"You will choose the other," he repeated oracularly. "It is your
destiny."
Although I am not really superstitious, this curt, obscure prediction
impressed me strangely.
"I shall beware of whom I meet," I said to myself; and indeed, every
time a man spoke to me, even casually, I wondered: could this be the
One?--or the Other?
But days and months passed, and I made no new acquaintances.
Prilukoff kept me jealously secluded, and little Tioka absorbed my every
hour. Apart from these two I saw no one at all.
It was by mere chance that one day I met a former acquaintance.
I had taken Tioka for a walk in the park when we saw a gentleman and a
child sitting on a bench in the shade. They were both dressed in deep
mourning, and they looked sad and disconsolate. The little boy was
leaning his fair head on his father's arm, watching him as, with an air
of melancholy abstraction, he traced hieroglyphics in the gravel with
his stick. On hearing us approach the man in mourning raised his head
and looked at us.
I recognized him at once. It was Count Paul Kamarowsky, the husband of
one of my dearest friends, who lived at Dresden, and whom I had not seen
for nearly two years.
He recognized me, too, and started to his feet with eager face, while
the little boy looked at us diffidently, still holding to his father's
sleeve.
"Countess Tarnowska!" he exclaimed, holding out both his hands.
I laid my hand in his; as he clasped it between his black-gloved fingers
a slight shiver ran through me. I turned to the pale little child beside
him who was still glancing up at me timidly. "Is this Grania?"
"Yes. It is Grania," said Count Kamarowsky. Then he perceived my
questioning glance at his mourning. "Poor Emilia--" he began, but his
voice broke.
"Poor Emilia?" Was it possible that my little school friend of long ago,
the fair-haired, laughter-loving Lily should now be "poor Emilia," to be
spoken of in solemn, mournful tones? I could hardly believe it. I seemed
to see her still, bending over her 'cello with her fair curls tumbling
over her face as she played her favorite Popper tarantelle.... I could
see her laughing with mischievous eyes agleam behind her flaxen locks,
like dark stars seen through a golden cloud. And here, clad in mourning
for her, her husband and child stood before me.
Great tenderness and pity filled my heart.
Tioka had gone close to Grania, and the two children were looking at
each other with that expression of simple gravity which is so far
removed from the conventional smile with which grown-up people greet
each other for the first time. Their gaze was serious, thoughtful and
interrogative.
"Do you like pelicans?" Tioka inquired suddenly.
"No," said Grania.
"Neither do I," said Tioka; and there was a long silence.
"Do you like ducks?" asked Tioka.
"Yes," replied Grania.
"So do I," said Tioka; and their friendship was sealed.
Count Kamarowsky and I were less prompt in discovering a community of
tastes such as that which so quickly linked our two children together.
This grave silent man in his widower's garb was almost a stranger to me.
As we parted he asked permission to call. But on the following day a
telegram from my father summoned me to Otrada. My mother was ill and
desired my presence.