To-day my pulses are beating wildly, and there is a singing in my
ears; for something has occurred the memory of which thrills every
nerve as in a fever. The day was very beautiful, the evening more
lovely still, and there was a full moon. We resolved to make an
excursion to Hofgastein,--all but Pani Celina, who preferred to remain
at home. My aunt, Kromitzki, and I went down together to the villa
gate, whence Kromitzki sped towards Straubinger's to order a carriage,
my aunt and I waiting for Aniela, who lingered behind. As she did not
come I went back and saw her descending the winding staircase leading
from the second floor into the garden.
As the moon was on the other side, this part of the house was wrapped
in darkness, and Aniela came down very slowly. There was a moment when
my head was on a level with Aniela's feet. The temptation was too
great; I put my hands gently around them and pressed my lips to
them. I knew I should have to pay a heavy penalty for this minute of
happiness, but I could not forego it. God knows with what reverence I
touched her feet, and for how much pain this moment compensated me.
But for Aniela's resistance I should have put her foot upon my head
in token that I was her servant and her slave. She drew back and went
upstairs again but I ran down calling out loudly, so that my aunt
could hear me:--
"Aniela is coming, coming."
Nothing remained for her now but to come down again, which she could
do safely, as I had remained near the gate. At the same moment
Kromitzki arrived with the carriage. Aniela coming up to us said:--
"I came to ask you, aunty, to let me stop at home. I would rather not
leave mamma alone. You can go, and I will wait for you with the tea."
"But Celina is quite well," replied my aunt, with a shade of annoyance
in her voice, "it was she who proposed the excursion, mainly for your
sake."
"Yes, but--" began Aniela.
Kromitzki came up, and hearing what was the matter, said sharply:
"Please do not raise any difficulties." And Aniela, without saying a
word, took her seat in the carriage.
In spite of my emotion I was struck by Kromitzki's tone of voice and
Aniela's silent obedience,--all the more as I had already noticed that
his manners towards her during the day had been those of a man who
is displeased. There was evidently the same reason, of which I knew
nothing, at the bottom of this, and of the estrangement some time ago.
But there was no room now for these reflections; the fresh memory of
the kiss I had imprinted on her feet still overpowered my senses. I
felt a great delight and joy, not unmixed with fear. I could account
for the delight because I felt it every time I only touched her hand.
But why the joy? Because I saw that the immaculate Aniela could not
escape from me altogether, and must needs confess to herself: "I am on
the downward path too, and cannot look people in the face; he was at
my feet a moment ago, the man who loves me, and I am obliged to be his
accomplice and cannot go to my husband and tell him to take me hence."
I knew she could not do this without creating a commotion; and if she
could, she would not do it, for fear of an encounter between me and
Kromitzki,--"And who knows for whom she is most afraid?" something
within me whispered.
Aniela's position is indeed a difficult one, and I, knowing this, take
advantage of it without more scruples than are admitted by a general
in time of war who attacks the enemy at his weakest point. I asked
myself whether I would do the same if Kromitzki would make me
personally responsible; and as I could conscientiously say "Yes," I
thought there was no need for any further consideration. Kromitzki
inspires me with fear only in so far as he has power to remove Aniela
and put her out of my reach altogether. The very thought makes me
desperate. But at this moment, in the carriage, I only feared Aniela.
What will happen to-morrow? How will she take it? As a liberty, or as
a mere impulse of respect and worship?
I felt as a dog may feel that has done wrong and is afraid of being
whipped. Sitting opposite Aniela, I tried at moments when the moon
shone on her face to read there what was to be my sentence. I looked
at her so humbly and was so meek that I pitied myself, and thought she
too ought to pity me a little. But she did not look at me at all, and
listened or seemed to listen attentively to what Kromitzki was telling
my aunt he would do if Gastein belonged to him. My aunt only nodded,
and he repeated every moment: "Now, really, don't you think I am
right?" It is evident that he wants to impress my aunt with his
enterprising spirit, and to convince her that he is capable of making
a shilling out of every penny.
The road to Hofgastein, hewn out of the rocks, skirting the
precipices, winds and twists around the mountain slopes. The light
of the moon shone alternately on our faces and those of the ladies
opposite, according to the varying directions of the road. In Aniela's
face I saw nothing but a sweet sadness, and I took courage from the
fact that it was neither stern nor forbidding. I did not obtain
a single glance, but I comforted myself by the thought that when
concealed in the shadow, she would perhaps look at me and say to
herself: "Nobody loves me as he does, and nobody can be at the same
time more unhappy than he,"--which is true. We were both silent. Only
Kromitzki kept on talking; his voice mingled with the rush of the
waters below the rocks and the creaking of the brake, which the driver
often applied. This creaking irritated my nerves very much, but the
warm, transparent night lulled them into restfulness again. It was,
as I said before, full moon; the bright orb had risen above
the mountains, and sailing through space illumined the tops of
Bocksteinkogl, the Tischlkar glaciers, and the precipitous slopes
of the Graukogl. The snow on the heights shone with a pale-green,
metallic lustre, and as the mountain sides below were shrouded in
darkness, the snowy sheen seemed to float in mid air, as if not
belonging to the earth. There was such a charm, such peace and
restfulness in these sleeping mountains, that involuntarily the words
of the poet came into mind:--
"At such a moment, alas! two hearts are grieving.
What there is to forgive, they are forgiving;
What was to be forgot, they dismiss to oblivion."
And yet what is there to forgive? That I kissed her feet? If she were
a sacred statue she could not be offended by such an act of reverence.
I thought if it came to an explanation between us I would tell her
that.
I often think that Aniela does me a great wrong, not to say that she
calls things by wrong names. She considers my love a mere earthly
feeling, an infatuation of the senses. I do not deny that it is
composed of various threads, but there are among them some as purely
ideal as if spun of poetry. Very often my senses are lulled to sleep,
and I love her as one loves only in early youth. Then the second self
within me mocks, and says derisively: "I had no idea you could love
like a schoolboy or a romanticist!" Yet such is the fact. I may be
ridiculous, but I love her thus, and it is not an artificial feeling.
It is this which makes my love so complete, and at the same time so
sad; for Aniela misconstrues it and cannot enter into its spirit. Even
now I inwardly spoke to her thus: "Do you think there are no ideal
chords in my soul? At this moment I love you in such a way that you
may accept my love without fear. It would be a pity to spurn so much
feeling; it would cost you nothing, and it would be my salvation.
I could then say to myself: 'This is my whole world; within its
boundaries I am allowed to live. It would be something at least. I
would try to change my nature, try to believe in what you believe, and
hold fast to it all my life.'"
It seemed to me that she ought to agree to such a proposition, after
which there would be everlasting peace between us. I promised myself
to put it before her, and once we know that our souls belong to each
other we may even part. There awoke within me a certain hope that she
will agree to this, for she must understand that without it both our
lives will remain miserable.
It was nine o'clock when we arrived at Hofgastein. It was very quiet
and still in the village. Only the Gasthaus was lighted, and before
Meger's some excellent voices were singing mountain airs. I thought of
asking the serenaders to sing before our window, but I found they were
not villagers; they were Viennese mountaineers, to whom one could
not offer money. I bought two bunches of edelweiss and other Alpine
flowers, and giving one to Aniela I accidentally, as it were,
unloosened the other and the flowers fell under her feet.
"Let them lie there," I said, seeing she was stooping to pick them up.
I went in search of some more flowers for my aunt. When I came back I
heard Kromitzki say:--
"Even here at Hofgastein, by erecting another branch establishment,
one could easily make a hundred per cent."
"You are still hammering at the same subject," I said quietly. I said
this on purpose; it was the same as to say to Aniela: "See, while my
whole being is occupied with you he thinks of nothing but how to make
money. Compare our feelings; compare us with each other." I am almost
certain she understood my meaning.
On the return journey I made several attempts to draw Aniela into
general conversation, but did not succeed. When we arrived at the gate
of the villa Kromitzki went upstairs with the ladies, and I remained
behind to pay for the carriage. When I went up I did not find Aniela
at tea. My aunt said she had gone to bed and seemed very tired.
A great uneasiness got hold of me, and I reproached myself for
tormenting her. There is nothing more crushing for the man who loves
truly than the consciousness that he is bringing unhappiness on her he
loves. We took our tea in silence, for my aunt was drowsy, Kromitzki
seemed depressed, and I tormented myself more and more with anxious
thoughts. "She must have taken it very much to heart," I thought, "and
as usual has put upon it the worst construction." I expected she would
avoid me the next day and consider our treaty of peace broken by that
rash act of mine. This filled me with fear, and I resolved to go, or
rather to escape, the next day to Vienna; firstly, because I dreaded
meeting Aniela, secondly, because I wanted to see Doctor Chwastowski;
and finally, I thought,--and God knows how bitter is the thought,--to
relieve her of my presence for a few days and give her rest.