Our visitors did not come yesterday but to-day, which was very
sensible, as all traces of the storm have disappeared and the weather
is very fine. This fifteenth of May will be one of the best remembered
days in my life. It is now past midnight; I am wide awake, as if I
never wanted to sleep again, and intend to write until morning. I am
collecting my thoughts so as not to begin at the end, and put it all
down in proper order. Force of habit is a great help in this.
My aunt sent the carriage for the Sniatynskis and Clara very early, in
consequence of which they arrived before noon. The ladies were bright,
cheerful, and chirping like sparrows, glad of the fine weather and
their excursion. What toilets, and what quaint hats! Clara looked
very well in a light, striped dress that made her seem less tall than
usual. I observed that Aniela, after the first greeting, looked at her
searchingly and seemed struck by her beauty, of which I had scarcely
said anything to her. I had not refrained out of calculation, but
had been so occupied with Aniela that I had not thought of it. For
instance, though I had met Pani Sniatynska several times I had never
noticed she wore her hair short, which suits her style of beauty. The
light, curly hair falling over her brow gives her the expression of a
resolute, rosy-faced boy. We are excellent friends again. There was a
time she would have liked to kill me, so angry was she about Aniela.
Evidently her husband had told her what I suffered, and women have
a special weakness for those who suffer for love's sake; she has
forgiven me and reinstalled me in her favor. The presence of such a
bright, vivacious, easy-going woman was a great help in bringing Clara
and Aniela into closer relation. I saw that my aunt met Clara with
great heartiness; but Aniela, in spite of her sweet disposition,
seemed shy, and kept aloof from her. At lunch, amid a cheerful
conversation, she thawed a little. Clara seemed struck by Aniela's
beauty, and as she always says what she thinks, she expressed her
admiration with so much grace and enthusiasm that Aniela had to yield.
Pani Celina, who now perhaps for the first time found herself in
company with an artist, looked gratified, and turning to her said that
"though Aniela's mother, she must say that as a child she was very
pretty,--promising far greater beauty." Both Sniatynskis joined in the
conversation. He began to discuss with Clara various female types,
then spoke of Aniela's type and its aesthetic perfection in a highly
amusing objective manner, as if she were a portrait hanging on the
wall, rather than a living presence. She, listening to this, blushed
and lowered her eyes, truly like a little girl, which made her look
more charming than ever.
I was silent, but inwardly compared these three female faces, treating
them also objectively, that is, putting aside the fact that one of
them was the loved one, and as such occupied an exceptional position;
even then everything spoke in her favor. Pani Sniatynska's, especially
in her short curly hair, is a charming head, yet nothing but what may
be found in any English Keepsake. Clara's beauty rests mainly upon her
calm expression, the blue eyes, and that transparent complexion so
often met with in German women; but for her art, which surrounds her
as with a nimbus, she could only be called a handsome woman. Aniela
is not only an artistic production of an exceedingly noble style as
regards her features, but there is something individual in her that
cannot be measured by any standard. Maybe her individuality rests upon
the fact that, being neither dark nor fair, she gives the physical
impression of a brunette and the spiritual one of a blonde. The cause
of this is perhaps the great abundance of hair on a comparatively
small head; enough that she is unique in her kind. She excels even
Mrs. Davis in this regard, whose beauty was without a flaw, but it was
the beauty of a statue. Mrs. Davis only excited the admiration of my
senses, while Aniela rouses in me the idealist, who goes in rapture
over the poetry of her expression.
But I will not even compare these two so utterly different beings.
I yielded to these reflections during lunch, because the topic in
question had brought me on that track; besides, the analysis of
Aniela's beauty always gives me a keen delight. My aunt interrupted
the discussion, deeming it proper, as lady of the house, to say
something about Clara's last concert. She spoke much and very well;
I never supposed she had such knowledge of music; she paid her some
graceful compliments with the air of a _grande dame_, in that flowing,
winning style only people of the older generation are capable of. In
short, I observed that my downright, outspoken aunt was still able to
recall the times of powder and patches. Clara seemed quite charmed,
and did not remain behind-hand in graceful acknowledgment.
"I shall always be able to play well at Warsaw," she said, "because
I am in touch with my audience, but I play best in small circles of
friends where I feel in sympathy with everybody,--and if you will
permit, I will give you a proof of it after lunch."
My aunt, who was very anxious that Pani Celina should hear her, yet
had misgivings whether it would be right to ask her to play, was much
pleased by the proposal. I began to speak of Clara's performances at
Paris and her triumphs at Erard's concerts; Sniatynski gave an account
of what was said at Warsaw; and so the time passed until we rose from
lunch. Clara herself got hold of Paul Celina's invalid chair and would
not allow anybody to help, declaring laughingly that she was by
far the strongest among us, and was not afraid to tire her hands.
Presently she sat down to the piano, and as evidently Mozart suited
her disposition, she gave us Don Juan. The first notes sounded, she
was a different Clara; not the merry, lively child any longer, but an
incarnate Saint Cecilia. There shone in her the close relationship of
outward form with the spirit of harmony, which surrounded her with a
dignity above common womanhood. I made another observation, namely:
that a man in love can find food for his feelings even in what tells
against the loved woman. When I thought how far my Aniela was from
being a Sybil, saw her sitting in a corner of the drawing-room so
small and still, as if crushed down by some weight, I loved her all
the more, and it made her if possible dearer to me than ever. It also
occurred to me that a woman is not in reality what she appears to
people in general, but such as the man who loves sees her; therefore
her absolute excellence is in proportion to the power of love she
inspires. I had no time to follow out this idea, but it pleased me
because I saw dimly before me the conclusion that in the name of this
excellence the woman ought to give her heart to him who loves her
most.
Clara played superbly. I watched the sensation on the others' faces,
when presently I noticed that Aniela was looking at me for the same
reason. Was it mere curiosity, or an involuntary uneasiness of heart
which could not say what it feared and yet was afraid? I said to
myself: "If the last supposition were true it would be a proof that
she loves me." The thought filled me with joy, and I resolved to find
an answer to it in the course of the day. Thenceforth I bestowed all
my attention upon Clara, and was more attentive to her than I had ever
been before. In the woods whither we had driven, I walked with her,
glancing furtively now and then at Aniela, who remained with the
Suiatynskis. Clara was in rapture with the woods, which are indeed at
their best now, the fresh green of the leafy trees forming a perfect
canopy over the more sombre looking pines.
The sun filtering across the branches converted the earth, carpeted
with ferns and tender mosses, into a delicate golden embroidery. There
were the cheerful voices of spring around us, the cuckoo's call and
the woodpecker's knock-knock at the trees. When we joined the others
I asked Clara to translate into music the voices of spring. She said
there was already a _Frühlingslied_ singing within her, and she
would try to give it expression. Truly she looked as if the song was
there,--besides she is like a great harp that speaks only in sounds.
Her face was bright with burning blushes; Aniela instead looked
fagged, though she evidently tried to keep up with the Sniatynskis,
who were as lively as a couple of school-children on their holiday.
They began finally to race with each other, and Clara joined in the
sport, which she ought not to have done, considering her size, as the
quick motion was anything but graceful,--nay, almost ridiculous.
When they were thus running after each other I remained alone with
Aniela. According to my plan of operations I was anxious to bring
her mind to full consciousness through the uneasiness with which she
seemed to be oppressed.
"There is something troubling you, Aniela; what is it?" I asked.
"No, nothing whatever."
"It seemed to me as if you were dissatisfied with something; is it
that you do not like Clara?"
"No; I like her very much, and do not wonder she is so much admired."
Further conversation was made impossible by the return of the truants.
It was also time to go back. On the way, Sniatynski asked Clara
whether she felt really satisfied with her stay at Warsaw.
"The best proof I can give you of this is that I do not think of going
away yet," she replied gayly.
"We must try to keep you with us always," I interpolated.
Clara, in spite of the simplicity with which she accepts all that is
said to her, looked questioningly at me, then grew a little confused,
and replied,--"They are all very kind to me here."
I was conscious that my words were in a way dishonorable, as they
might mislead Clara; but all I cared for was the impression they would
make upon Aniela. Unfortunately, I could not see her face, as she was
buttoning her gloves, with her head bent so low that her hat concealed
it from me. This sudden movement seemed to me a good sign.
The elder ladies were awaiting us with the dinner, which lasted until
nine o'clock; and then Clara improvised her _Frühlingslied_. I am
almost certain that since Ploszow existed there had never been heard
such music within its walls, but I paid very little attention to it.
I sat near her in the dusk, as she did not want the lamps lit.
Sniatynski waved his arm as if it were a baton; which evidently
annoyed his wife, as she pulled his sleeve several times. Aniela sat
quite motionless; maybe she, too, was absorbed in her own thoughts,
and did not listen to the _Frühlingslied_. I was almost certain she
was thinking about me and Clara, and especially about the meaning of
the words I had said to Clara. It was easy enough to guess that even
if she did not love me, or had the slightest consciousness that my
love was any other but brotherly affection, she would feel sore and
disappointed if that were about to be taken away from her. A woman who
is not happy in her married life clings round any other feeling, if
it be only friendship, as the ivy clings to the tree. I had no doubt
whatever that if at this moment I knelt down at her feet and told her
it was she, and she alone, that I loved, she would feel a sudden joy,
as one feels upon recovering something very precious. And if so, I
debated within me, why not hasten the solution, if only a way could be
found,--frightening her as little as possible, or making her forget
all terror in her joy. I began at once to devise ways and means, as
I understood it must be done in such a way as to make it forever
impossible for her to cast me off. My mind worked very hard at it, as
the problem was not an easy one. Gradually a great emotion stole over
me: and strange to say, it was more on Aniela's account than on my own
that I felt moved,--for I realized suddenly what a great wrench it
would be, and I was afraid for her.
In the mean time it had grown lighter in the drawing-room; the moon
had risen above the trees, and cast luminous shafts across the floor.
The melodies of the _Frühlingslied_ still filled the air, and the
nightingales responded to it through the open French window. It was
a glorious evening, warm and balmy, and full of harmony and love. I
thought involuntarily that, if life does not give us happiness, it
presents us with a ready frame for it.
In the luminous dusk my eyes searched for Aniela; but she looked at
Clara, who at this moment seemed more a vision than a substantial
being. The moonlight, advancing more and more into the room, rested
now upon her; and in the light dress she looked like the silvery
spirit of music. But the vision did not last long. Clara finished her
song; whereupon Pani Sniatynska rose, and saying it was late, gave the
signal for departure. As the evening was so warm, I proposed we should
see our visitors off as far as the high-road, about half a mile from
our house. I did this on purpose, so as to walk home with Aniela. I
knew she could not well refuse such a mere act of politeness, and I
was also sure my aunt would not go with us.
I gave orders for the carriage to drive on and wait on the road, and
we went on foot through the lime avenue. I offered my arm to Clara,
but we walked all abreast, accompanied by the croaking of the frogs in
the Ploszow mere.
Clara stopped a moment to listen to that chorus, which ceased now and
then, to start afresh with redoubled vigor, and said,--
"This is the finale of my Song of Spring."
"What an exquisite evening!" remarked Sniatynski, and then began to
quote the beautiful lines from the "Merchant of Venice":--
"How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!
Here will we sit and let the sounds of music
Creep in our ears: soft stillness and the night
Become the touches of sweet harmony."