Yesterday my aunt's entertainment took place. Aniela was the cynosure
of every eye. Her white shoulders peeping out from a cloud of muslin,
gauze, or whatever it is called, she looked like a Venus rising from
the foam. I fancy it is already gossiped about that I am going to
marry her. I noticed that her eyes often strayed in my direction, and
she listened to her partners with an absent, distracted expression.
Guileless child! she cannot hide the truth, and shows so plainly what
is going on in her heart that I could not help seeing it, unless I
were blind. And she is so humble and quietly happy when I am with her!
I like her immensely, and begin to waver. Sniatynski is so happy in
his home life! It is not the first time I have asked myself whether
Sniatynski be more foolish or wiser than I. Of the many problems of
life, I have not solved one. I am nothing; scepticism is sapping
my whole system; I am not happy, and am very tired. He, with less
knowledge than I, does useful work, has a good and handsome wife, the
rogue! and his very philosophical principles, adapted to life, help to
make him happy. No, it must be acknowledged, it is I who am the more
foolish of the two.
The keynote of Sniatynski's philosophy is found in his dogmas of life.
Before he was married he said to me: "There are two things I never
approach with scepticism, and do not criticise: to me as a literary
man, the community is a dogma; as a private individual, the beloved
woman." I thought to myself then: "My mind is bolder,--it analyzes
even that." But I see now that this boldness has not led me to
anything. And how lovely she is,--that little dogma of mine with the
long eyelashes! Decidedly, I am going the way I did not mean to go.
The singular attraction which draws me towards her cannot be explained
by the law of natural selection. Ho! there is something more, and I
know what it is. She loves me with all the freshness of her honest
heart, as I was never loved before. How different from the fencing
practice of former years, when thrusts were dealt or guarded against!
The woman who is much liked, and who in her turn loves, is sure to win
in the end if she perseveres.
"The stray bird," says the poet Slowacki, "comes back to his haven
of rest and peace all the more eagerly after the lonesomeness of his
stormy flight. Nothing takes so firm a hold upon a man's heart as the
consciousness that he is loved."
A few pages before, I wrote God knows what about Polish women; but if
any one fancies that for the sake of a few written sentences I feel
myself bound to pursue a certain course, he is vastly mistaken.
How that girl satisfies my artistic taste is simply wonderful. After
the ball, came the pleasantest moment when, everybody gone, we sat
down and had some tea. Wanting to see how the world looked outside, I
drew back the heavy curtains. It was eight o'clock in the morning and
a flood of daylight poured into the room. It was so perfectly blue,
seen by the glare of the lamps, that it reminded me of the Capri
grotto. And there stood Aniela, with that blue haze around her white
shoulders. She looked so lovely that all my resolutions tottered and
fell to pieces; I felt positively grateful to her for this glimpse of
beauty, as if it were her doing. I pressed her hand more tenderly than
I had ever done before when saying good-night to her.
"Good-morning, you mean, not good-night,--good-morning."
Either I am blind and deaf or her eyes and voice expressed: "I love
you, I love you."