I had a very nasty dream. I begin with it the description of the day.
I am not one to attach any meaning to dreams, and I am convinced
that a healthy brain could not produce such stuff. Sleeplessness has
troubled me now for some time, but yesterday I had scarcely closed my
eyes when I fell into a heavy sleep. I do not know at what time I had
that dream; it must have been towards morning, for when I awoke it
was broad daylight, and I could not have dreamed long. I saw a great
quantity of cockchafers and black beetles crawl from under the
mattress and along the sides of the bed. They were as big as
matchboxes. Presently I saw them crawling up the wall. Strange how
realistic dreams can be; I distinctly heard the rustling of their
feet on the paper. Raising my eyes I noticed big clusters of beetles
hanging from the ceiling; but they were of a different kind,
much larger, with black and white spots. On some of them I could
distinguish the white belly, with two rows of feet on either side
which looked like ribs. In my dream they seemed quite in their place,
and yet horrible. They filled me with loathing, but I was neither
astonished nor afraid. Only after I had awoke the loathing became
unbearable and changed into a kind of fear,--fear of death. It was the
first time I had that sensation, and that fear of death took such a
form. "Who knows," I thought, "what hideous shapes are awaiting me in
the darkness, on the other side of life?" Later on I remembered that I
had seen some similar beetles in an entomological collection, but
at the time they seemed to me something unnatural, belonging to an
intangible after-life. I jumped up and raised the blind, and the sight
of daylight calmed me at once. The streets were already alive with the
traffic of the early morning,--vegetable carts drawn by dogs, servants
going to market, and laborers to their work. The sight of the normal
human life is the best remedy against phantasms like these. I feel now
an immense necessity for light and life. The final conclusion of all
this is that I am not well. My tragedy undermines me like a cancer. I
see white threads in my hair; this might have come in the course of
nature; but my face, especially in the morning, has a waxen hue, and
my hands are getting transparent. I am not getting thin, it is rather
the opposite, but I am conscious of anæmia as I am conscious of my
psychical state, and I feel that my vital powers are passing through a
crisis, and that some calamity is threatening me.
I shall never go mad. I cannot even imagine how I could ever lose
control over myself. Besides, a celebrated physician, and what is
more an intelligent man, told me that at a certain point of developed
consciousness this was quite impossible. I think he has written a book
about it. But without going mad I may be on the eve of some portentous
nervous disease; and as I know a little what that means, I say
sincerely that any other would be preferable.
I have not much faith in doctors, especially in those that trust to
physic, but I may take some advice if only to please my aunt. I know
one remedy, which would be infallible; if Kromitzki died and I could
marry Aniela I should speedily get well. A disease springing from
nerves must be cured through nerves. But she will not be my physician,
even if my life is in danger.
I went with Aniela and my aunt to Angeli's studio. The first sitting
took place to-day. How right I was in saying that she is one of the
most beautiful women I ever met in life, because there is nothing
commonplace in her beauty. Angeli looked at her with manifest
pleasure, as if he had before him a noble piece of art. He was in
excellent spirits, drew the outline with enthusiasm, and did not
conceal at all the reason of his satisfaction. "In my profession," he
said, "a model like this is very rare indeed. With such a sitter it is
delightful to work. What a face! what expression!"
The expression was by no means so charming as usual, because Aniela is
a shy little creature; she felt confused, bewildered, and it evidently
cost her an effort to keep a natural pose. Angeli understood that.
"It will be easier the next time," he said; "like everything else, one
must get accustomed to it." And he repeated several times: "This will
be something like a portrait."
He looked also with a pleased countenance at my aunt, who has noble
features and a singularly commanding presence. The way she met Angeli
was in itself a treat. It was the off-hand manner of the _grande
dame_, always in good taste, but evidently not making much of him.
Angeli, who is used to flattery and homage, and at the same time
a clever man, judged her aright, and I saw he was amused by her
demeanor.
We had decided upon a black silk dress, very elegantly made. It shows
off Aniela's figure to perfection, its suppleness and rounded curves.
I can neither think nor write about it calmly. Angeli, addressing
Aniela, repeatedly called her "Mademoiselle." Feminine nature, even an
angelic one, has still its little weaknesses. I noticed that my dear
love was pleased, and still more so when I told Angeli of his mistake,
and he said:--
"But I shall always fall into the same mistake; looking at madame it
is impossible not to make the mistake."
And indeed with those vivid blushes mantling in her face she was
surpassingly lovely.
On our way out, when a little distance from my aunt, I whispered to
Aniela:--
"Aniela, do you know yourself how beautiful you are?"
She did not say anything, but lowered her eyelashes, as she always
does in such a case. Nevertheless, I noticed that during the rest
of the day there was a shade of unconscious coquetry in her manner
towards me. Angeli's words and mine had attuned her to that
disposition. She knows I admire her, that never woman was admired
more, and it pleases her. I not only admired her, but I said inwardly,
rather shouted to myself: "To the deuce with all compacts. I love you
without limits and restrictions."
In the evening we went to the opera to hear Wagner's "Fliegende
Hollander." I scarcely heard anything at all, or rather, heard and saw
only through her. I asked of Wagner: "What impression do you make upon
her? Does your music enter her soul and make her inclined to love me?
Do you transport her into higher spheres, where love is the highest
law?" That is the only thing that interests me. Women perhaps cannot
love so exclusively. They always reserve part of their soul for
themselves, for the world and its sensations.