I meet Mrs. Davis here pretty often, and call upon her at her house.
And nothing else! There is some dislike, a little contempt under a
thick layer of ashes, and for the rest, the usual social intercourse.
She is still too beautiful to be classified among my idiosyncrasies.
I cannot love her, and do not take the trouble to hate her. She
understood that at once, and adapted herself to circumstances. All the
same she cannot always conceal her irritation at my self-possession
and cool independence; but for that very reason shows me greater
consideration. It is very strange, that easiness with which women from
closest relations pass on to mere acquaintanceship. Laura and I treat
each other as if there had never been anything between us,--not only
before people, but even when we are alone together. It does not
seem to cost her the slightest effort; she is polite, cool, and
self-possessed, affable in her way, and her manners influence me
to such a degree that I should never dream of calling her by her
Christian name.
The Neapolitan cousin, Maleschi, used to roll his eyes so ferociously
at me that I almost considered it my duty to ask him not to injure his
optics; he has now calmed down, seeing how very distant our relations
to each other are, and is very friendly towards me. He has already
fought a duel about Laura, and in spite of the reputation of coward he
had in Italy, showed a deal of pluck. Poor Davis has passed to Nirvana
some months ago, and I suppose after a decent interval of widowhood,
Laura will marry Maleschi. They will make a splendid couple. The
Italian has the torso and head of an Antinous; in addition to that, a
complexion like pale gold, raven black hair, and eyes as blue as the
Mediterranean. It may be that Laura loves him, but for some reason
known only to herself, she bullies him a great deal. Several times in
my presence she treated him so uncivilly that I was surprised, as I
had thought her aesthetic nature incapable of such an exhibition of
temper. Aspasia and Xantippe in one.
I have often noticed that women, merely beautiful, without striking
qualities of the soul, who are looked upon as stars, are something
more than stars; they are a whole constellation, two in fact,--a Great
Bear to their surroundings, a Cross to their husbands. Laura was a
Cross to poor Davis, and is now a Bear in regard to Maleschi. She
would treat me a little in that way, too, if it were not that she is
not familiar with the ways of Parisian society, and considers it safer
to have me for an ally than an enemy. It is very strange, but she
does not create here the same sensation as in Italy, or on the
Mediterranean. She is simply too classical, too beautiful for
Parisians, whose taste is to a certain degree morbid, as appears in
their literature and art; and characteristic ugliness more strongly
excites their blunted nerves than simple beauty. It is a noted fact
that the most celebrated stars of the _demi-monde_ are rather ugly
than beautiful. In regard to Laura, there is another reason for
her non-success with the Parisians. Her intelligence, though very
uncommon, is upon too straight lines, wanting in that kind of dash
so appreciated here. There are thinkers, and deep thinkers, too, in
Paris, but in society those mostly win a reputation whose minds are
nimble enough to cling to any subject, as a monkey to a branch by his
tail or feet, turning head over heel. The more these jumps are sudden
and unexpected, the surer the success. Laura understands this, and at
the same time is conscious that to do this would be as easy for her
as to dance on a rope. She considers me an adept in these kinds of
gymnastics, and consequently wants me.
To increase the attraction of her salon, she has made it into a temple
of music. She herself sings like a siren, and thereby attracts
many people. I meet there often a pianiste, Clara Hilst, a young,
good-looking German girl, very tall of figure, whom one of the
painters here describes thus: "C'est beau, mais c'est deux fois
grandeur naturelle." In spite of her German origin, she has met with
a considerable success. As to myself, I evidently belong to the old
school, for I do not understand the music of the present, which
consists in a great deal of noise and confusion. Listening the last
time to Miss Hilst's playing at Laura's, I thought to myself that if
the piano were a man who had seduced her sister, she could not
belabor him more mercilessly. She also plays on the harmonium. Her
compositions are thought of a great deal here, and considered very
deep; most likely because those who could not understand them, hearing
them for the tenth time, hope the eleventh time will make them more
intelligible. I must confess that these remarks sound malicious,
perhaps bold in one who does not profess to be a judge. Yet it seems
to me that music for the understanding of which one has to be a
professor of the Conservatorium, and for which people intellectually
developed, let alone simple folk, do not possess the key, is not what
it ought to be. I am afraid that musicians following the same track
will end by creating a separate caste, like the Egyptian priests, in
order to keep knowledge and art exclusively to themselves.
I say this because I notice that since Wagner's time, music, compared,
for instance, to painting, has taken a quite different direction. The
newer school of painting is narrowing spontaneously the limit of its
proportions, tries to divest itself from philosophical and literary
ideas; does not attempt speeches, sermons, historical events that
require a commentary, or allegory that does not explain itself at a
glance; in fact confines itself with the full consciousness of doing
so to the reproduction of shape and color. Music since Wagner's time
goes in the opposite direction,--tries to be, not only a harmony of
sound, but at the same time the philosophy of harmony. I sometimes
think a great musical genius of the future will say, as Hegel did in
his time:--
"There was only one who understood me, and he understood me wrongly."
Miss Hilst belongs to the category of musical philosophers, which is
all the more strange, as her mind is full of simplicity. This caryatid
has the limpid, innocent eyes of a child, and is unsophisticated and
sincere like one. She is surrounded by a great throng of admirers, who
are attracted by her beauty, and more still by the nimbus that makes a
woman touched by the hand of the Muses always a centre of attraction;
nevertheless, not a breath has touched her fair fame. Even the women
speak well of her, for she disarms them by her invariable good humor
and sincerity. She is as gay as any street urchin, and I have seen her
laughing as schoolgirls laugh, the tears running down her face, which
would be considered bad form in anybody but an artist, who is a
privileged person. Hers, from a moral point of view, is a beautiful
character, though beyond her art, she is not endowed with great
intellectual gifts. Laura, who, in the main, does not like her, hinted
to me several times that the caryatid is in love with me. I do not
believe it; she might love me, perhaps, if I tried to make her. One
thing is certain, she likes me very much, and felt sympathy for me the
first time we met. I return the sentiment, and do not try to disturb
her peace of mind. When I meet a woman for the first time I look upon
her, from old habit I suppose, as a possible conquest; it is the first
instinct. A second thought is quite different. Generally speaking,
women interest me in the way precious stones interest a jeweller who
has retired from business. Seeing a valuable gem, I say to myself it
is worth having, and then I remember that I have sold out, and go on
my way.
In spite of all that, I once, half in jest, urged her to go to Warsaw,
and promised to escort her as honorary _impresario_. I do not say that
such a journey would be without charm. I really intend going. My aunt
has given me her town house, and wants me to come over in order to
take the property. Besides, I always go to Warsaw for the races. Who
would believe that my aunt, a grave, serious-minded lady, devoted to
the management of the estate, to prayer and benevolent schemes, had
such a worldly weakness as horse-racing. It is her one passion. Maybe
the knightly instincts which women inherit as well as men, find an
outlet in this noble sport. Our horses have been running for Heaven
knows how many years,--and are always beaten. My aunt never fails to
attend the races, and is an enthusiast about horses. While her own
horses are running, she stands on the back seat of her carriage,
leaning on a stick, her bonnet usually awry, and watches for the
result,--then gets very angry, and for at least a month makes
Chwastowski's life a burden to him. At present I hear she has reared
a wonderful horse, and she bids me to come and witness the triumph of
the black and orange colors. I shall go. There are other reasons too
which make me inclined to go. As I have said, I am comparatively
speaking calm, do not wish for anything, or expect anything, am
resigned in fact to that kind of spiritual paralysis until the time
comes when bodily paralysis carries me off, as it carried off my
father. Nevertheless, I cannot forget altogether, therefore it is
only a partial paralysis. The one being I ever loved presents herself
before my mind in two shapes. The one is called Pani Kromitzka, the
other Aniela. As far as Pani Kromitzka is concerned, I am indifferent
and a stranger; but Aniela still haunts me and brings with her,
as gifts, the consciousness of wrong, my foolishness, spiritual
crookedness, pain, bitterness, disappointment, and loss. Verily a
munificent spirit! I might be even now perfectly contented if somebody
could take from my brain that particular part wherein memory dwells. I
try to drive away the thoughts of what might have been if things had
turned out differently, but cannot always manage it. My munificent,
generous angel will come now and then, and from her cornucopia shower
her gifts upon me. At times the idea comes into my mind that Pani
Kromitzka will lay the ghost of Aniela,--and that is one reason I wish
to go; to look upon her happiness, her married life, and all those
changes which must have made her different from the old Aniela.
Perhaps I may meet her at Ploszow, as she will want to see her mother,
after so many months of separation.
I suppose that I do not delude myself, and that "ceci tuera cela."
I count mostly upon my nerves, which are so easily worked upon. I
remember that when I had made Aniela's acquaintance and her charm
began to act upon me with such irresistible force, the very mention of
Kromitzki in connection with her made her less desirable. This will
be more so now, when she belongs to him body and soul. I am almost
certain the remedy will prove efficacious, and that "ceci tuera cela."
And if not, if it should turn out differently, what have I to lose? I
do not wish to gain anything, but should not be sorry perhaps to know
that the guilt was not on my side only, and that henceforth the burden
would have to be divided between us two; this might give me a kind of
satisfaction. I say, it _might_, because I am not sure that it would.
Thoughts of revenge are very far from me. It is only on theatrical
boards that disappointed lovers are thirsting for revenge; in real
life they go away with distaste, that is all. Moreover, to make Pani
Kromitzka believe that she had done wrong in rejecting my repentance I
should have to believe firmly in it myself,--and strange to say, there
are moments I am not sure of anything.