The weather is still serene, and everything is serene between us.
Aniela is calm and happy. She thoroughly believes in what I said,
and, as I did not ask for anything but sisterly affection, and her
conscience approves, she allows her heart to follow its dictates.
I alone know that it is a loyal way of deceiving herself and her
husband; for under cover of sisterly affection there is another
feeling, the growth of which I am watching daily. Of course I do not
intend to undeceive her until the feeling grows too strong for her.
By and by she will be enveloped in a flame which neither will, nor
consciousness of duty, nor the modesty of the woman white as a swan,
will be able to keep under control. Constantly the thought dwells with
me that since I love her most, mine is the higher right. What can
there be more logical or more true? The unwritten code of ethics of
all people, of whatever faith, says that the mutual belonging of man
and woman to each other is based upon love.
But to-day I am so restful and happy that I prefer to feel rather
than to reason. There is now between us a great cordiality, ease, and
intimacy. How we were made for each other, cling to each other, and
how the dear little thing delights in the warmth, delusive warmth
of brotherly affection. Never since my return have I seen her
so cheerful. Formerly when I looked at her she reminded me of
Shakspeare's "Poor Tom." A nature like hers wants love, as her body
wants air to breathe. Kromitzki, occupied with speculations, does not
love her enough, perhaps does not know what love means. She might
rightly say with Shakspeare, "Poor Tom's acold." When I think of this
my heart is stirred, and I make a silent vow that she shall never feel
cold as long as I live.
If our love were wrong there could not be within us such peace. That
Aniela does not call it by its proper name means nothing; it is there
all the same. The whole day passed for us like an idyl. Formerly I
disliked Sundays; now I find that a Sunday, from morning until night,
may be like a poem, especially in the country. Soon after breakfast,
we went to church in time for the early mass. My aunt followed in our
rear; even Pani Celina, profiting by the fine weather, was wheeled
thither in her Bath chair. There were not many people in church, as
most of them go later for high mass. Sitting on the bench by Aniela's
side, I had the blissful illusion that I was sitting with my affianced
wife. From time to time I looked at the sweet, dear profile, at the
hands which were resting on the desk before her, and the concentration
in her face and bearing gradually infected me. My senses went to
sleep, my thoughts became purer, and I loved her at that moment with
an ideal love, because I felt more than ever how different she was
from any other woman, how infinitely better and purer.
For a long time I had not felt anything like what I felt in this quiet
village church. Added to Aniela's presence there was the impressive
dignity of the church itself, the soft, flickering light of the
candles in the dim recess of the altar, shafts of colored light coming
through the windows, the chirping sparrows, and the still mass.
All this, with the dreaminess of an early morning, had something
unutterably soothing. My thoughts began to flow as evenly as the
incense at the altar. Nobler feelings stirred within me, and a desire
to sacrifice my own self. An inward voice began to remonstrate:--
"Do not disturb that transparent water; respect its purity."
When the mass came to an end, and we left the church, I saw, to my
greatest amazement, both the Latyszes crouching near the church gate,
with wooden plates in their hands, asking for alms. My aunt, who knew
about my gift, grew very angry upon seeing them there, and began to
abuse them roundly. But the old woman, still holding out her wooden
plate, and not at all abashed, said quietly:--
"His lordship's generosity is one thing, and God's will is another. We
must not go against the Lord's will. When the little Lord Jesus told
us to sit here, we must, now and forever and ever, Amen."
There was nothing to say against this kind of reasoning; especially
that "forever and ever, Amen," imposed upon me, to such an extent that
I gave them some money for the oddity of the thing. These people at
the bottom of their hearts believe in fate, which they dress up in
Christian forms, and submit to it blindly. These Latyszes, to whom I
gave a thousand two hundred roubles, are now better off than they ever
were in their lives, and yet they went to sit at the church gates
because such was their fate,--which the old woman translated into the
"will of God."
When we were wending our way homewards, the bells were ringing for
high mass. On the road appeared groups of men and women. From the more
distant hamlets one could see them going Indian file along the narrow
paths amid the corn, which, though still green, had shot up to a
considerable height, owing to the early spring. As far as the eye
could reach, in the pure translucid atmosphere, the bright colored
kerchiefs of the girls appeared above the wheat-fields like so many
poppy flowers. By the bye, there is nowhere in Europe such a breadth
of atmosphere as in Poland. What struck me most of all was the
distinctly Sunday character of the day, not in the people alone, but
also in nature. It is true the weather was splendid, but it seemed as
if the wind were hushed because it was Sunday; even the corn did not
rock, not a leaf shook on the poplars, the stillness was perfect; yet
there was the cheerfulness of the Sunday in the festive garments, and
in the dancing sunbeams.
I explained to Aniela how, from an artistic point of view, those
bright spots harmonized with the landscape and melted in the distance
into a blue haze. Then we began to talk about the peasants. I
confessed that I did not see anything but a crowd of more or less
picturesque models; but Aniela looks at them from a quite different
point of view. She began telling me many characteristic traits, some
sad, and some amusing, and while talking grew very animated, and at
the same time as lovely as a summer's dream.
The conversation again drifted towards the old couple we had left
sitting under the church gate, and especially the old woman, whose
reasoning had amused us so much. I began comparing her position to my
own. As my aunt remained with Pani Celina, whom the servant wheeled
along at a certain distance behind, I could with freedom allude to our
last conversation in the park.
"Not long ago," I said, "I asked you for alms, and you bestowed them
on me. I see now that this does not bind me to anything, and I may
again hold out my wooden platter at the church gate."
"Eh! to ask other charitable souls for the same," replied Aniela.
"Aunty is going to invite one charitable soul to Ploszow, I
understand."
"If it is Miss Hilst you mean, she is too big to find room in a single
heart; it wants three at least to hold her," but Aniela did not leave
off teasing, and shaking her little finger at me, said:--
"It is a suspicious case, very suspicious."
"At present there is no ground for suspicion," I replied. "My heart
is a repository of brotherly feelings, and there reigns supreme the
spiteful little being who is tormenting me at present."
Aniela ceased laughing and jesting, slackened her pace, and presently
we joined the elder ladies. The remainder of the day passed without
a cloud, and so pleasantly that at times I fancied myself again a
schoolboy. My eyes still spoke to her of love; but my desires slept.
My aunt went to Warsaw after lunch, and I remained in Pani Celina's
room, reading to her Montalembert's letters, with whom my father at
one time had a regular correspondence. These letters would have seemed
very tedious to me but for Aniela's presence. Raising my eyes now and
then, I met her glance, which filled me with inexpressible joy. Unless
I have lost all power of judgment, she looks at me as would look a
pure, innocent woman, unconsciously loving with all her soul. What a
good day it has been!
My aunt came back towards evening, and announced visitors. To-morrow
both the Sniatynskis are coming, and Clara Hilst.
It is very late, but I do not want to sleep, for I am loathe to part
with the memories of the day. Sleep cannot be more beautiful. The park
is literally alive with the song of the nightingales, and there is
still in me a great deal of the old romanticist. The night is clear
and limpid, and the sky full of stars. Thinking of Aniela, I say a
hundred times good-night to her. I see that side by side with the
_improductivité Slave_, there is in me a great deal of purely Polish
sentimentality. I had not known myself in that capacity before. But
what does it matter? I love her very much.