I was six years in her house; I was present at the death of her husband; I saw that she was unhappy, alone, but always as kind as an angel; loving her children, well-nigh a saint in her widowhood; hence I was forced to this feeling. But it is not love on my part, — it is rather religion.
Mihas reminded me greatly of his mother. More than once when he raised his eyes to me I imagined that I was looking at her. The same delicate features were present, the very same forehead with a shadow of rich hair falling over it, the soft outline of brow, and above all a voice almost identical. In the disposition of the mother and child there was a likeness too, appearing in a certain tendency to exaltation of feelings and views. They belonged both of them to that species of nervous impressionable people, noble and loving, who are capable of the greatest sacrifices, but who in life and in contact with its reality find little happiness, giving, to begin with, more than they can receive in return. That kind of people perish, and I think now that some naturalist might declare them foredoomed to extinction, for they come into the world with a defect of heart, — they love too much.
Mihas’s family was very wealthy at one time, but they loved too much; therefore various storms shattered their fortune, and what remained was not indeed want, — it was not even poverty; still in comparison with former days it was moderate. Mihas was the last of the family, therefore Pani Marva loved him not only as her own child, but also as her whole hope for the future. Unfortunately, with the usual blindness of mothers, she saw in him uncommon faculties. The boy was not dull indeed; but he belonged to that class of children whose powers, medium at first, develop only later, together with physical strength and with health. In other conditions he might have finished his course in the school and the University, and become a useful worker in any career. In existing conditions he simply tortured himself, and knowing his mother’s high opinion of his powers, he strained them in vain.
My eyes have seen much in this world, and I have determined to wonder at nothing; but I confess that it was hard for me to believe that there could be a chaos, in which a boy’s perseverance, strength of character, and industry would be against him. There is something unhealthy in this; and if words could repay me for sorrow and bitterness, I should say with Hamlet, that there are things in the world which have not been dreamed of by philosophers.
I worked with Mihas as if my own future depended on the marks which he got for his lessons, since my dear pupil and I had one object: not to afflict her, to show good rank, to call out a smile of happiness on her lips. When he succeeded in receiving good marks, the boy came from school radiant and happy. It seemed to me that in such cases he had grown on a sudden, had become erect; his eyes, usually cloudy, laughed now with the unaffected joy of childhood, and gleamed like two coals. He threw from his narrow shoulders his satchel laden with hooks, and blinking at me said while yet on the threshold, —
“Pan Vavrykevich, mamma will be satisfied! I got to-day in geography — guess how many?”
And when I pretended that I could not guess, he ran to me with a proud mien, and throwing his arms around my neck, said as if in a whisper, but very loud, —
“Five! truly five!”
Those were happy moments for us. In the evenings of such days Mihas fell to dreaming, and imagined to himself what would come to pass were he to receive excellent marks all the time, and said half to me, half to himself, —
“On Christmas we will go to Zalesin; the snow will fall, as it does always in winter; we’ll go in a sleigh. We’ll arrive at night, but oh! mamma will be waiting for me; she’ll hug me and kiss me, then ask about my marks. I’ll put on a sad face purposely; then mamma will read religion excellent, German excellent, Latin excellent, — most excellent! Oh, Pan Yavrykevich!”
The poor little boy! tears were in his eyes; and I, instead of restraining him, hurried after him with unwearied imagination, and recalled to myself the house in Zalesin, its dignity, its calm, that lofty, noble being who was mistress there, and the happiness which the return of the boy with his excellent rank would bring to her.
I took advantage of such moments, and gave Mihas advice, explaining to him that mamma cared greatly for his studies, but cared also for his health; hence he must not cry when I took him to walk, he must sleep as much as I prescribed, and not persist in sitting up at night. The boy, affected by this, embraced me and said, —
“I will obey, my golden Pan. I shall be so well that it will be a wonder to look at me, and I’ll be so fat that neither mamma nor little Lola will know me.”
I too received letters frequently from Pani Marya, recommending me to watch over the health of the child; but I convinced myself daily with despair that that was well-nigh impossible. If the subjects taught were too difficult I could have mended the matter by removing Mihas from the second to the first class; but those subjects, though dry, he understood perfectly. It was not a question of learning, but of time and of that unfortunate German language, which the child could not speak satisfactorily. In this I was powerless, and calculated only that when the holidays came, rest would fill out those breaches in the boy’s health made by excessive labor.
If Mihas had been a child of less feeling I should have been less anxious about him; but he felt every failure almost more keenly than he did success. The moments of joy and those fives which I have mentioned were rare, unfortunately.
I had so learned to read his face that the moment he came, I knew at the first glance of the eye that he had not succeeded. “Did you get a bad mark?” I asked.
“I did.”
“You didn’t know the lesson?”
Sometimes he answered, “I didn’t know;” but oftener, “I knew, but I wasn’t able to tell it.”
In fact little Ovitski, the first in the second class, whom I purposely brought in that Mihas might learn with him, said that Mihas received bad marks chiefly because he could not “tongue out.”
As the child felt more and more wearied mentally and physically, such failures came oftener. I noticed that after having cried all he wanted he sat down to his lesson quietly and as though he were calm; but in that redoubled energy with which he turned to his tasks there was something both desperate and feverish. Sometimes he went into a corner, pressed his head with both hands, and was silent; the imaginative boy fancied that he was digging a grave under the feet of his darling mother, knew not how to escape this, and felt himself in a vicious circle from which there was no escape.
His night work became more frequent. Fearing that when I woke I would order him to bed, he rose in the dark, silently carried the lamp to the antechamber, lighted it there, and sat down to work. Before I caught him he had passed a number of nights in this way between unheated walls. I had no other resource than to rise, call him to the chamber, and go over all the lessons once more with him, to convince him that he knew them and that he exposed himself to cold without reason. But at last he didn’t know himself what he did know. The child lost strength, grew thin, pale, and became more and more despondent. Something happened after a time to convince me that not work alone was exhausting him.
Once, while I was explaining to him the history that “An Uncle told his Nephews,” which at the request of Pani Marya I did daily, Mihas sprang up with flashing eyes. I was frightened almost when I saw the inquiring and stern look on his face as he cried, —
“Pan! is that really not a fable? For—”
“Why did you ask, Mihas?” inquired I, with astonishment.
Instead of an answer he gritted his teeth, and burst out at last into such passionate weeping that for a long time I was unable to quiet him.
I inquired of Ovitski touching the cause of this outburst. He either knew not, or would not tell; but I discovered myself. There was no doubt that in the German school the Polish child had to hear many things that wounded his feelings. Such teachings slipped over other boys, leaving no trace except ill-will against the teachers and their whole race; Mihas, a boy of such uprightness, felt these teachings acutely,
but dared not contradict them. Two powers, two voices, obedience to which is the duty of a child, but which for that very reason should be in harmony, were tearing Mihas in two opposite directions. What one power called white, worthy, beloved, the other called a stain vile and ridiculous; what one called virtue the other called vice. Therefore in that separation the boy followed the power to which his heart was attracted, but he had to pretend that he obeyed and took to heart words of the opposite meaning. He had to pretend from morning till night, and to live in that torturing constraint days, weeks, months. What a position for a child!
Mihas’s fate was remarkable. Dramas of life begin later usually, when the first leaves are falling from the tree of youth; for him everything which creates unhappiness — such as moral constraint, concealed regret, trouble of mind, vain efforts, struggling with difficulties, gradual loss of hope — began in the eleventh year of his life. Neither his slight form nor his weak forces could carry those burdens. Days, weeks passed; the poor boy redoubled his efforts, and the result was always less, always more lamentable. The letters of Pani Marya, though sweet, added weight to the burden. “God has gifted you, Mihas, with uncommon capacities,” wrote she; “and I trust that you will not disappoint the hopes that I place in you, that you will be a pleasure to me and the country.”
When the boy received such a letter the first time he seized my hand spasmodically, and borne away by weeping began to repeat, —
“What shall I do, Pan Vavrykevich, what can I do?”
In truth what could he do? How could he help it that he hadn’t come into the world with an inborn power over languages, and that he could not pronounce German?
Before the recess at All Saints, the quarterly return was not very favorable; in three of the most important subjects he had low marks. At his most urgent prayers and entreaties I did not send it to Pani Marya.
“Dear Pan,” cried he, putting his hands together, “mamma doesn’t know that they give rank at All Saints, and before Christmas the Lord God may take pity on me.”
The poor child deluded himself with the hope that he would raise his low rank; and to tell the truth, I deceived myself also. I thought that he would grow accustomed to school routine, that he would grow accustomed to everything, be trained in German, and acquire the accent; above all, that he would need less and less time for his lessons. Had it not been for this I should have written long before to Pani Marya and laid before her the condition of affairs. In fact hopes did not seem vain. Just after All Saints Mihas received three perfect marks, one of which was in Latin. Of all the pupils in the class he alone knew that the perfect of gaudeo is gavisus sum, and he knew it because he had received before that two perfect marks and had inquired of me what “I rejoice” is in Latin. I thought that the boy would go wild from delight. He wrote a letter to his mother beginning with these words: “Does my beloved mamma know what the perfect of gaudeo is? Surely neither mamma nor little Lola knows, for in the whole class I was the only one who knew.”
Mihas simply adored his mother. From that time he was inquiring of me continually about various perfects and participles. High marks had become the object of his life. But the gleam of fortune was brief. Soon his fatal Polish accent ruined all that effort had built up, and the excessive number of subjects did not permit the child to give each as much time as his strained memory needed. A circumstance caused also an increase of his failures. Mihas and Ovitski forgot to inform me of a certain task in writing, and omitted it. That passed for Ovitski, since he stood first the professors did not even ask him about it; but Mihas received a public admonition in school, with a threat of expulsion.
They seemed to think that he had concealed the task from me intentionally, so as not to perform it, and the boy, who was incapable of the least falsehood, had no means of proving his innocence. He might, it is true, say in self-defence that Ovitski had forgotten as well as he; but school honor would not permit such a statement. The Germans answered my assurances with the remark that I encouraged the youngster to laziness. That was no slight offence to me; but the appearance of Mihas increased my anxiety. In the evening of that day I saw that he pressed his head with both hands, and whispered, thinking that I did not hear him, “It pains, it pains, it pains!” The letter from his mother, which came next day, and in which Pani Marya overwhelmed him with tenderness for those good marks, was a fresh blow for him.
“Oh, I am preparing nice consolation for mamma!” cried he, covering his face with his hands.
Next day, when I put the satchel of books on his shoulders, he tottered and came near falling. I wished to keep him from school, but he said that nothing was the matter; he merely asked me to go with him, for he feared dizziness. He came back in the evening with a new middling mark. He received it for a lesson which he knew perfectly, but according to Ovitski he grew frightened and couldn’t say a word. The opinion was confirmed decidedly, “that he was a boy filled with retrograde principles and instincts, that he was lazy and dull.”
The last two reproaches came to his knowledge, and he struggled with them desperately but vainly — as a drowning man struggles with a wave.
At last he lost all faith in himself, all confidence in his own powers; he came to the conviction that efforts and labor were useless, that he couldn’t help learning badly; and at the same time he imagined what his mother would say, what pain it would be for her, and how it might undermine her weak health.
The priest in Zalesin who wrote to him sometimes was very friendly, but incautious. Every letter of his finished with these words: “Let Mihas remember then that not only the joy but the health of his mother depends on his progress in learning and in morality.” He remembered too much, for even in sleep he repeated with sad voice: “Mamma, mamma!” as if begging her forgiveness.
But when awake, he received lower and lower marks. Christmas was coming quickly, and as to rank it was impossible to be deceived. I wrote to Pani Mary a, wishing to forewarn her, told her plainly and positively that the child was weak and overburdened; that in spite of the greatest effort he could not do his work; and that probably it would be necessary to take him from school after the holidays, to keep him in the country, and, above all, to strengthen his health. Though I felt in her answer that her motherly affection was wounded somewhat, still she wrote like a sensible woman and a loving mother. I did not mention this letter to Mihas, nor the design of taking him from school, for I feared the effect on him of every powerful excitement; I mentioned only that, whatever might happen, his mother knew that he was working, and she would be able to understand his failure. That gave him evident comfort, for he wept long and heartily, — which had not happened to him for some time. While weeping, he repeated: “How much pain I cause mamma!” Still at the thought that soon he would return to the country, would see his mother and little Lola and Father Mashynski, he laughed through his tears. I too was in a hurry to go to Zalesin, for I could hardly bear to look at the condition of the child. There the heart of a mother was waiting for him, and the good will of people, with calm and peace; there knowledge had for him a native air, well wishing, not strange and repellent; there the whole atmosphere was familiar and pure, — the boy’s breast might breathe it.
I was looking to the holidays, therefore, as to salvation for the boy; and I counted on my fingers the hours which separated us from them, but which brought more and more new vexation to Mihas. It seemed as though everything had conspired against him. Mihas had received again a public admonition for demoralizing others. That was just before the holidays; therefore it had the more significance. How the ambitious and impressionable boy felt the blow, I will not undertake to describe; what chaos must have risen in his mind! Everything was eager in that childish breast, and before his eyes he saw darkness instead of light. He bent then as an ear of grain before the blast. Finally, the face of that boy of eleven took on an expression simply tragic; he looked as if weeping were stopping his throat continually, as if he restrained sobbing by effort; at times his eyes loo
ked like the eyes of a suffering bird; then a wonderful thoughtfulness and drowsiness took possession of him; his motions became as it were unconscious, and his voice mechanically obedient.
When I told him that it was time to walk, he did not resist as formerly, but took his cap and followed me in silence. I should have been content had that been indifference; but I saw that under the appearance of it was hidden an exalted and suffering resignation. He sat at his lessons, performed his tasks as before, but rather from habit. It was evident that, while repeating the conjugations mechanically, he was thinking of something else, or rather he was not thinking of anything. Once, when I asked whether he had finished everything, he answered in a slow voice, and as if sleepily: “I think, Pan Vavrykevich, that this is no use.” I feared even to mention his mother before him, so as not to fill to overflowing that cup of bitterness from which his childish lips were drinking.
I was more and more alarmed about his health, for he grew thinner and thinner, and at last became almost transparent. The network of delicate veins, which appeared on his temples before when he was greatly excited, had now become permanent. He had grown so beautiful that he was almost like an image. It was painful to look at that childish head, half angelic, which produced the impression of a withering flower. Apparently it was as if nothing was the matter; but he sank, and lost power. He was able no longer to carry all his books in the satchel; hence I gave only some to him, and carried the others, for now I accompanied Mihas to and from school.
Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz Page 657
