Here ceased their conversation about Mashko, for Pani Marynia had begun to inquire about Prytulov and its inhabitants,—a subject which for Pan Ignas was inexhaustible. In his expressive narrative, the residence at Prytulov appeared, with its lindens along the road, then its shady garden, ponds, reeds, alders, and on the horizon a belt of pine-wood. Kremen, which had faded in Marynia’s memory, stood before her now as if present; and, in that momentary revival of homesickness, she thought that sometime she would beg “Stas” to take her even to Vantory, to that little church in which she was baptized, and where her mother was buried. Maybe Pan Stanislav remembered Kremen at that moment, for, waving his hand, he said,—
“It is always the same in the country. I remember Bukatski’s statement, that he loved the country passionately, but on condition ‘that there should be a perfect cook in the house, a big library, beautiful and intelligent women, and no obligation to stay longer than two days in a twelvemonth.’ And I understand him.”
“But still,” said Marynia, “it is thy wish to have a piece of land of thy own near the city.”
“To live in our own place in summer, and not with the Bigiels, as we must this year.”
“But in me,” said Pan Ignas, “certain field instincts revive the moment I am in the country. For that matter, my betrothed does not like the city, and that is enough for me.”
“Does Lineta dislike the city really?” inquired Marynia, with interest.
“Yes, for she is a born artist. I gaze on nature too, and feel it but she shows me things which I should not notice myself. A couple of days ago, we all went into the forest, where she showed me ferns in the sun, for instance. They are so delicate! She taught me also that the trunks of pine-trees, especially in the evening light, have a violet tone. She opens my eyes to colors which I have not seen hitherto, and, like a kind of enchantress going through the forest, discloses new worlds to me.”
Pan Stanislav thought that all this might be a proof of artistic sense, but also it might be an expression of the fashion, and of that universal love for painting color which people talk into themselves, and in which any young lady at present may be occupied, not from love of art, but for show. He had not occupied himself with painting; but he noticed that, for society geese, it had become of late a merchandise, exhibited willingly in Vanity Fair, or, in other words, a means to show artistic culture and an artistic soul.
But he kept these thoughts to himself; and Pan Ignas talked on,—
“Besides, she loves village children immensely. She says that they are such perfect models, and less vulgarized than the little Italians. When there is good weather, we are all day in the fresh air, and we have become sunburnt, both of us. I am learning to play tennis, and make great progress. It is very easy, but goes hard at first. Osnovski plays passionately, so as not to grow fat. It is difficult to tell what a kind and high-minded person that man is.”