Involuntarily he compared the smallness of the pious people standing near the church with the huge dimensions of the sacred edifice, and a peculiar notion came into his mind. Just as, once upon a time, powerful forces had raised mountain chains from the flat plains, so once upon a time another immeasurable force had existed in mankind, which had raised up this kind of building. Contemplating such buildings, a man might think that giants had lived in the depths of our planet who had undermined the earth’s crust and left traces of their activities in the form of impressive edifices.
‘Where did they go to, those giants? To another, higher world, perhaps. And if the tides of the sea prove that the moon is not merely an illusory gleam, but genuine reality, then why should not these strange buildings confirm the existence of another world? Do they not attract human souls as powerfully as the moon attracts the waves of the sea?’
He went into the church and was struck by another sight. Some mendicants, male and female, were begging for the charity which God would repay to the charitable in the next world. Some of the faithful were kissing the feet of a Christ who had been tortured and put to death by the Roman State, while others had fallen on their knees on the threshold and were raising up their hands and eyes as if gazing at a supernatural vision. The church was plunged in gloom, which could not be dispelled by the glow of several hundred tapers in silver candelabra. Here and there, on the floor of the chapels, could be seen indistinctly the shapes of people lying outstretched or crouching down to conceal their piety and humility. Looking at these motionless bodies, a man might think their souls had left them for a time and flown to some better world.
‘Now I understand,’ thought Wokulski, ‘why visiting a church intensifies faith. Here everything is arranged so as to remind us of eternity.’
His gaze shifted from these shadows absorbed in prayer towards the light. In various parts of the church he saw tables spread with carpets, on them trays full of bank-notes, silver and gold, and near them were ladies seated in comfortable chairs, dressed in furs, feather and velvet, surrounded by cheerful young people. The most pious were accosting passers-by, all were talking and enjoying themselves as if they were at a ball. It seemed to Wokulski that at this moment he could distinguish three worlds. One (which had long since departed from the earth) had prayed and erected powerful buildings to the glory of God. The second, poor and humble, knew how to pray but only erected cottages—while, the third built palaces for itself, but had forgotten how to pray and made God’s House into a place for fashionable gatherings, like carefree birds that build their nests and sing on the graves of dead heroes.
‘And I? What am I—a stranger to them all?’
‘Perhaps you are an eye of the iron sieve into which I cast all these people to divide the chaff from the grain,’ replied a voice.
Wokulski looked round. ‘The illusion of a disordered imagination.’ Simultaneously he caught sight at a fourth table in the depths of the church of Countess Karolowa and Izabela. Both were seated by a tray with money, and were holding books, probably prayer-books. A servant in black livery was standing behind the Countess’s chair.
Wokulski went towards them, past the kneeling people, avoiding other tables where they tapped insistently for his attention. He approached the tray and bowed to the Countess, then put down his roll of half-imperials.
‘My God…’ he thought, ‘how stupid I must look with this money.’
The Countess put her book aside. ‘How are you, Mr Wokulski?’ she said. ‘You know, I thought you were not coming, and I may tell you that I was rather disappointed.’
‘I told you he would come, aunt, and with that sack of gold into the bargain,’ Izabela interposed in English.
The Countess flushed and perspired. Her niece’s words alarmed her, for she supposed that Wokulski understood English. ‘Please, Mr Wokulski,’ she said hastily, ‘sit down here for a while, our companion has deserted us. Allow me to put your imperials on top, to shame those gentlemen who prefer squandering their money on champagne…’
‘Don’t be so anxious, aunt,’ Izabela interrupted, again in English, ‘he certainly doesn’t understand.’
This time Wokulski blushed.
‘Please, Bela,’ said the Countess in a ceremonial tone, ‘Mr Wokulski…has given so generously to our cause…’
‘So I’ve heard,’ Izabela replied in Polish, lowering her eyelashes in token of greeting.
‘Your ladyship’, said Wokulski rather facetiously, ‘seeks to deprive me of my deserts in the next world by praising deeds I may well have done with a view to profit in this…’
‘I guessed as much,’ whispered Izabela in English.
The Countess nearly swooned, feeling certain that Wokulski must have guessed the meaning of her niece’s words even if he knew no languages at all. ‘You may, Mr Wokulski,’ she said in feverish haste, ‘you may easily obtain your deserts in the next world if only by…forgiving insults…’
‘I always do,’ he replied, somewhat surprised.
‘You should not say “always”,’ the Countess continued. ‘I’m an old woman, and your friend, Mr Wokulski,’ she added with emphasis, ‘so you must make certain allowances for me.’
‘I am at your service.’
‘Recently you dismissed one of your…employees, a certain Mraczewski…’
‘Why was that?’ Izabela suddenly exclaimed.
‘I don’t know,’ said the Countess. ‘Apparently it was to do with a difference in political opinions or something of the sort…’
‘So that young man has opinions?’ Izabela exclaimed. ‘Interesting!’
She said this in such a diverting fashion that Wokulski felt his dislike for Mraczewski diminish. ‘It was not his opinions that were in question, Countess,’ he said, ‘but his tactless comments on customers in our shop.’
‘Perhaps the customers themselves behaved tactlessly,’ Izabela put in.
‘That is their privilege, they pay for it,’ Wokulski replied calmly. ‘We do not.’
A strong flush appeared on Izabela’s face. She picked up her book and began reading.
‘However that may be, let me persuade you to be merciful,’ said the Countess. ‘I know the boy’s mother, and believe me it is pitiful to see her despair…’
Wokulski pondered. ‘Very well,’ he replied, ‘I’ll give him a position, but in Moscow.’
‘And his poor mother?’ asked the Countess, imploringly.
‘I’ll increase his wages by two—three hundred roubles,’ he replied.
At this moment some children approached the table, and the Countess began distributing sacred pictures. Wokulski rose from his chair and, to avoid interrupting the pious occupation of the Countess, went across to Izabela.
Izabela looked up from her book and, gazing strangely at Wokulski, asked: ‘Do you never change your mind?’
‘No,’ he replied. But at that moment he lowered his gaze.
‘Suppose I were to plead for this young man?’
Wokulski glanced at her in surprise. ‘In that case, I would reply that Mr Mraczewski lost his position because he spoke indiscreetly of persons who had honoured him by their condescension… However, if you order…’
Now Izabela lowered her eyes, highly confused.
‘Oh…oh, it is all the same to me where this young man goes. He may as well go to Moscow.’
‘So he will,’ Wokulski replied. ‘Pray accept my respects, ladies,’ he added, bowing.
The Countess gave him her hand. ‘Thank you, Mr Wokulski, for remembering us, and please come to me for the Easter meal. Please do, Mr Wokulski,’ she added, with emphasis.
Suddenly catching sight of movement inside the church, she turned to the servant. ‘Ksawery, please go to the Duchess and ask her to allow us the use of her carriage. Say our horse is sick.’
‘For when, your ladyship?’ asked the servant.
‘In an hour and a half…Bela, we shan’t stay longer, shall we?’ The servant went across to a table
by the door.
‘So until tomorrow, Mr Wokulski,’ said the Countess. ‘You will meet many acquaintances at my house. There will be some gentlemen from the Charitable Society…’
‘Hm…’ Wokulski thought as he said goodbye to the Countess. However, he felt so grateful to her that he would have devoted half his fortune to her cause just then.
Izabela nodded distantly to him and again glanced at him in a manner which struck him as unusual. But when Wokulski had disappeared into the obscurity of the church, she said to the Countess: ‘You were flirting with that man, aunt. Really, it is beginning to look rather suspicious…’
‘Your father is right,’ the Countess replied, ‘this man can be useful. Anyhow, such social relations are comme il faut abroad.’
‘What if they turn his head?’ Izabela asked.
‘That would prove he had a weak head,’ the Countess replied shortly, reading her prayer-book.
Wokulski did not leave the church, but turned into a side nave near the door. Just by Christ’s Grave, opposite the Countess’s table, an empty confessional stood in one corner. Wokulski went into it, shut the door and began unseen to watch Izabela.
She was holding a book, glancing now and then towards the church door. Weariness and boredom were depicted in her face. Sometimes children approached the table for pictures; Izabela herself distributed a few, with a gesture which said: ‘Oh, when will this end?’
‘She is doing all this not out of piety or love for children, but for notice and to acquire a husband,’ Wokulski thought. ‘Well, and I too,’ he added, ‘do much for self-advertisement and marriage. The world is well arranged, to be sure! Instead of simply asking “Do you love me or not?” or “Do you want me or not?” I throw away hundreds of roubles while she bores herself for hours on end and feigns piety.’
‘Suppose she said she didn’t love me? All these ceremonies have one good aspect: they give us time and the opportunity to become acquainted. But it is bad not to speak English… Today I’d have known what she thinks of me; for I am certain she was speaking of me to her aunt. I must learn it…
‘Or take such a trivial thing as a carriage… If I had one, I could have sent her home with her aunt in it, and another bond would have formed between us. It would cost a thousand roubles a year, but that can’t be helped. I must be prepared for all eventualities… A carriage, English lessons…more than two hundred roubles for one Easter offering! And I am doing all this, I who despise it. However, what am I to spend my money on, if not to ensure my own happiness? What do theories of economics mean to me when my heart aches?’
His thoughts were interrupted by a sorrowful melody. It came from a musical box, and was followed by the singing of stuffed birds; when they fell silent the whispering of the fountain and the sighs of the pious could be heard.
Crouched and kneeling figures were visible in the nave, near the confessional, in the doors of chapels. Some crawled along the floor to the Crucifix and kissed it, then placed small coins extricated from handkerchiefs in the tray.
A white Christ figure, surrounded by flowers, lay in the depths of a chapel, under a flood of light. It seemed to Wokulski that its face had come alive under the influence of the flickering rays, taking on an expression of severity, or mercy and forgiveness. When a musical box played tunes from Lucia di Lammermoor, or when the clatter of money and exclamations in French came from the centre of the church, the features of the Christ darkened. But when a poor man approached the Crucifix and told the Crucified One of his sufferings, then Christ opened His dead lips and, against the tinkling of the fountain, repeated blessings and promises: ‘Blessed are the meek… Blessed are they who mourn…’
A young, painted girl went up to the tray. She placed a silver coin in it, but did not venture to touch the Cross. Those kneeling near looked askance at her velvet coat and gaudy hat. But when the Christ whispered: ‘Let him who is without sin cast a stone at her…’ she sank to the floor and kissed His feet as Mary Magdalene once did.
‘Blessed are they who seek justice…Blessed are they who mourn…’
Deeply touched, Wokulski watched the crowd in the gloom of the church who had been waiting with such patient faith for eighteen centuries for the heavenly promises to be fulfilled.
‘When will that be?’ he thought.
‘The Son of Man will send His angels and they will bear away all suffering and those who commit injustices, as if gathering weeds, and will consume them with fire…’
Wokulski looked around the church mechanically. By the table, the Countess was taking a nap, and Izabela yawning; at a further table three unknown young ladies were laughing at the stories of an elegant young man.
‘It is another world…another world,’ Wokulski thought. ‘What fatality is driving me in their direction?’
At this moment, a young woman, very neatly dressed and accompanied by a little girl, stopped then knelt down by the confessional. Wokulski looked at her and noticed she was unusually beautiful. The expression of her face was what struck him most, it was as if she had come to the grave not to pray, but to question and lament. She crossed herself, then saw the tray for offerings and brought out a small purse.
‘Helusia,’ she said to the little girl in an undertone, ‘go and put this on the tray, and kiss the Lord Jesus.’
‘Where am I to kiss Him, mama?’
‘On His hands and feet.’
‘Not on His mouth?’
‘No, that is not allowed.’
‘Well, fancy…’ and she ran to the tray, then crouched over the cross.
‘Mama,’ she cried, coming back, ‘I kissed Him, but the Lord Jesus didn’t answer.’
‘Now, be a good girl,’ said her mother, ‘kneel down and say your prayers.’
‘Which prayers?’
‘Three Our Fathers, then the Hail Mary…’
‘Oh, what long prayers…and I am only a little girl.’
‘Well, say one…But kneel down…and look over there.’
‘Hail Mary, full of Grace…Mama, what are those birds singing?’
‘They’re stuffed birds. Say your prayer.’
‘Stuffed, mama?’
‘Say the first rosary…’
‘I forget where I got to…’
‘Say after mama: “Hail Mary…”’
‘… to our death, amen,’ the little girl concluded. ‘What are those stuffed birds made of, mama?’
‘Helusia, shush, or I won’t give you a kiss,’ her mother whispered distractedly. ‘Here’s a prayer-book, look at the pictures of how the Lord Jesus was crucified.’
The little girl sat down with the book on the confessional steps and fell silent.
‘What a pretty child,’ Wokulski thought. ‘If she were mine, then surely I’d regain control of my senses which I’m losing from one day to the next. And her mother is a pretty woman, too. Her hair, profile, eyes… She’s praying to find happiness again… Beautiful but unhappy…she must be a widow.
‘Ha—if I’d met her a year ago! What kind of order is there in the world? Just a pace away are two unhappy people: one seeking love and a family; the other perhaps struggling with poverty and indifference. Either might find what he or she needs in the other—but they’ll never meet. One comes here to beg God’s mercy; the other throws away money in order to make social contacts. Who knows but that a few hundred roubles mightn’t mean happiness to that woman? Yet she won’t get them: nowadays God doesn’t hear the prayers of the oppressed…
‘Suppose I were to find out who she is? Perhaps I could help her? Why shouldn’t the high-sounding promises of Christ be fulfilled, even by such an unbeliever as I, since the pious are otherwise engaged?’
At this moment Wokulski flushed… An elegant young man had approached the Countess’s table and placed something in the tray. Seeing him, Izabela blushed and her eyes took on that strange expression which always made Wokulski wonder.
The elegant young man sat down at the Countess’s invitation in the sam
e chair Wokulski had occupied, and a lively conversation ensued. Wokulski could not hear what was said, but he felt the picture of the group burning into his brain. The costly carpet, the silver tray strewn with his handful of imperials, the two candelabra with ten flames, the Countess in deep mourning, the young man gazing at Izabela and she—radiant. Nor did it escape his notice that the Countess’s cheeks, the tip of the young man’s nose, and Izabela’s eyes were all glowing in the light of the flames.
‘Are they in love?’ he thought. ‘If so, why don’t they marry? Perhaps he has no money… If he hasn’t, what does that look of hers mean? She looked at me like that, today. It is true that an eligible young lady must have several or several hundred admirers and attract them all, in order to sell herself to the highest bidder…’
Their companion arrived. The Countess rose, as did Izabela and the handsome young man, and all three went towards the door with a great deal of rustling, stopping at the other tables. Each young man assisting there greeted Izabela cordially, while she bestowed upon them the same, the very same gaze, which had made Wokulski’s reason totter. Finally all became silent; the Countess and Izabela had left the church.
Wokulski roused himself and looked around. The pretty woman and the child had gone. ‘A pity,’ he whispered, and felt a light pressure upon his heart.
Meanwhile, the young girl in the velvet jacket and gaudy hat was still kneeling on the ground by the Cross. When she turned her gaze upon the illuminated grave, something glistened on her rouged cheeks. She kissed Christ’s feet once more, rose wearily and went out.
‘Blessed are they who mourn… May the dead Christ keep his promise to you at least,’ Wokulski thought, and followed her out.
He saw the girl giving money to the beggars in the porch. And a cruel pain came upon him when he thought of these two women, one of whom wanted to sell herself for a fortune, while the other was already selling herself from poverty; the latter, covered though she was in shame, might well be the better and the purer before some higher tribunal.