I have been to Ploszow, and found things very different indeed from
what I had pictured to myself. I left Warsaw at seven in the morning
in a cab, counting I should be in Ploszow by eight. The oppressive
feeling still remained with me. I had said to myself that I would not
make any plans about that first meeting, or my future bearing towards
her. Let chance be my guide. But I could not help speculating how
it would be,--how she would greet me, what she would try to make me
understand, and what our future relation to each other would be. Not
having formed any plans of my own, I fancied, I do not know why that
she would want to act according to a well-defined system. Trying to
fathom this, I felt almost inimical towards her. Then again, at the
thought that the meeting might cause her pain, I felt something akin
to pity, and seemed to see her before me as she used to be. I saw
distinctly the low brow with the wealth of auburn hair, the long
eyelashes, and the small, delicate face. I tried to guess how
she would be dressed. Memories came back of words she had said,
expressions of the face, graceful motions, dresses. With strange
pertinacity, the one memory remained with me,--her coming into the
room after she had tried to disguise her emotion by applying powder
to her face. At last these memories became so vivid as to equal a
second-sight. "There she is again," I said to myself; and in order to
pull myself together, I began talking to the driver, and asked him
whether he were married; whereupon he replied that without the old
woman at home, there would be no go, then said something I did not
hear, as I had caught sight of the Ploszow poplars in the distance. I
had not paid any heed to the time we had been on the road.
At the sight of Ploszow I felt more troubled still, and my eagerness
increased. I tried to pay attention to outward things, changes that
had taken place during my absence, and look at the new buildings on
the road. I repeated to myself mechanically that the weather was very
fine, and the spring exceptionally early this year. And indeed, the
weather was magnificent; the morning air was crisp and transparent;
near the cottages the apple-trees, in full bloom, were scattering
their petals like snowflakes on the grass; it was like a long line of
pictures by the modern school of painters. Wherever the eye turned,
there was that luminous _plein-air_ in the midst of which moved the
figures of people working in the fields or near their cottages. I saw
it all, observed every detail; but, strange to say, I was not able to
take it in, or give myself up to it altogether. The impressions had
lost their absorbing power, and remained only on the surface of the
brain, the brain itself being full of other thoughts. In this state of
divided attention I approached Ploszow.
Presently the cool air of the lime avenue fanned my face, and I saw
at the other end, far off, the windows of the house. The scattered,
futile thoughts hammered and knocked louder than ever at my brain. I
stopped the driver from going straight to the house, and dismissed
him, I do not know why, at the gate. Followed by his thanks, I went on
foot straight towards the veranda. I cannot explain to myself why I
felt so troubled, unless it was that within these well-known walls
something unknown was awaiting me, which was in close connection with
the tragic past. Crossing the courtyard, I felt such a weight upon my
chest that it obstructed my breath. "What the deuce is the matter with
me?" said I, inwardly. As I had dismissed the cab, nobody had heard me
coming. The hall was empty; I went in to the dining-room to wait until
the ladies came down.
I knew they would come soon, as the table was laid for breakfast,
and the samovar, whispering and growling, was sending coils of steam
aloft. Again not the slightest detail escaped my notice. I observed
that the room was cool and comparatively dark, as the windows faced
the north. For a moment my attention was fixed on the three luminous
streaks the light from the windows made upon the polished floor. I
looked at the carved sideboard I remembered since a child, and then
recalled the conversation I had in this same room with Sniatynski, and
we looked through the window at his wife and Aniela, in fur boots,
coming from the hot-houses.
At last a feeling of great solitude and sadness overcame me, and
I went close to the window to get more light and make further
observations in the garden. But all this did not restore my balance of
mind. The only real thought my mind was full of was that I should meet
her in a few minutes. There are people who out of fear are capable of
the most heroic deeds. With me it is different. Fear, uncertainty
of what may come next, rouses me to anger. This happened now. The
difference between the old Aniela and the present Pani Kromitzka
impressed itself upon me more forcibly than ever. "If you borrowed the
very moonbeams for your head-dress, if you were a hundred times
more beautiful than my fancy can paint, you would be as nothing to
me,--less than nothing, because an object of aversion." My anger rose
still, for I fancied that she would come to me in order to point out
my guilt, my wrong-doing; that she would be still desirable, but
unapproachable. "We shall see," I replied inwardly, under the vivid
impression that with this woman there was awaiting me a duel; a
struggle in which I should lose and gain at the same time,--lose the
haunting memories and regain peace. At that moment I felt the power to
overcome any obstacles, repulse any attack.
Then the door opened quietly, and Aniela came in.
At the sight of her I felt my brain in a whirl, and my finger-tips
grew icy cold. The being before me bore the name of Pani Kromitzka,
but had the sweet, hundred times beloved features and inexpressible
charm of the Aniela I had known. In the chaotic bewilderment of my
brain there was only one sound I heard distinctly: "Aniela! Aniela!
Aniela!" And she did not see me, or took me for somebody else as I
stood against the light. But when I drew nearer, she raised her eyes
and stood still as if turned into stone. I cannot even describe the
expression of sudden terror, confusion, emotion, and humility which
shone in her face. She had grown white to the lips, and I was afraid
she might faint. When I took her hand it felt as cold as ice. I had
expected anything but that. I thought she would let me know in some
way or other that she was Pani Kromitzka, but there was nothing of the
sort. She stood before me moved, frightened, my former little Aniela.
It was I who had made her unhappy,--I who was guilty, a hundred times
guilty; and at this moment she looked at me as if she herself asked
to be forgiven. The old love, contrition for the past, and pity
overwhelmed me to such a degree that I almost lost my head, and
thought I must take her into my arms, and soothe her with endearing
words, as one soothes a beloved being. I was so agitated by the
unexpected meeting, not with Pani Kromitzka, but Aniela, that I
could only press her hand in silence. And yet I felt obliged to say
something; therefore, pulling myself together, I said, as if in
somebody else's voice,--
"Did aunt not tell you I was coming?"
"Yes; she told me," said Aniela, with an evident effort.
And then we fell back into silence. I felt that I ought to ask after
her mother, and about herself, but could not force myself to do so.
I wished from my soul somebody would come and deliver us from this
position. Presently my aunt came in with the young Doctor Chwastowski,
the agent's son, who for a month past has had the care of Pani Celina.
Aniela slipped away to pour out the tea, and I began to talk with my
aunt. I had recovered my presence of mind entirely when we sat down to
breakfast. I began now to inquire after Pani Celina's health. My aunt,
telling me about her, appealed every moment to the doctor, who turned
to me with that peculiar shade of superciliousness with which a newly
patented scientist treats outsiders, and at the same time with the
watchfulness of a democrat who is afraid of slights where none are
intended. He appeared to me very conceited; and after all, I treated
him with far greater politeness than he exhibited towards me. This
amused me a little, and helped to keep my thoughts, which the sight
of Aniela confused, under control. From time to time I looked at her
across the table, and repeated to myself: "The same features, the same
little face, the same low brow shaded by a wealth of hair; it is the
same Aniela, almost a little girl, my love, my happiness; and now lost
to me forever." There was inexpressible sweetness in the sensation,
mingled with exquisite pain. Aniela, too, had recovered from her
emotion, but looked still frightened. I tried to draw her into
conversation, speaking about her mother. I was partly successful; she
seemed a little more at ease, and said,--
"Mamma will be very glad to see you."
I permitted myself a doubt as far as her mother was concerned, but
listened to her voice with half-closed eyes; it was sweeter to me than
any music.
We were conversing more freely every moment. My aunt was in excellent
spirits,--first, because of seeing me once more at Ploszow, and also
because she had seen Clara and got from her the promise of a concert.
When leaving the artist she had met two other ladies, patronesses of
charitable institutions, ascending the staircase bent on the same
errand. They were too late, and that had put her in a high good-humor.
She asked me a great many questions about Clara, who had made an
excellent impression upon her. Towards the end of breakfast, to
satisfy my aunt's curiosity, I had to say something about my travels.
She was amazed to hear I had been as far as Iceland, and asked what it
looked like; she then remarked,--
"One must be desperate to go to such places as that."
"Yes; I did not feel very cheerful when I went."
Aniela looked at me for a moment, and there was that hunted,
half-frightened expression in her eyes again. If she had put her hand
upon my naked heart she could not have given it a sharper pull. The
more I had prepared myself for an exhibition of triumphant coldness
and satisfaction at my disappointment, the more I felt crushed now by
that angelic compassion. All my calculations and foresight had been
put to naught. I supposed she could not help showing herself off as a
married woman. And now I had to remind myself that she was married;
but in the recollection there was no loathing, nothing but
inexpressible sorrow.
It is in my nature that in every moral suffering I try to reopen my
wounds. I wanted to do that even now by speaking about her husband;
but I could not do it. It seemed to me cruel, almost a profanation.
Instead of that I said that I should like to see her mother, if she
were able to receive me. Aniela went to see, and presently came back
and said,--
"Mamma will be pleased to see you."
We crossed to the other side of the house, my aunt going with us. I
wanted to say a kind word to Aniela so as to put her more at ease; but
my aunt was in the way; presently I thought it would be even better if
I said it within my aunt's hearing. Near the door, leading into Pani
Celina's rooms, I stopped and, turning to Aniela, said,--
"Give me your hand, my dear little sister."
Aniela put her hand into mine; I saw her eyes lighting up with
gratitude for the words "little sister," and the pressure of her hand
seemed to say:--
"Oh! let us be friends! let us forgive each other!"
"I hope you two will agree together," muttered my aunt.
"We shall, we shall; he is so good!" replied Aniela.
And truly, my heart was very full of good-will at that moment.
Entering Pani Celina's room, I greeted her very cordially, but she
replied with a certain constraint, and I am sure she would have
received me with still greater coldness had she not feared to
offend my aunt. But I was not hurt by this; her resentment is quite
justifiable. Maybe, in her mind, she connects me with the loss of her
estate, and thinks all this would not have happened if I had acted
differently. I found her much changed. For some time she has been
confined to her invalid chair, on which they wheel her on fine days
into the garden. Her face, always delicate, looked as if moulded in
wax. There are still traces that show how beautiful she must have
been, and at the same time so unhappy.
I asked after her health, and expressed the hope that, with the return
of the fine weather, she would soon recover her strength. She listened
with a sad smile, and shook her head; two tears rolled silently down
her face.