I never liked Laura, though I was and am still under the spell of
her physical charms. This at first sight looks like a paradox, but
nevertheless is a common enough occurrence. One may love and not like
the person in question. As often as I happened to meet a love full of
thorns and apt to take easily offence, it was only because there was
no real liking at the bottom. Now Sniatynski and his wife are not only
in love, but they like each other immensely, and therefore are happy.
Ah me! I feel I could have liked Aniela, and we might have been as
happy! Better not think about it. As to Laura, she will meet many who
may fall in love with her raven hair and statuesque beauty, but
she will never inspire real liking. This singular woman attracts
irresistibly, and at the same time repulses. I have said that beyond
beauty there is nothing else; for even her uncommon intelligence is
only the humble slave kneeling at the feet of her own beauty. Not more
than a week ago I saw Laura giving money to a child whose father had
been drowned recently, and I thought to myself: "She would put the
child's eyes out in the same way, gracefully and sweetly, if she
thought it would add to her beauty." One feels these things, and one
may lose one's head over a woman like that, but it is impossible to
like her. And she who understands so many things does not understand
this.
Yet how beautiful she is! A few days ago, when she came down the steps
leading into the garden, swaying lightly on those magnificent hips,
"I thought I should drop," as the poet Slowacki says. Decidedly I
am under the sway of two powers,--the one attracting, the other
repelling. I want to go to Switzerland, and I want to go back to Rome.
I do not know how it will end. Ribot rightly says that a desire to do
a thing is only a consciousness, not an act of volition; still less is
it an act of volition to have a twofold desire. I received a letter
from my lawyer, who wants to see me about the affairs of the
succession; these are mere formalities, and they could arrange things
without me, did I feel disinclined to move. But it will serve as a
pretext. For some time I have liked Laura even less than formerly. It
is for no fault of hers, as she is always the same, but as it happens,
I have transferred to her some of the dislike I have for myself. At
the time of my inward struggles I turned to her not only for peace,
but also for a kind of wilful degradation; now for that very reason I
feel displeased with her. She did not even know of the storm raging
in my breast; besides, what could it matter to her, as it was nothing
which could serve her as an ornament? She only noticed that I was
feverish and more impulsive than usual; she asked a little after
the cause, but without insisting too much. Perhaps after all the
attraction here will win and I shall not depart; in any case, I am
going to tell her that I am obliged to go. I am curious to know how
she will take it, still more curious as I can imagine it very well. I
suspect that with all her love for me, which is very like my love for
her, she does not really like me,--that is, if she ever takes the
trouble to like or to dislike anybody. Our minds have certain points
of resemblance, but thousands of contradictions.
I am terribly tired. I cannot help thinking of the sensation my letter
has made at Ploszow. I think incessantly of this even when with Laura;
I see before me continually Aniela and my aunt. How happy Laura is in
her everlasting repose! I have such difficulty to bear with my own
self.
I shall be glad of a change. Peli, though a seaside resort, is very
empty. The heat is quite exceptional. The sea is calm; no waves wash
against the shore; it seems exhausted and breathless from the heat.
At times the wind rises, but it is a suffocating blast, that raises
clouds of white dust which covers the palms, fig-trees, and myrtles,
and penetrates through the blinds into the house. My eyes ache as the
walls reflect a glaring sun, and in the daytime it is impossible to
look at anything.
To Switzerland or to Rome, but away from here. It seems anywhere it
would be better than here. We all prepare for the journey. I have not
seen Mr. Davis for four or five days. I fancy his insanity will break
out any day. The doctor tells me the poor man challenges him to fight.
He considers this a bad sign.
ROME, CASA OSORIA, 18 May.
It was evidently solitude I wanted. I feel as I felt after my arrival
at Peli, sad, but at the same time peaceful. I feel even more peaceful
here than in my first days at Peli, because there is none of that
uneasiness Laura's presence used to give me. I walk about the still,
gloomy house, and find thousands of details that remind me of my
father, and the memory grows fresh again in my heart. He too had
vanished into the distant haze, and now I meet him again as in his
former, real life. There on the table in his studio are the lenses
through which he looked at his specimens, the bronze implement he
used in scraping the dry soil from the pottery; colors, brushes,
manuscripts, and notes about the collections are lying about. At times
I have a feeling as if he had gone out and would return presently to
his work, and when the illusion disappears a great sorrow seizes me,
and I love not only his memory, but love him who sleeps the eternal
sleep on the Campo Santo.
And I feel sad; but the feeling is so infinitely purer than those
which had such absolute sway over my mind those last weeks that I feel
more at ease,--a better man, or, at least, not so corrupt as I had
seemed to myself. I notice also that no reasoning, nor the most
desperate argumentation can deprive us of a certain feeling of
satisfaction, when we come in contact with nobler elements. Whence
comes that irresistible, irrepressible tendency towards the good?
Spinning out this thread I go very far. Since our reason is considered
a reflection of the logical principle of all life, may not our
conception of good be a similar reflection from an absolute good. Were
it so, one might throw at once all doubts to the wind, and shout, not
only, "Eureka!" but also, "Alleluia!" Nevertheless, I am afraid lest
the foundation fall to pieces, like many others, and I dare not build
on it. Besides the reasoning is but vague; I shall go back to it
undoubtedly, because this means the extraction of a thorn, not from
the feet, but from the soul. Now I am too tired, too sad and restful
at the same time.
It seems to me that of all creatures upon earth it is only the human
being that can act sometimes against his volition. I wanted to leave
Peli for some time, and yet day after day passed, and I remained. The
day previous to my departure I was almost certain I should stop, when
unexpectedly Laura herself helped me to a decision.
I told her about the lawyer's letter and my going away, only to
see how she would receive the news. We were alone. I expected some
exclamation from her part, some emotion, and lastly a "veto." Nothing
of the kind took place.
Hearing the news, she turned to me, passing her hand gently over my
hair; she brought her face close to mine, and said:--
"You will come back, will you not?"
By Jove! it is still an enigma to me what she meant. Did she suppose I
was really obliged to go? or, trusting to the power of her beauty, had
she no doubt whatever that I would come back? or, finally, did she
grasp at the chance to get rid of me?--because after such a question
there remained nothing for me but to go. The caressing touch and
accompanying question are a little against the last supposition,
which after all seems to me the likeliest. At odd moments I am almost
certain she wanted to say by it:--
"It is not you who dismiss me; it is I who dismiss you."
I confess that, if it was a dismission, Laura's cleverness is simply
amazing; all the more so, as the manner was so sweet and caressing,
and left me in uncertainty whether she was mocking me or not. But why
delude myself? By that simple question she had won the game. Perhaps
at other times my vanity would have suffered; but now it leaves me
indifferent. That same evening, instead of coolness, there was perfect
harmony between us. We separated very late. I see her still, walking
with me, her eyes lowered, as far as my room. She was simply so
beautiful that I felt sorry I was going. The next morning she said
good-by to me at the station. The bunch of tea-roses I lost only in
Genoa. Strange woman! As I went further on my journey, I felt side by
side a physical longing and a great relief. I went on to Rome without
stopping, and now feel as a bird released from his cage.