Pan Ignas could say to himself that sometimes a lucky star shines even for poets. It is true that since the day of his betrothal to Lineta it had occurred to him frequently that there would be need now to think of means to furnish a house, and meet the expenses, as well of a marriage as a wedding; but, being first of all in love, and not having in general a clear understanding of such matters, he represented all this to himself only as some kind of new difficulty to be overcome. He had conquered so many of these in his life that, trusting in his power, he thought that he would conquer this too; but he had not thought over the means so far.
Others, however, were thinking for him. Old Zavilovski, in whom, with all his esteem for geniuses, nothing could shake the belief that every poet must have “fiu, fiu” in his head, invited Pan Stanislav to a personal consultation, and said,—
“I will say openly that this youngster has pleased me, though his father was, with permission, a great roisterer; nothing for him but cards and women and horses. He came to grief in his time. But the son is not like the father; he has brought to the name not discredit, but honor. Well, others have not accustomed me much to this; but the Lord God grant that I shall not forget the man. I should like, however, to do something for him at once; for though a distant relative, he is a relative, and the name is the same,—that is the main thing.”
“We have been thinking of this,” said Pan Stanislav, “but the thing is difficult. If aid be spoken of, he is so sensitive that one may make the impatient fellow angry.”
“Indeed! How stubborn he is!” said Zavilovski, with evident pleasure.
“True! He has kept books and written letters for our house a short time. But we have conceived a real liking for him; therefore my partner and I have offered him credit ourselves. ‘Take a few thousand rubles,’ said we, ‘for expenses and furnishing a house, and return them to us in the course of three years from thy salary.’ He would not: he said that he had trust in his betrothed; she would accommodate herself to him, he felt sure, and he did not want the money. Osnovski, too, wanted to offer aid but we stopped him, knowing that it was useless. Your project will be difficult.”
“Maybe, then, he has something?”
“He has, and he hasn’t. We have just learned that some thousands of rubles came to him from his mother; but with the interest he supports his father in an insane asylum, and considers the capital as inviolable. That he takes nothing from it, is certain, for before he began with us, he suffered such poverty that he was simply dying of hunger, and he didn’t touch a copper. Such is his character. And you will understand why we esteem him. He is writing something, it seems, and thinks that he will meet the expense of first housekeeping with it. Maybe he will; his name means much at present.”
“Pears on willows!” said Pan Zavilovski. “You tell me that his name means much—does it? But that’s pears on willows!”
“Not necessarily; only it will not come quickly.”