“Very well; I will button it,” answered Vaskovski; and he began to draw the holes of his vest to the buttons of his frockcoat.
“Still I like that Vaskovski,” said Pan Stanislav, to himself, when on the way home. “If I were to grow attached to him for good, the deuce would take him surely, for such is my fate. Fortunately I am insensible enough to him so far.” And thus he persuaded himself untruly, for he had a sincere friendship for Vaskovski, and the man’s fate was not indifferent in the least to him. When he reached home, Litka’s face smiled at him from a large photograph as he entered; this had been sent by Marynia during his absence, and moved Pan Stanislav to the depth of his soul. He experienced, moreover, this species of emotion whenever he remembered Litka on a sudden, or saw unexpectedly one of her portraits. He thought then, that love for the child, hidden away somewhere in the depth of his heart, rose suddenly with its previous vividness and power, penetrating his whole being with indescribable tenderness and sorrow. This revival of sorrow was even so painful that he avoided it as a man avoids a real suffering usually. This time, however, there was something sweet in his emotion. Litka was smiling at him by the light of the lamp, as if she wished to say “Pan Stas;” around her head on the white margin of the picture were four green birches. Pan Stanislav stopped and looked for a long time; at last he thought, “I know in what may be the happiness of life, in children!” But he said to himself a few moments later, “I never shall love my own as I loved that poor child.” The servant entered now and gave him a letter from Marynia, which came with the photograph. She wrote as follows:—
“My father asks me to pray you to spend the evening with us. Emilia has moved to her own house, and receives no visits to-day. I send you Litka’s photograph, and beg you to come without fail. I wish to speak with you of Emilia. Papa has invited Pan Bigiel, who has promised to come; therefore you and I can talk quietly.”
Pan Stanislav, after reading the letter, dressed, read a certain time, then went to the Plavitskis’. Bigiel had been there a quarter of an hour, and was playing piquet with Plavitski; Marynia was sitting at some distance, by a small table, occupied in work of some kind. After he had greeted all, Pan Stanislav sat near her,—
“I thank you most earnestly for the photograph,” began he. “I saw it unexpectedly, and Litka stood before my eyes in such form that I could not control myself. Moments like that are the measure of sorrow, of which a man cannot even give account to himself. I thank you most earnestly, and for the four birches too. Touching Pani Emilia, I know everything from Vaskovski. Is this merely a project, or a fixed resolve?”
“Rather a fixed resolve,” answered Marynia; “and what do you think?”
Marynia raised her eyes to him as if waiting for some counsel.
“She has not strength for it,” said she, finally.
Pan Stanislav was silent a while; then he opened his arms helplessly, and said,—
“I have talked about this with Vaskovski. I attacked him, since I thought that the idea was his; but he swore to me that he had nothing to do with it. He asked then what other consolation I could think out for her, and I could give him no answer. What in life has remained to her really?”