To-day I tore up three or four letters to Aniela. After dinner, I went
into my father's room to talk with him about my aunt's plans. I found
him looking through a lens at some epilichnions with the earth still
adhering to them, he had received from the Peloponnesus. How splendid
he looked in that light coming through stained windows in the large
room full of Etruscan vases, statues more or less mutilated, and all
kinds of Greek and Roman treasures. Among these surroundings his face
reminded me of a divine Plato or of some other Greek sage. When I
entered he interrupted his work, listened attentively to what I had to
say, and then asked, "Do you hesitate?"
"No, I do not hesitate, but I am reflecting. I want to know why I want
it."
"Then I will tell you this; I was once like you, inclined to analyze
not only my own feelings but all manifestations of life. When I came
to know your mother I lost that faculty at once. I knew one thing
only, that I wanted her, and did not care to know anything else.
Therefore if you have a like powerful desire, marry. I express myself
wrongly, for if you wish it very much you will do it without anybody's
help or advice, and be as happy as I was until your mother died."
We remained silent for some time. If I were to apply my father's words
closely to my own case, I should feel small comfort. I love Aniela,
there is no doubt; but I have not arrived yet at a state that
precludes all reflection. But I do not consider this as a bad sign;
it simply means that I belong to a generation that has gone a step
farther on the way to knowledge.
There are always two persons within me,--the actor, and the spectator.
Often the spectator is dissatisfied with the actor, but at present
they both agree.
My father was the first to interrupt the silence.
"Tell me what she is like."
Since a description is an unsatisfactory way of painting a portrait, I
showed my father a large and really excellent photograph of Aniela, at
which he looked with the keenest interest. I was no less interested in
the study of his face, in which I saw not only the roused artist,
but also the refined connoisseur of female beauty, the old Leon
_l'Invincible_. Resting the photograph on the poor hand half
paralyzed, he put on his eyeglass with the right, and then holding the
likeness at a longer or shorter distance he began to say: "But for
certain details, the face is like one of those Ary-Schaeffer liked to
paint. How lovely she would look with tears in her eyes. Some people
dislike angelic faces in women, but I think that to teach an angel
how to become a woman is the very height of victory. She is very
beautiful, very uncommon looking. 'Enfin, tout ce qu'il y a de plus
beau au monde--c'est la femme.'"
Here he fumbled with his eyeglass, and then added: "Judging by the
face, or rather by the photograph (sometimes one makes mistakes, but I
have had some practice), hers is a thoroughly loyal nature. Women of
this type are in love with the whiteness of their plumage. God bless
you, my boy! I like her very much, this Aniela of yours. I used to be
afraid you might end by marrying a foreigner--let it be Aniela."