted through a lack of breath.
"Pardon me, Helena! I should not have done this, but thou seest I have been suffering so long. This is the third year since I saw thee the first time—I saw thee in a church; the priest was just elevating the chalice, and thou wert inclining—I visited that church afterward, I saw thee more frequently, and, pardon me! I myself cannot tell how it happened. Afterward thou didst become his wife I said nothing. And this time I did not wish to offend or annoy thee, but thou sayest that I have never loved. Thou seest that that is not true. How hard it is to renounce the last hope! Pardon me! Pan Yosef will come to-day to thee—he is a man of noble nature, love him, be happy and farewell."
He bent toward her, and raising the hem of her garment, with gleaming upturned eyes, he kissed the cloth as though it were sacred.
After a while the widow was alone.
"What did he say?" whispered she, in a low voice. "What did Gustav say? He said, I remember it, that he would come again to me. Am I dreaming? But no, he will come."