She is not a bit happier than I am. What I saw to-day confirmed my
suspicion that she is fighting a heavy battle, with nothing to help
her except the truth of her own faith and convictions.
After the departure of Pan Zawilowski and his daughter, who had paid
us a visit, my aunt, evidently with a certain purpose, began to
enlarge upon the good qualities of Panna Zawilowska. I burst out into
a sudden rage; I was tired, my nerves over-wrought by sleeplessness
and irritated beyond measure. I exclaimed: "Have your way then! If it
be a question of marriage only, and not of happiness, I will propose
to-morrow to Panna Zawilowska. She or somebody else; what does it
matter?"
Anybody might have seen it was merely irritation, not conviction, that
dictated words I should never have acted upon. But Aniela had grown
very white. She rose and without apparent reason began to unfasten the
cords of the blind with trembling hands. Fortunately my aunt was so
taken aback by the suddenness of my outburst that she did not notice
her. She said something, I did not hear what, as all my attention was
concentrated upon Aniela. It is true that by reasoning I had come to
the conclusion that something must be going on in her heart, but to
reason out a thing and to see it, are two different things. As long as
I live I shall never forget that white face and those trembling hands.
I had now a tangible proof, which, however I might explain it by the
suddenness of my announcement, is still proof enough. Sudden news
either of the death or marriage of anybody that is indifferent to us
does not pale our cheeks.
I thought a few days ago: "Of what use is it to me that she loves me,
if that love is to remain forever hidden in her breast?" and yet when
I came to read, as I did now, the confirmation of it, my hope rose
at once and all doubts vanished. Again a vision of possible victory
flashed before my eyes,--alas! to be dissolved almost at once into
nothing. My aunt, saying something, went out of the room, maybe to
wipe away a furtive tear at my hardness, and I went up to Aniela.
"Aniela dear! I would not marry that girl for anything in the world,
but you ought to enter a little in my position. I have troubles enough
to bear, and even here they will not leave me in peace. You know best
that I could never dream of such a step."
"On the contrary, I should be glad if that happened," she said, with
evident effort.
"It is not true! I have seen you changing color,--I have seen it."
"Permit me to go away."
"Aniela mine! you love me! do not lie to me and to yourself; you love
me!"
She grew white to her lips.
"No," she replied quickly; "but I am afraid I might learn to hate
you."
And with that she left the room. I know that to a woman who fights
with herself, a bitter and forbidden love often seems akin to hatred;
and yet Aniela's words staggered me and extinguished the newborn hope,
as one blows out a candle. There are many quite natural things in this
world which we are strong enough to bear but for our nerves. I am
struck by a truth not recognized by me formerly, not recognized
generally,--that love for another man's wife, if only a pastime is
the greatest vileness, and if real, the greatest misfortune that
can happen to any man; the more worthy the woman the greater the
misfortune. I have a burning curiosity within me, very bitter at the
same time, as to what Aniela would do if I said to her: "Either put
your arms round my neck and own that you love me, or I will blow out
my brains here before your eyes!" I know it would be the meanest thing
in the world, and I should never force her hand in that way; no!
whatever I may be, I am not bad enough for that! But I cannot help
thinking, "What would she do?" I am almost certain she would not
survive the shock and the scorn of herself, but she would not yield.
When I think of this I curse her and worship her at the same time; I
hate her and love her more than ever. The worst is I do not see how I
shall ever get out of this enchanted circle. Added to the passion
of the senses this woman wakes in me, I have for her a dog-like
affection. I envelop her with my eyes and thoughts, can never satiate
myself with the sight of her, and at the same time she is the most
desirable of women, and the very crown of my head. No other woman ever
attached me to her so absolutely and in that twofold manner.
At times this influence of hers over me seems well-nigh incredible;
then again I explain it, and as usual take the worst view of it. I
have lived too quickly, passed already the zenith, and am going down
hill, where it is dark and cold. I feel that in her I could recover my
lost youth, vitality, and the desire for life. If she be lost to me,
then truly nothing remains but to vegetate, and gloominess unutterable
as the foretaste of decay. Therefore I love Aniela with the instinct
of self-preservation,--not with my senses only, not with my soul, but
also from the fear of annihilation.
Aniela does not know all this; but I suppose she pities me, just as I
torture her, who would give my life to make her happy. And therefore
I say again that the love for another man's wife is the greatest
misfortune, since it leads the man to make her unhappy whose happiness
he would ensure at the cost of his own. The result of this is that we
are both unhappy. But you, Aniela, have at least your dogma to support
you, whereas I am verily like a boat drifting without helm and oar.
I am not well in health either. I sleep very badly, or rather scarcely
at all. I should like to fall ill and lie unconscious for a month
without memories, without trouble--and rest. It would be a kind of
holiday. Chwastowski examined me yesterday, and said I had the nerves
of a decaying race, but had inherited a fair supply of muscular
strength. I believe he is right; but for that I should have succumbed
ere this to my nerves. Maybe to my very strength I may ascribe this
present concentration of feeling; it had to find an outlet somewhere,
and as it did not find it either in science or other useful work, it
all got absorbed into love for a woman. But owing to my nervous system
it is turbid, stormy, and crooked,--above all, crooked.
What sensations I pass through every day! Towards evening the dear old
aunt came to me and began to apologize for praising Panna Zawilowska
to me. I kissed both her hands, and in my turn asked her to forgive my
momentary show of temper. She then said,--
"I promise never to mention her again. It is true, my dear Leon, I
wish from all my heart to see you married, for you are the last of our
race; but the Lord knows what is best. But believe me, dearest boy, it
is not family pride, but your happiness I am thinking of."