After yesterday's commotion a calm has set in. The clouds have
discharged their electricity, and the storm is over. I feel exhausted
morally and physically. Aniela is better. This morning we met alone on
the veranda. I put her on a rocking-chair, wrapped a shawl around her
shoulders, as the morning was rather chilly, and said:--
"Aniela dear, I beg your pardon from my whole heart for what I said
yesterday. Forgive and forget if you can, though I shall never forgive
myself."
She put out her hand at once, and I clung to it with my lips. I could
have groaned aloud; there is such a gulf between my love and my
misery. Aniela seemed to feel it too, for she did not withdraw her
hand at once. She too tried to control her emotion, and the feeling
which urged her towards me. Her neck and breast heaved as if she were
strangling the sobs that rose to her throat. She feels that I love her
beyond everything; that a love like mine is not to be met with every
day; and that it might have been a treasure of happiness to last our
whole life. Presently she grew more composed and her face became
serene. There was nothing but resignation there, and angelic goodness.
"There is peace between us, is there not?" she asked.
"Yes," I replied.
"And forever?"
"How can I tell, dearest? You know best how things stand with me."
Her eyes again grew misty, and again she recovered herself.
"All will be well," she said, "you are so good."
"I, good?" I exclaimed with real indignation; "do you not know that if
you had not fallen ill yesterday I should--"
I did not finish. I suddenly remembered that it would be mean and
cowardly to use such a weapon against her. I felt all the more ashamed
of my rashness as I saw the troubled eyes looking anxiously into mine.
"What did you want to say?"
"I was going to say words unworthy of myself; besides, they have no
meaning now."
"Leon! I must know what you meant, else I shall have no peace."
Suddenly a breath of wind blew a lock of her hair into her eyes. I
rose, and with the light, tender touch of a mother, put it back into
its place.
"Dear Aniela, do not force me to tell what I ought to forget. If it be
a question of your peace of mind I pledge you my word that you need
not have any fear for the future."
"You promise this?" she asked, still looking intently at me.
"Yes, most solemnly and emphatically; will that satisfy you, and drive
out any foolish notions from the little head?"
The postman coming in with a parcel of letters interrupted our
conversation. There was the usual budget from the East for Kromitzki;
only one letter for Aniela, from Sniatynski (I recognized his
handwriting on the envelope), and one for me from Clara. The latter
does not say much about herself, but inquires most minutely what I am
doing. I told Aniela who it was that had written, and she, to show me
that all ill-feeling and constraint had gone, began to tease me. I
paid her back in the same coin, and pointing to Sniatynski's letter
said there was another poor man who had succumbed to little Aniela's
wiles. We laughed and bandied jests for a little time.
The human soul, like the bee, extracts sweetness even from bitter
herbs. The most unhappy wretch still tries to squeeze out a little
happiness from his woes, and the merest shadow and pretext will serve
his turn. Sometimes I think that this intense longing for happiness is
one proof more that happiness is awaiting us in another world. I am
convinced also that pessimism was invented as a comfort to satisfy a
want, sum up all human misery, and put it into a philosophic formula.
It satisfies our thirst for truth and knowledge, and happiness itself
is nothing but satisfied craving. Perhaps love in itself is such a
source of happiness that even a clouded love like ours is interwoven
with golden rays. Such a ray fell on our path to-day. I had not
expected it, as I had not expected that a man whose desires are
without limits could be satisfied with so little.
We had scarcely read our letters when Pani Celina, who is now able to
walk without help, came towards us with a footstool for Aniela.
"Oh mamma!" cried out Aniela, in a shocked voice; "You ought not to do
that."
"And did you not yourself nurse me night and day when I was ill?"
I took the footstool from Pani Celina's hands, and kneeling down
before Aniela, I waited until she had put her little feet upon it; and
kneeling thus before her for a second filled me with happiness for the
whole day. It is a fact. A very poor man lives upon crumbs, and smiles
gratefully--through tears.