I intoxicate myself with the life at Ploszow, the daily sight of
Aniela, and forget that she belongs to somebody else. Kromitzki, who
is somewhere at Baku, or further still, appears to me as something
unreal, a being deprived of real existence, something bad that might
come down upon us, as for instance, death, but of which one does not
think continually. But yesterday something happened to bring him
before my mind. It was a small and apparently most natural incident.
Aniela received at breakfast two letters. My aunt asked whether they
were from her husband, and she replied, "Yes." Hearing that, I felt
the sensation a condemned man may feel when they rouse him from
a sweet dream in order to tell him to have his hair cut for the
guillotine. I saw my whole misfortune more distinctly than ever
before, and the sensation remained with me the whole day, especially
as my aunt, quite unconsciously, of course, was bent upon torturing me
further. Aniela wanted to put off the reading of the letters, but
my aunt insisted upon her opening them, and presently inquired how
Kromitzki was.
"Thank you, aunty, he is very well."
"And how are his affairs going on?"
"Thank God! he writes that everything prospers beyond expectation."
"When does he think of coming back?"
"He says as soon as he can possibly manage."
And I, with my sensitiveness, had to listen to these questions and
answers. If my aunt and Aniela had started unexpectedly a quite
improbable cynical conversation it could not have shocked me more.
The first time since my arrival at Ploszow I felt something like
resentment towards Aniela. "Have a little mercy at least, and do not
speak of that man in my presence; do not return thanks for being asked
after him, and say 'Thank God!' because he is prosperous," I thought.
In the mean time she had opened the second letter, and looking at the
date, said: "It has been written at an earlier date;" then began
to read. I looked at the bowed head, the parting of the hair, the
drooping lashes--and it seemed to me that the reading lasted very
long. I thought what a world of mutual interests and aims bound these
two together, and that for some indispensable reason they must feel
that they belonged to each other. I felt that I had no part in it, and
that by force of circumstances I should always be outside her life
even if I won her love. Up to now I had felt the depth of my misery
as one sees the depth of a precipice veiled by clouds. Now the mist
lifted, I looked down and comprehended its whole extent.
My nature is so constituted that under great pressure it resists. Up
to the present my love had not dared to ask for anything, but at this
moment hatred began to clamor loudly for the abolition of merciless
laws, those ties and bondages. Aniela did not read many minutes, but
during that time I ran through a whole gamut of tortures, because
other thoughts relating to my self-analysis and criticism were
haunting me. I said to myself that the agitation, the very bitterness
I felt, were nothing but the ridiculous characteristics of female
ill-humor. How is it possible to live with nerves such as mine? If
such a simple thing as a letter from the husband to his wife makes you
lose your balance, what will happen when he himself comes to claim
her?
I said to myself: "I will kill him!" and at the same time I felt the
ridiculousness and folly of the answer.
Aniela having finished her letters noticed at once that something was
amiss, and looked at me with troubled eyes. Hers is one of those sweet
dispositions that cannot bear to see unfriendly faces, or live in an
atmosphere of cold displeasure. This springs from a great tenderness
of heart. I remember how uneasy she used to be when first she
witnessed the disputes between my aunt and Chwastowzki. Now she was
evidently ill at ease. She began to speak about the concert and Clara,
but her eyes seemed to say: "What have I done, what is the matter with
you?" I merely replied by a cold glance, not being able to forgive her
either the letters or her conversation with my aunt. After breakfast I
rose at once and said I was obliged to go back to Warsaw.
My aunt wanted me to stop to dinner; after which, according to our
agreement, we were to start together for the concert. But I pleaded
some business; the truth was I wanted to be alone. I gave orders for
the carriage to be ready, and then my aunt remarked:--
"I should like to show some gratitude to Miss Hilst, and thought of
inviting her to Ploszow for the day."
Evidently my aunt considers an invitation to Ploszow such a great
reward that she doubted whether it would not be out of all proportion.