Yesterday I felt oppressed and troubled by various thoughts. I could
not sleep. I left off plunging into the depths of pessimism, and
instead of that began to think of Aniela and call her image before my
eyes. This always soothes me. My imagination strained to the utmost
point brings her before me so lifelike that I fancy I could speak to
her. I recalled to memory the time I had met her first as a grown-up
girl. I saw the white, gauzy draperies studded with bunches of
violets, the bare shoulders, and the face a little too small but fresh
like a spring morning, and so original in the bold outline of the
eyebrows, the long lashes, and that soft down on either side of the
face. It seems to me as if I still heard her voice saying, "Do you not
recognize me, Leon?" I wrote at the time that her face appeared to me
like music translated into human features. There was in her at the
same time the charm of the maiden and the attraction of the woman. No
other woman ever fascinated me so strongly, and there must needs cross
my way a Circe-like Laura to lure me away from the one woman I could
love, almost my bride.
Nobody feels more than I that the words, "The spell thou hast cast
upon me lasts forever," are not a mere poetic fancy, but bitter
reality. Besides love and desire, I have for her an immense liking,
the tenderness of affection, and am drawn to her with the irresistible
force of the magnet to iron. And it cannot be otherwise, for she is
still the same Aniela, and is not changed in the least. It is the same
face of a little girl, with the charm of a woman, the same look, the
same eyelashes, brows, shoulders, and supple waist. She has now one
more charm,--that of the lost Paradise.
What a tremendous gulf between our relations in the past and those in
the present. When I think of the Aniela who was waiting, as for her
salvation, to hear from me the words, "Will you be mine?" I can
scarcely believe it to have been true. Reflecting upon that, I feel
like the ruined magnate who at one time scattered his wealth about,
dazzling the world by his splendor, and in later years lived upon
charity.
That night, when I thought about Aniela and evoked her image before my
eyes, it suddenly occurred to me that we had no portrait of her, and
a strong desire seized me to have her likeness. I grasped at the idea
with enthusiasm, and it made me feel so happy that it finally drove
all sleep from my eyes. "I shall have you," I said; "I shall be able
to look at you at any time, kiss your hands, your eyes, your lips; and
you will not be able to prevent it." I began at once to think how it
might be done. I could not go and say to Aniela, "Have your portrait
painted, and I will defray the expenses;" but with my aunt I could
always do what I liked, and a hint will be enough to make her wish for
Aniela's portrait. At Ploszow she has a whole collection of family
portraits, which are her pride, and my desperation, as some of them
are truly hideous; but my aunt will not have them removed out of
sight. Considering her deep attachment to Aniela, I was sure she would
be delighted with the idea of adding her picture to the collection. As
far as she is concerned I consider the thing done; but now came the
question whom to intrust with the execution of the portrait. I thought
it would be impossible to induce the ladies to take Paris on their
way; there I should have the choice between the accuracy and
objectivism of Bonnat, the bold breadth of Carolus Duran, and the
inimitable sweetness of Chaplin. Shutting my eyes, I imagined how each
of them would acquit himself of the task, and I was pleased with the
fancy. But I saw it was impracticable; I foresaw that my aunt would
insist upon a Polish painter. I should have no objection to that, for
I remembered seeing at the Warsaw and Cracow exhibition portraits as
excellent as from the brush of any foreign painter. I was only afraid
of the delay. As regards fancies, and also in many other things, there
is something eminently feminine in my composition. When I plan a thing
I want to get it done at once. As we were in Germany, not very far
from Munich and Vienna, I began to choose among the German painters.
I fixed upon two names: Lembach and Angeli. I had seen some fine
portraits by Lembach, but only men's; besides, I did not like his
self-assurance and sketchiness, which, as I am fond of French
painting, I can endure only from a Frenchman. Angeli's faces did not
altogether satisfy me, but I had to admit his delicacy of touch; and
that is just the thing wanted for Aniela's face. Besides, in order to
get Lembach we should have to go out of our way, and Angeli is on the
way,--a circumstance one is ashamed to confess, not wanting to be
regarded as a Philistine. But in this case I wanted to save time. "The
dead ride quick," as the poet says; but lovers ride quicker still.
Besides I should have chosen Angeli in any case, and finally decided
that he should paint Aniela's portrait. As a rule, I do not approve
of portraits in ball dress, but I resolved to have Aniela in a white
dress with violets. I want to have the delusion in looking at her that
she is the Aniela of the never-to-be-forgotten times. I do not want
anything to remind me that she is Pani Kromitzka. And besides, the
dress is dear to me as a memory.
I thought the night would never end, so impatient was I to speak
about it to my aunt. I changed my plan though, for if my aunt had the
portrait painted, she would insist upon a Polish painter. I decided
instead to offer Aniela's likeness to my aunt on her name's-day, which
is towards the end of October. Put in this way, Aniela cannot refuse.
Of course I shall have a copy for myself.
I scarcely slept at all, but look upon it as a satisfactory night, as
all the hours were occupied with these plans. I dozed a little towards
five, but was up and dressed at the stroke of eight. I went to
Straubinger's and sent a telegram to the Vienna Künstlerhaus
inquiring whether Angeli was at home, then returned to the villa
and found the ladies at the breakfast-table. I opened fire at once.
"Aniela," I said, "I have come to confess my guilt in regard to you.
Last night instead of sleeping I have disposed of your person, and it
now remains to be seen whether you will consent."
She looked at me with half-frightened eyes. Perhaps she fancied I was
going mad, or that in a fit of despair I had made up my mind to blurt
out the truth before the elder ladies; but seeing my calmness she
asked:--
"How have you disposed of me?"
"I wanted it to be a surprise for you, dear aunt, but I do not see
how it could be done in secret, and so I must tell you what present I
intend to give you for your name's-day;" and I told them what I had in
my mind. My aunt, who has an excellent portrait of me, painted some
years ago, was greatly delighted, and thanked me warmly. I saw that
Aniela was not less pleased, and that was enough for me. There and
then a lively discussion sprung up as to when and by whom the portrait
was to be painted, and the question of dress, so dear to the feminine
heart, had to be gone into with all details. I had a ready answer for
all questions and saw my chance of getting something else besides the
picture.
"It will not take much time," I said. "I have sent a telegram to
Angeli, and I do not think it will delay our journey much. Aniela will
give Angeli five or six sittings, and as you would have to stop at
Vienna in any case to see Notnagel, there is no loss of time. The
dress can be painted from a model, and the face will be finished in
five sittings. But we must send at once Aniela's photograph and a lock
of her hair. The hair I must have at once. Then Angeli will be able to
make the rough sketch, and later on put in the finishing touches."
I counted upon the fact that none of the ladies knew much about
portrait-painting. I wanted the hair for myself, not for Angeli, to
whom it would have been of use only if he painted Aniela's portrait
from a photograph, to which he would not have consented. But I spoke
as if the whole portrait depended on that lock of hair. Two hours
after breakfast I received an answer to my telegram. Angeli is in
Vienna, where he is just finishing the portrait of the Princess M. I
wrote to him at once and sent him Aniela's photograph; then went out
to Aniela, who was walking in the garden.
"And your hair?" I said; "I want to send the letter by the two-o'clock
post."
She went at once into her room, and shortly afterwards returned with
a lock of hair. My hand shook a little as I took it from her, but my
eyes looked straight into hers and said in that glance:--
"Do you not guess that I want it for myself, that it will be for me
the most precious treasure?"
Aniela did not say anything, but blushed like a girl who listens for
the first time to words of love. She had guessed it. I thought that
for one touch of those lips it would be worth while giving one's life.
My love for her becomes so strong at times that it is akin to pain.
I have now a small part of her physical being. I got it by cunning. I
the man of the world, the sceptic, I who enter into myself and analyze
every thought, have come to practise little tricks and devices,
like Goethe's Siebel. But I say to myself, "At the worst I am only
sentimental and ridiculous." Who knows whether the second self that
reduces everything to consciousness with cold criticism is not more
foolish and more ridiculous? Analysis is like the pulling to pieces of
a flower. It spoils the beauty of life, therefore, its happiness--the
only sensible thing in life.