“And then, besides, what you say is untrue. Recall which of us two
revels more in high-flown, naïve, silly, maudlin sentiment! Who was it
was always dreaming of an ideal ‘brotherhood of souls,’ instead of
regarding love in the ordinary way? It was I who cannot bear what is
high-flown; I, who always had to bring you down from your stilts.”
Witold was looking out of the window. There was in his bearing
aristocratic boredom and lassitude, plainly expressed.
“Ah, Janka,” he said, this time in a tone of supreme indifference,
“that, too, is on your part all theory. Of this you only make use, that
you may struggle against the high-flown sentimentality which you feel
within you, though you disown it, and deny its existence. And the
eternal conflict with yourself in which you are plunged, and your empty
theories, with their unconscious hypocrisy—these are the best proof of
what I say, and the most high-flown sentimentality of all.... Only you
delude yourself.... You are just as other women are, capable of infinite
self-devotion and sacrifice. Hear me still. If I were now to love you no
longer, to go away from you and forget you (men forget so very readily),
you would be longing for me, and in anguish, like any other woman in the
same situation, and in spite of all your ‘positive’ theories; you would
be miserable, as you were during the last two weeks when we were parted;
and you would again write first to me. And should I not come in answer
to it—as I had a great mind not to come, notwithstanding my ‘idealistic’
way of looking at love—why then, you would write again and again, even
to the tenth time! Don’t say you would not; I know you well. Oh, how
well I know women! I’ll tell you what: I am still more certain that you
love me and will be faithful than I was in Martha’s case, for all you
say about paying me in my own coin, if I were false. Martha could forget
herself for my sake; you never could. A bundle of theories, of
sentimental scepticism, of self-assurance: that’s what you are! A poor
frightened bird always popping its head under its wing!”
I felt quite broken. There was an immense and awful void in my heart. I
had the odd delusion—or had his words suggested the feeling?—that I
really experienced the weakness of which he spoke, and was unable to
escape from his hands. Thereupon, I began to cry.
“I don’t—I don’t believe—that you ever loved me!”
In an instant he had changed his manner, and become kind and gentle as
he had always been before. He came to my side, with caresses and words
of comfort; even a little friendly banter.
“Alas!” I groaned; “why did you never tell me about this before?”
“Because I was quite sure that you would burst out crying, as you are
doing at present, you naughty child!”
At those words, directly and on the spur of the moment, there fell upon
me a sense of strong distaste. Back to my memory came in swarms all
sorts of seeming trifles, which, together with many a minute detail of
our past, made proof demonstrative and irrefutable ... of what he was.
“And you were quite sure, Witold, of something else into the bargain!”
“What was that, Janka?”
With downcast eyes I answered, smiling:
“That I should never love you any more.”
I had spoken with absolute candour and certitude. I knew this to be a
necessity of life to me; and I wiped my last tears away—
“Bah! give over, little girl. Do you not see this too is silly
sentiment? You yourself don’t believe what you say.” He still spoke as
in tones of tranquil persuasion; but I could see disquietude looking out
of his eyes.
I smiled at him once more, saying: “Whether I believe or not, matters
little. What matters is that you certainly do!”
He turned a trifle pale, and felt nervously for his cigarette-case.
“Give over!” he cried out roughly, on a sudden, and again came towards
me.
I rose, quivering all over with excitement, but managed to say, calmly
enough:
“I should not like to part from you too tragically. And since I have had
enough of love in general, and enough of your person especially, I am
afraid I must ask you to have the goodness to withdraw now. Let us shake
hands on parting. Go.”
He came forwards, with knit gloomy brows, and looks which betrayed the
storm that raged within him. I stepped backwards. He stood for an
instant struggling with himself, and I fully expected he would rush at
me.
But his breeding prevailed. He made a courtly bow, kissed my hand and
retired.
I stood where I was, with head bent forward.... That page, with his dear
tawny eye-lashes—with his soft sad eyes—with his lips, of the odour of
faded roses—he that once had been mine!
“All the same,” I whispered to myself, “the thing is done at last!”
To-day I feel I have crossed the Rubicon, and am standing on the farther
shore, not very sure whether things are better with me now. And yet, I
should not wish to go back again.