Some time ago I had a faint hope that under the influence of
indignation against her husband, Aniela might come to me and say:
"Since you have paid for me, I am yours." Another of my delusions. Any
other woman, with exalted notions fed upon French novels, might have
acted thus; or one who wanted only a pretext to throw herself into a
lover's arms. No; Aniela will never do that, and if such a thought
came into my mind at all it is because I too have been fed upon those
pseudo-dramas of the feminine soul, which at bottom illustrate only
the desire to cast virtue adrift. There is but one thing which would
push Aniela into my arms, and that is her heart; but no artificial
scenes, no phrases or false pathos. There is not the slightest
possibility of her yielding to these.
If it be a great misfortune to love another man's wife, be she ever so
commonplace, it is an infinitely greater misfortune to love a virtuous
woman. There is something in my relations to Aniela of which I never
heard or read; there is no getting out of it, no end. A solution,
whether it be a calamity or the fulfilment of desire, is something,
but this is only an enchanted circle. If she remain immovable and I do
not cease loving her, it will be an everlasting torment, and nothing
else. And I have the despairing conviction that neither of us will
give way.
If she has a narrow heart it will not trouble her very much. As to
myself I desire nothing more ardently than to get free from bondage;
but I cannot get free. I say to myself, over and over again, that it
must be done; and I put forth all my strength, as the drowning man
does to save himself. At times I fancy that I have achieved some kind
of victory, when lo! I see her passing under my window, my eyes rest
upon her, and I experience a shock in my heart; the whole depth of
my feeling is revealed, as the flash of lightning tears asunder the
clouds and shows the depth of the sky. Ah me! what torture to have to
deal with virtue, cold and merciless as the letter of the law! Even if
Aniela had no heart I should still love her, as a mother would love a
child though it were deformed. Pity then grows all the stronger,--and
so does pain.