"And what do you say to that,--you who at Ploszow gave us to understand, made us hope, Miss Hilst would remain with us always?"
"Yes; and I say the same now: her memory will always remain with us."
"Yes; I understood it so," replied Clara, with nave resignation.
Inwardly I was furious,--with myself, Sniatynski, and Clara. I am neither so vain, foolish, nor mean that every conquest of that kind should rejoice me; therefore felt annoyed at the thought that Clara might love me, and nourish some baseless hopes. I knew she had some kind of undefined feeling, which, given time and occasion, might develop into something more lasting; but I had no idea this vague feeling dared to wish or expect something. It suddenly struck me that the announcement of her departure was prompted by a desire to find out how I would receive the news. I received it very coolly. A love like mine for Aniela ought to teach compa.s.sion; yet Clara"s sadness and the mention of her departure, not only did not move me, but seemed to me an audacious flight of fancy and an insult to me.
Why? Not from any aristocratic notions; that is certain. I could not account at once for the strange phenomenon; but now explain it thus,--the feeling of belonging to Aniela is so strong and exclusive that it seems to me that any other woman wanting but one pulsation of my heart endeavors to steal something that is Aniela"s property. This explanation is sufficient for me. No doubt, by and by I shall bid Clara good-by, and feel as friendly as ever towards her; but the sudden announcement of her departure gave me a distaste for her. It is only Aniela who may with impunity trample on my nerves. Never did I look at Clara so critically and resentfully; for the first time I became fully aware of the amplitude of her figure, the bright complexion, the dark hair, and blue, somewhat protruding eyes, the lips like ripe cherries,--in brief, her whole beauty reminded me of the cheap chromo-lithographs of harem beauties in second-cla.s.s hotels.
I left her in the worst of humors, and went straight to a book-shop to select some books for Aniela.
For a week I had been thinking what to choose for her reading. I did not wish to neglect anything, though I did not attach undue weight to this, as it acts very slowly. Besides, I have noticed that to our women, though their imagination is more developed than their temperament, a book is always something unreal. If it falls even into the hands of an exceptionally susceptible person, it creates in her at the most an abstract world, that has no connection with real life whatever. To almost none of them it occurs that ideas taken from books can be applied to any practical purpose. I am convinced that if a great writer tried to prove, for instance, that purity of thought and mind were not only superfluous in a woman, but even blameworthy from a moral point of view,--Aniela would opine that the principle might apply to the whole world with the exception of herself. The utmost I can hope for is that the reading of appropriate books will render her familiar with a certain kind of broad views and thoughts. That is all I wish for. Loving her from my whole soul, I want her to respond to that love, and do not neglect any means towards that end. I, who never deceive myself, confess openly that I want Aniela to sacrifice for me her husband, but I do not want to corrupt her or to soil her purity.
Let n.o.body tell me that this is a sophism, and that the one includes the other. The tormenting devil that is always within me raising difficulties says: "You create new theories; the way of faithlessness _is_ the way of corruption." How these conflicting thoughts tear me to pieces! I reply to the familiar spirit: "I might doubt opposite theories quite as much; I contrive what I can in defence of my love,--it is my natural law." And there is a greater law still, the law of love. Some feelings are mean and commonplace, others lofty and full of n.o.bility. A woman that follows the call of lofty feeling does not lose the n.o.bility of her soul. Such a great, exceptional love I try to awake in Aniela, and therefore I may say conscientiously that I do not want to corrupt her.
Besides, these inward arguments do not lead to anything. Even if I had not the slightest doubt that I am doing wrong, if I were unable to give any conclusive answer to the tormenting spirit, I would not cease loving; and always following where a greater power leads me, I should go according to my feeling, and not according to abstract reasoning.
But the true misfortune of those a.n.a.lytic and hyper-a.n.a.lytic modern people is that, though not believing in the result of their a.n.a.lysis, they have the invincible habit of inquiring into everything that goes on within themselves. It is the same with me. For some time I have been questioning myself how it is possible that a man absorbed by a great feeling should be able to be so watchful, so calculating about ways and means, and to account for everything as if somebody else did it for him. I could reply to it in this way: The man of the period reserves above everything part of himself to observe the other part. Besides, the whole activity of a mind full of forethought, of reflections apparently cool, stands eventually in proportion to the temperature of the feeling. The hotter this grows, the more cool reason is forced into service. I repeat, it is a mistake to represent love with bandaged eyes. Love does not suppress reason, as it does not suppress the breathing, or the beating of the heart,--it only subjugates it. Reason thereupon becomes the first adviser, the implement of war,--in other words, it plays the part of an Agrippa to a Caesar Augustus. It is holding all the forces in readiness, leads them into war, gains victories, and places the monarch on the triumphal car; it erects finally,--not a Pantheon, like the historical Agrippa,--but a Monotheon, where it serves its only divinity. In the microcosm called man, the part reason plays is a still greater one than that of chief commander,--for it reflects into infinite parts the consciousness of everything and of self,--as a collection of properly arranged mirrors reflect a given object infinitely.
1 June.
Yesterday I received news from Gastein. The rooms for Pani Celina and Aniela are ready. I sent them the particulars, together with a parcel of books by Balzac and George Sand. To-day is Sunday, and the first day of the races. My aunt has arrived from Ploszow and taken up her abode with me. That she went to the races is a matter of course, she is altogether absorbed in them. But our horses, Naughty Boy and Aurora, which arrived here two days ago with the trainer Webb and Jack Goose, the jockey, are on the list for Thursday; therefore my aunt"s attendance at the Sunday races was merely a platonic affair. The goings on here are past all description. The stables have been converted into a kind of fortress. My aunt fancies the jockeys of other racing studkeepers shake in their shoes at the very mention of Naughty Boy, and are ready to use every means to prevent his running; consequently in every orange boy or organ grinder that comes into the yard, she sees an enemy in disguise, bent upon some evil practice. The Swiss porter and the servants have strict orders to keep an eye upon everybody that comes in. In the stables, the precautions taken are still stricter. The trainer Webb, being an Englishman, remains impa.s.sive, but the unfortunate Jack Goose, a native of Burzany, and whose name is a literal translation from the Polish Kuba Gonsior, fairly loses his head; my aunt scolds him and the grooms, natives also of Burzany, whenever she fancies things are going wrong. She was so much at the stables that I did not see much of her, and only when departing she told me that Aniela was to come for the races. I suppose Pani Celina consented to this in order to please my aunt; besides, she can very well remain alone for one day, with the doctor and the maids to look after her. Aniela, who is walled up at Ploszow day after day, really wants a little change. For me this is joyful news indeed. The very thought that she will be under my roof has a singular charm for me. Here I began to love her and maybe her heart kept beating a little faster after that entertainment my aunt gave here in her honor.
Everything here will remind her of the past.
2 June.
It is fortunate I did not have the rooms altered to suit a museum. I have an idea to give a dinner-party after the races. In this way I shall be able to keep her here a few hours longer,--and besides, she will understand that it is all for her.
3 June.
I ordered a cartload of plants and flowers to put along the staircase and in the rooms. Aniela"s room remains exactly as it was when she occupied it. I suppose the ladies will arrive in the morning and Aniela will want to change her dress. I had a large mirror put there, and every requisite for a lady"s toilet. Aniela will meet everywhere proofs of thoughtfulness, memory, and faithful love. Only now, while writing, it strikes me how much easier I feel when occupied with something, when outward activity takes me out of the enchanted circle of reflection and pondering over myself. Even driving nails into the wall for the pictures of the future museum would be better than twisting one idea around another. Why cannot I be a simple-minded man?
If I had been that in times gone by I should be now the happiest man in the world.
4 June.
I went to-day to invite the Sniatynskis and several other people to dinner. Sniatynski has spread the news of my founding a museum for the public, and I am at present the hero of the day. All the papers write about it, improving the occasion as usual by pitching into those that waste their substance abroad instead of doing good to the country.
I know their style so well, and it amuses me. There are the usual phrases about a citizen"s duties and "n.o.blesse oblige," but it suits my purpose. I gathered the whole packet to show my aunt and Aniela.
5 June.
The races have been fixed a day sooner because of to-morrow"s holiday.
Aniela and my aunt arrived this morning with a maid and sundry boxes containing their racing toilets. The first glance at Aniela filled me with terror. She does not look well at all; her face is wan and has lost its former warm color; it seems smaller too, and there is something misty about her that reminds me of Puvis de Chawannes"
figures. My aunt and her mother do not notice it, because they see her every day; but to me, after the absence of a few days, the change is very remarkable. I am seized with contrition and sincere pity. It is evident that the inward struggle is telling upon her. If she would only end it, and follow the dictates of a heart that is mine,--a hundred times mine and pleads for me,--all her troubles would cease and happiness begin. I am getting deeper and deeper into the quicksands. It seemed to me that I knew her so well; every detail and every feature stands out before my eyes when I do not see her, and yet when I meet her, after a few days" absence, I discover a new charm, and find something new I like in her. How she satisfies my every taste, and I am deeply conscious that she is my type,--my only affinity. This consciousness gives me a belief, half mystic, half approaching the natural hypothesis, that she was meant for me. When hearing the sound of wheels, I ran down to meet her, and again had the sensation one might call falling under the spell; again the reality seemed to me more perfect than the picture I carry in my heart. She was dressed in a dust-cloak of Chinese silk; a long gray veil was twisted round her hat and tied under her chin, and from amid that frame the dear face, always more like a girl"s than a married woman"s, smiled at me. Her greeting was more cheerful and more frank than usual; it was evident the morning drive and the prospect of a little pleasure had brightened her spirits; this filled me with delight. I thought, "She is glad to see me again, and Ploszow appears to her dull and empty without me." I offered one arm to my aunt and the other to Aniela, as the staircase is wide enough for three persons, and led them upstairs. At the sight of all the plants and flowers she uttered a little cry of wonder.
"It is my surprise," I said.
I pressed her arm slightly, so slightly that it might have pa.s.sed for an accidental movement, and then turning to my aunt, said:--
"I am giving a dinner in honor of the Ploszowski success."
My aunt was deeply gratified with my belief in that event. Ah! if she knew how little I care for Naughty Boy, and all the races the Ploszow horses might win on all the race-courses of Europe. Aniela evidently guessed something of this, but she was in such spirits that she only cast a pa.s.sing glance at me, and bit her lips to hide a smile.
I well-nigh lost my head. In the covert smile I saw a shade of coquetry I had never noticed there before. It is impossible, I thought, that she should have no vanity whatever, and not feel flattered in the least, on perceiving that all I am doing is done through her and for her sake.
My aunt divested herself of her travelling-wraps, and without delay went to inspect Naughty Boy and Aurora, and I showed Aniela the list of the invited guests.
"I tried to bring together people you like; but if there is anybody else you would like to have, I will go myself, or send an invitation."
"Show it to aunty;" replied Aniela, "let her decide."
"No; aunty will sit at the head of the table, and we shall go to her with our congratulations or condolences, as the case may be; but the part of lady of the house I have a.s.signed to you."
Aniela blushed a little, and, trying to change the conversation, said:--
"Leon, I do hope Naughty Boy will win; aunty has set her heart upon it, and will be so vexed if it should turn out otherwise."
"I have won already, because I have as guest under my roof a certain small person who is sitting opposite me."
"You are making fun; but I am really anxious about it."
"My aunt," I replied, more seriously, "will have some compensation if she loses. My collections will be in Warsaw in a few weeks, and this has been the dearest wish of her life. She always tried to make my father give them to the town. All the papers are full of it, and praise me to an extent you have no idea of."
The dear face lit up with pleasure.
"Show me; read it to me," she said eagerly.
I had a desire to kiss her hands for that glimpse of brightness. It was a new proof. If I were indifferent to her, would she rejoice so much when I am praised?
"Not now," I replied. "I will read it when my aunt comes back, or rather she must read it, and I will hide my blushes behind you; you, at least, shall not see how foolish I look."
"Why should you look foolish?"
"Because the thing is not worth all the fuss, and if there be any merit in it, it is yours, not mine. They ought to praise you. I would give a good deal if I could tell those journalists: "If you think well of it, go _en ma.s.se_ and kneel at certain little feet and pour out your grat.i.tude there!""
"Leon! Leon!" interrupted Aniela.
"Now do not say a word, lest I should feel tempted to divulge the great secret."
Aniela did not know what to say. The words were those of a man in love; but the tone was so playful and jesting that she could not possibly receive them in a tragic spirit.
I was glad I had discovered a way by which I could convey a deeper meaning without absolutely frightening her. But I did not take too much advantage of it, and presently, in a more serious tone, began telling her about the projected changes in the house.
"The whole story is to be given up to the collections, with the exception of the room in which you lived last winter. This remains as it was. I have only permitted myself to adorn it a little for your reception."
Saying this I led her to the door. Standing on the threshold she exclaimed with astonishment:--