I am at Warsaw in consequence of the letter from Sniatynski, received
the day before yesterday, in which he asked me to take part in a
farewell dinner in honor of Clara Hilst. I did not go to the dinner,
which took place yesterday, but said good-by to Clara at the station.
I have just returned thence. The good soul was going away, most likely
disappointed, and with some resentment against me in her heart, but
upon seeing me, forgave me everything, and we parted the best of
friends. I felt too that I should miss her, and that the loneliness
around me would be greater still. On my mystic fields there will be
no farewells. This one was truly sad,--in addition to it the sky was
overcast, and there was a drizzling rain that looked as if it would
last for days. In spite of that a great many people had come to see
the last of the celebrated artist. Her sleeping-car was filled with
bouquets and wreaths like a hearse; she will have to discard them
unless she lets herself be suffocated. Clara, at the moment of
departure, without taking into account what people might think or say,
devoted herself to me as much as the bustle of the place would permit.
I went into her carriage, and we conversed together like two old
friends, not paying any attention to the old and always silent
relative, or to the other people, who at last retired discreetly into
the corridor. I held both Clara's hands, and she looked at me with
those honest blue eyes of hers, and said in a moved voice:--
"It is only to you I say it openly, that I never was so sorry to go
away from anywhere as from here. There is no time to say much, with
all these people around us, but believe me, I am sorry to go. At
Frankfurt I meet many people, great artists, scientists; only there is
a difference,--you are like one of the more delicate instruments. As
regards yourself, I will not say anything."
"You will let me write to you?"
"I will write too. I wanted to ask you that. I have my music, but it
is not always sufficient now. I think you too will want to hear from
me now and then; though you may have many friends, you have none more
sincere and devoted than I. I am very foolish; anything upsets me, and
it is time to go."
"We are both wanderers on the earth, you as an artist, I as a
Bohemian; therefore it will not be farewell, but au revoir."
"Yes, au revoir, and that speedily. You too are an artist. You may not
play or paint, but you are an artist all the same. I saw it the first
moment I met you,--and also that you may seem happy, but are very sad
at heart. Remember there is a German girl who will be always as a
sister to you."
I raised her hand to my lip, and she, thinking I was going, said
quickly:--
"There is still time, they have only rung the second bell!"
But I really wished to leave. Oh, those wretched nerves of mine!
Clara's companion wore a stiff mackintosh which rustled at her every
motion; and that rustle, or rather swish of the india-rubber, set my
very teeth on edge. Besides, we had only a few minutes left. I stepped
aside to make place for Pani Sniatynska, who came rushing up.
"Hilst, Frankfurt," Clara called out after me; "at home they will
forward my letters wherever I go!"
Presently I found myself on the platform under the window of her
carriage, among all those who had come to see her off. Their farewells
and good-bys mingled with the labored breathing of the locomotive and
the shouts of the railway men. The window of the carriage was lowered,
and I saw the friendly, honest face once more.
"Where are you going to spend the summer?" she asked.
"I don't know, I will write to you," I replied.
The panting of the locomotive grew quick, then came the last shrill
whistle, and the train began to move. We gave Clara a loud cheer, she
waved her hands to us, and then disappeared in the distance and the
dusk.
"You will feel very lonely," said suddenly close to me Pani
Sniatynska's voice.
"Yes, very," I said, and lifting my hat to her, I went home. And truly
I had the feeling as if somebody had left, who in case of need would
have given me a helping hand. I felt very despondent. Possibly the
gloomy evening, the mist and drizzling rain, in the midst of which the
street lamps looked like miniature rainbow arches, had something to
do with it. The last spark of hope seemed to have died out. There was
darkness not only within me, but it seemed to encompass the whole
world, and weigh upon it as the atmosphere weighs upon us and
permeates all nature.
I carried home with me a heaviness of feeling and great restlessness
and a fear as if something unknown was threatening me. There woke
up within me a sudden longing for the sun and brighter skies, for
countries where there is no mist, no rain, and no darkness. It seemed
to me that if I went where there was sun and brightness, it would
shield me from some unknown danger.
Oh, to go away! The entire capacity of my thoughts was filled with
that eager desire. Then suddenly another fear clutched at my heart: if
I went away, Aniela would be exposed to that same impalpable danger
from which I wanted to fly. I knew it was only a delusion of my brain,
and that really my departure would be the best thing for her. Yet
I could not get rid of the sensation that to desert her would be
cowardice and meanness. All my reasoning cannot get over this.
Besides, the going away is only an empty word; I may say it to myself
a hundred times, but if I were to try to change it into fact I should
find it altogether beyond my power. I have put so much of my life in
that one feeling that it would be easier to cut me into pieces than to
part me from it.
I possess so much control over my thoughts, such a consciousness of
self that it seems to me impossible that I could ever lose my reason.
I cannot even imagine it; but at moments I feel as if my nerves could
not bear the strain any longer.
I am sorry Clara is gone. I have seen but little of her lately; but
I liked to know that she was not far off; now Aniela will absorb me
altogether, because I give to her that power which rules our likings,
and makes us conscious of friendship.
When I returned home, I found there young Chwastowski, who had come to
town in order to consult with his brother, the bookseller. They have
some scheme in hand about selling elementary books. They are always
scheming something, always busy, and that fills their life. I have
come to such a pass that I rejoiced to see him as a child that is
afraid of ghosts is glad to see somebody coming into the room. His
spiritual healthiness seems to brace me. He said that Pani Celina
was so much better that within a week she would be able to bear the
journey to Gastein. Oh yes! yes! Anything for a change! I shall push
that plan with all my powers. I will persuade my aunt to go too. She
will do it for my sake, and in that case nobody will be astonished at
my going. There is at least something I desire, and desire very much.
I shall have so many chances of taking care of Aniela, and shall be
nearer to her than at Ploszow. I feel somewhat relieved; but it has
been a terrible day, and nothing oppresses me so much as dark, rainy
weather. I still hear the drops falling from the waterspouts; but
there is a rift in the clouds, and a few stars are visible.