"No, nothing whatever."
"It seemed to me as if you were dissatisfied with something; is it that you do not like Clara?"
"No; I like her very much, and do not wonder she is so much admired."
Further conversation was made impossible by the return of the truants.
It was also time to go back. On the way, Sniatynski asked Clara whether she felt really satisfied with her stay at Warsaw.
"The best proof I can give you of this is that I do not think of going away yet," she replied gayly.
"We must try to keep you with us always," I interpolated.
Clara, in spite of the simplicity with which she accepts all that is said to her, looked questioningly at me, then grew a little confused, and replied,--"They are all very kind to me here."
I was conscious that my words were in a way dishonorable, as they might mislead Clara; but all I cared for was the impression they would make upon Aniela. Unfortunately, I could not see her face, as she was b.u.t.toning her gloves, with her head bent so low that her hat concealed it from me. This sudden movement seemed to me a good sign.
The elder ladies were awaiting us with the dinner, which lasted until nine o"clock; and then Clara improvised her _Fruhlingslied_. I am almost certain that since Ploszow existed there had never been heard such music within its walls, but I paid very little attention to it.
I sat near her in the dusk, as she did not want the lamps lit.
Sniatynski waved his arm as if it were a baton; which evidently annoyed his wife, as she pulled his sleeve several times. Aniela sat quite motionless; maybe she, too, was absorbed in her own thoughts, and did not listen to the _Fruhlingslied_. I was almost certain she was thinking about me and Clara, and especially about the meaning of the words I had said to Clara. It was easy enough to guess that even if she did not love me, or had the slightest consciousness that my love was any other but brotherly affection, she would feel sore and disappointed if that were about to be taken away from her. A woman who is not happy in her married life clings round any other feeling, if it be only friendship, as the ivy clings to the tree. I had no doubt whatever that if at this moment I knelt down at her feet and told her it was she, and she alone, that I loved, she would feel a sudden joy, as one feels upon recovering something very precious. And if so, I debated within me, why not hasten the solution, if only a way could be found,--frightening her as little as possible, or making her forget all terror in her joy. I began at once to devise ways and means, as I understood it must be done in such a way as to make it forever impossible for her to cast me off. My mind worked very hard at it, as the problem was not an easy one. Gradually a great emotion stole over me: and strange to say, it was more on Aniela"s account than on my own that I felt moved,--for I realized suddenly what a great wrench it would be, and I was afraid for her.
In the mean time it had grown lighter in the drawing-room; the moon had risen above the trees, and cast luminous shafts across the floor.
The melodies of the _Fruhlingslied_ still filled the air, and the nightingales responded to it through the open French window. It was a glorious evening, warm and balmy, and full of harmony and love. I thought involuntarily that, if life does not give us happiness, it presents us with a ready frame for it.
In the luminous dusk my eyes searched for Aniela; but she looked at Clara, who at this moment seemed more a vision than a substantial being. The moonlight, advancing more and more into the room, rested now upon her; and in the light dress she looked like the silvery spirit of music. But the vision did not last long. Clara finished her song; whereupon Pani Sniatynska rose, and saying it was late, gave the signal for departure. As the evening was so warm, I proposed we should see our visitors off as far as the high-road, about half a mile from our house. I did this on purpose, so as to walk home with Aniela. I knew she could not well refuse such a mere act of politeness, and I was also sure my aunt would not go with us.
I gave orders for the carriage to drive on and wait on the road, and we went on foot through the lime avenue. I offered my arm to Clara, but we walked all abreast, accompanied by the croaking of the frogs in the Ploszow mere.
Clara stopped a moment to listen to that chorus, which ceased now and then, to start afresh with redoubled vigor, and said,--
"This is the finale of my Song of Spring."
"What an exquisite evening!" remarked Sniatynski, and then began to quote the beautiful lines from the "Merchant of Venice":--
"How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!
Here will we sit and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears: soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony."
He did not remember the rest, but I did, and took up the strain:--
"Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold: There"s not the smallest orb which thou behold"st But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins; Such harmony is in immortal souls; But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it."
Then I repeated to Clara, who does not understand Polish, the lines in French, improvising the translation. She listened to it, then raised her eyes heavenward, and said simply,--
"I was always certain there is music in the spheres."
It appeared that Pani Sniatynska was equally certain of it, and reminded her husband that she had discussed it with him not long before, but he was not quite sure he remembered; whereupon a slight matrimonial dispute took place, at which Clara and I laughed. Aniela had not joined the conversation at all; did she feel hurt that I had offered my arm to Clara, and paid her some attention? The very supposition made me feel happy. Yet I tried not to lose my head, and said to myself, "Do not run away with the idea that she knows what jealousy means; she is only a little sad and feels lonely, that is all." I would have given at this moment a whole host of artists such as Clara for a few words with Aniela,--to tell her that I belong to her, and only to her. Then Sniatynski began a discussion about astronomy, of which I heard now and then a few words, though this science attracts me more than I can tell,--for in its very nature there is no limit, either in itself or for the human mind; it is infinite.
We reached at last the end, where our guests mounted into the carriage. Presently the wheels rattled on the road, the last good-bys reached our ears, and I was alone with Aniela. We turned homewards, and for some time walked side by side in silence. The croaking of the frogs has ceased, and from the distance came the sound of the watchman"s whistle and the loud baying of the dogs. I did not speak to Aniela, because the silence seemed fraught with deep meaning,--both our minds being full of the same subject. When about half-way I said to Aniela,--
"What a pleasant day it has been, has it not?"
"Yes. I never heard such beautiful music before."
"And yet you seemed not in your usual spirits, and though you will not tell me the cause, I notice every pa.s.sing cloud on your face."
"You were obliged to look after your guests. You are very kind to trouble about me, but there is nothing the matter with me."
"To-day as any other day I was occupied with you only, and as a proof of it let me tell you of what you were thinking to-day." And without waiting for permission, I went on at once: "You thought I resembled somewhat the Latysz couple; you thought I had deceived you in speaking of the void around me; lastly, you thought that I had no need to ask for your friendship while I was seeking friendship elsewhere. Was it not so? Tell me the truth."
Aniela replied with evident effort: "If you insist upon knowing--yes, perhaps it is so. But I ought to be only glad of it."
"What ought you be glad of?"
"Of your mutual friendship with Clara."
"As to our friendship,--I wish her well, that is all. But Clara, like all other women, is indifferent to me. Do you know why?"
I began to tremble a little, because I perceived that the moment had come. I waited a moment to see whether Aniela would take up my question, and then, in a voice I tried to render steady, I said,--
"Surely you must see and understand that my whole being belongs to you; that I loved you and love you still madly."
Aniela stood still as if turned to stone. By the icy coldness of my face I felt that I was growing pale; and if the world seemed to totter under that poor child"s feet, it was my life, too, which was at stake.
Knowing with whom I had to deal, I did not give her time to repulse me. I began to speak very quickly:--
"Do not answer me, for I do not want anything from you. I desire nothing,--nothing whatever, understand that well. I wanted to tell you that you have taken my life, and it is henceforth yours, to do with it what you like. But you have seen yourself that such is the case, and it matters nothing whether I speak of it or not. I repeat that I desire nothing, nor do I expect anything. You cannot repulse me, because I repulse myself. I only tell you as I might tell a friend, a sister. I come and complain to you, because I have nowhere else to go, that I love a woman that belongs to somebody else,--love her to distraction,--oh, Aniela!--and without limit!"
We were near the gate, but still in the deep shadow of the trees. For a moment I had the delusion that she was leaning towards me like a broken flower, that I might s.n.a.t.c.h her into my arms; but I was mistaken.
Aniela, recovering from the sudden shock, began suddenly to say, with a kind of nervous energy I had not suspected in her,--
"I will not listen to this, Leon. I will not; I will not; I will not!"
And she ran into the moonlit courtyard. Yes; she ran away from my words,--my confession. Presently she disappeared within the portico, and I remained alone with a feeling of unrest, fear, and great pity for her, and triumph at the same time that the words which should be the beginning of a new life for us both had been spoken. For, to say the truth, I could not expect anything else from her at first; but the seed from which something must spring up was sown.
When I came into the house there was no Aniela visible. I found only my aunt, walking up and down the room muttering her rosary and soliloquizing between the prayers. I said good-night, and went at once to my room thinking that it would calm me if I put down the day"s impressions; but it only tired me more. I intend to go away to-morrow, or rather to-day, for I see the daylight coming through the window. I want to confirm Aniela in the conviction that I expect nothing from her,--want her to calm down and get familiar with what I told her. But to confess the whole truth, I go away also because I am afraid to meet her so soon, and would fain put it off. There are moments when it seems to me a monstrous deed to have introduced an element of corruption in this pure atmosphere. But does not the princ.i.p.al evil lie in her marrying a man she cannot love? What is more immoral, my love which is a manifestation of nature"s great law, or the belonging of Aniela to that man, which is a shameful breaking of the same law?
And I, who understand this so clearly, am yet so weak that a horror seizes me when I kick against that corrupt morality. But all these scruples melt like snow at the words, "I love." If even now my heart feels sore at the thought that at this very moment she may be awake, weeping perhaps, or torn by doubts, it is only another proof how I love her. It hurts me, and at the same time I do not see how otherwise we can arrive at happiness.
19 May.
The first night after my arrival I slept profoundly. At Ploszow I grudged every moment that kept me from Aniela, and during the night I was writing; consequently I felt deadly tired. And now I feel still heavy, but am able to think. I am somewhat ashamed that I ran away and left Aniela alone to bear the burden of my confession; but when the beloved woman is in question, a little cowardice is not dishonorable.
Besides, I should not have fled had it not been necessary for the future weal of my love. Now, every day when she rises and says her prayers, walks in the park or attends her sick mother, she must, if ever so unwillingly, say to herself, "He loves me," and the thought will gradually become familiar, less terrifying to her. Human nature gets accustomed to everything, and a woman soon becomes reconciled to the thought that she is loved, especially when she returns that love.
This question, "Does she love me?" I put to myself the first time when I knew I loved her still; and again I turn it over in my mind, try to weigh all the circ.u.mstances as if somebody else"s fate were at stake, and I arrive at the conviction that it cannot be otherwise. When she married she loved me, not Kromitzki; she only yielded to him her hand driven by despair. If she had married a superior man who dazzled her by his fame, his thoughts, or exceptional character, she might have forgotten me. But how could a Kromitzki, with his money-grubbing neurosis, get hold of her affection? Besides, he left her soon after they were married; he sold Gluchow, which was as the very apple of the eye to these two women. Judging Kromitzki quite impartially, there was nothing in him which could win a being full of ideal impulses and feelings. Then I came back,--I, whom she had loved. I touched the chords of her heart with memories of the past, by every word and glance. I drew her towards me, not only with that skill an experience of life gives, but also with that magnetic force true love bestows on man. Adding to this the fact that she knew how much I suffered when I sent Sniatynski to her, she must have pitied me, and that pity cannot have vanished altogether. I play for my life, but the cards are in my favor. I cannot lose the game.
I am as much in my right as anybody who is defending his life. I do not say this upon the impulse of the moment, but after calm reasoning.
I have no convictions, no beliefs, no principles, no stable ground under my feet, for the ground has been undermined by criticism and reflection. I have only those forces of life born with us, and they are all concentrated on one woman. Therefore I clutch my love as a drowning man clutches a plank; if this gives way there will be nothing left to live for. If common-sense asks, "Why did you not marry Aniela?" I say what I have said before: I did not marry her simply for the reason that I am not straight, but crooked,--partly because born so, partly because so reared by those two nurses, Reflection and Criticism. Why this woman and no other should be my plank of salvation, I do not know. Most likely because it was she and not another. It did not depend upon me.
If she were free to-day, I would stretch my hands out for her without hesitation; if she had never been married, who knows?--I am ashamed of the thought, and yet it may be that she would not be so desirable.
Most likely, judging by the past, I should have gone on watching her, watching my own feelings, until somebody else carried her off; but I prefer not to think of it, because it makes me inclined to swear.