"Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold:
There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st
But in his motion like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins;
Such harmony is in immortal souls;
But whilst this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it."
Then I repeated to Clara, who does not understand Polish, the lines in
French, improvising the translation. She listened to it, then raised
her eyes heavenward, and said simply,--
"I was always certain there is music in the spheres."
It appeared that Pani Sniatynska was equally certain of it, and
reminded her husband that she had discussed it with him not long
before, but he was not quite sure he remembered; whereupon a slight
matrimonial dispute took place, at which Clara and I laughed. Aniela
had not joined the conversation at all; did she feel hurt that I
had offered my arm to Clara, and paid her some attention? The very
supposition made me feel happy. Yet I tried not to lose my head, and
said to myself, "Do not run away with the idea that she knows what
jealousy means; she is only a little sad and feels lonely, that is
all." I would have given at this moment a whole host of artists such
as Clara for a few words with Aniela,--to tell her that I belong
to her, and only to her. Then Sniatynski began a discussion about
astronomy, of which I heard now and then a few words, though this
science attracts me more than I can tell,--for in its very nature
there is no limit, either in itself or for the human mind; it is
infinite.
We reached at last the end, where our guests mounted into the
carriage. Presently the wheels rattled on the road, the last good-bys
reached our ears, and I was alone with Aniela. We turned homewards,
and for some time walked side by side in silence. The croaking of
the frogs has ceased, and from the distance came the sound of the
watchman's whistle and the loud baying of the dogs. I did not speak to
Aniela, because the silence seemed fraught with deep meaning,--both
our minds being full of the same subject. When about half-way I said
to Aniela,--
"What a pleasant day it has been, has it not?"
"Yes. I never heard such beautiful music before."
"And yet you seemed not in your usual spirits, and though you will not
tell me the cause, I notice every passing cloud on your face."
"You were obliged to look after your guests. You are very kind to
trouble about me, but there is nothing the matter with me."
"To-day as any other day I was occupied with you only, and as a proof
of it let me tell you of what you were thinking to-day." And without
waiting for permission, I went on at once: "You thought I resembled
somewhat the Latysz couple; you thought I had deceived you in speaking
of the void around me; lastly, you thought that I had no need to ask
for your friendship while I was seeking friendship elsewhere. Was it
not so? Tell me the truth."
Aniela replied with evident effort: "If you insist upon knowing--yes,
perhaps it is so. But I ought to be only glad of it."
"What ought you be glad of?"
"Of your mutual friendship with Clara."
"As to our friendship,--I wish her well, that is all. But Clara, like
all other women, is indifferent to me. Do you know why?"
I began to tremble a little, because I perceived that the moment
had come. I waited a moment to see whether Aniela would take up my
question, and then, in a voice I tried to render steady, I said,--
"Surely you must see and understand that my whole being belongs to
you; that I loved you and love you still madly."
Aniela stood still as if turned to stone. By the icy coldness of my
face I felt that I was growing pale; and if the world seemed to totter
under that poor child's feet, it was my life, too, which was at stake.
Knowing with whom I had to deal, I did not give her time to repulse
me. I began to speak very quickly:--
"Do not answer me, for I do not want anything from you. I desire
nothing,--nothing whatever, understand that well. I wanted to tell you
that you have taken my life, and it is henceforth yours, to do with it
what you like. But you have seen yourself that such is the case, and
it matters nothing whether I speak of it or not. I repeat that I
desire nothing, nor do I expect anything. You cannot repulse me,
because I repulse myself. I only tell you as I might tell a friend, a
sister. I come and complain to you, because I have nowhere else to
go, that I love a woman that belongs to somebody else,--love her to
distraction,--oh, Aniela!--and without limit!"
We were near the gate, but still in the deep shadow of the trees. For
a moment I had the delusion that she was leaning towards me like
a broken flower, that I might snatch her into my arms; but I was
mistaken.
Aniela, recovering from the sudden shock, began suddenly to say, with
a kind of nervous energy I had not suspected in her,--
"I will not listen to this, Leon. I will not; I will not; I will not!"
And she ran into the moonlit courtyard. Yes; she ran away from my
words,--my confession. Presently she disappeared within the portico,
and I remained alone with a feeling of unrest, fear, and great pity
for her, and triumph at the same time that the words which should be
the beginning of a new life for us both had been spoken. For, to say
the truth, I could not expect anything else from her at first; but the
seed from which something must spring up was sown.
When I came into the house there was no Aniela visible. I found
only my aunt, walking up and down the room muttering her rosary and
soliloquizing between the prayers. I said good-night, and went at once
to my room thinking that it would calm me if I put down the day's
impressions; but it only tired me more. I intend to go away to-morrow,
or rather to-day, for I see the daylight coming through the window. I
want to confirm Aniela in the conviction that I expect nothing from
her,--want her to calm down and get familiar with what I told her. But
to confess the whole truth, I go away also because I am afraid to meet
her so soon, and would fain put it off. There are moments when
it seems to me a monstrous deed to have introduced an element of
corruption in this pure atmosphere. But does not the principal evil
lie in her marrying a man she cannot love? What is more immoral, my
love which is a manifestation of nature's great law, or the belonging
of Aniela to that man, which is a shameful breaking of the same law?
And I, who understand this so clearly, am yet so weak that a horror
seizes me when I kick against that corrupt morality. But all these
scruples melt like snow at the words, "I love." If even now my heart
feels sore at the thought that at this very moment she may be awake,
weeping perhaps, or torn by doubts, it is only another proof how I
love her. It hurts me, and at the same time I do not see how otherwise
we can arrive at happiness.