Yes, and I shall continue to believe it till sundown, and I still am dreaming of a joyful triumph. I had one before, but it was far from joyful.
Tomorrow evening I shall go to see Obojanski once more; and I shall tremble with great fear.
I am sure my answer to Janusz will be delayed. Tonight Smilowicz and Roslawski accompanied me home together. I cannot say whether I shall get any opportunity for a private talk with him. Perhaps it is better so: but, then, Janusz is waiting for his answer down in Klosow.
Roslawski is the one man in the world before whose gaze my eyes must droop. That alone can throw me off my balance, rob me of my customary untroubled assurance; for it is the only force able to master mine.
Towards the end, our talk turns to love and marriage.
The latter Smilowicz looks upon from an economic standpoint, and thinks it is, in our present conditions of life, a necessary evil. All the same, he informs Obojanski that a certain mutual acquaintance of theirs, who married not long ago, is perfectly happy with his wife.
“Ah, yes,” Obojanski guardedly observes, “in the first months, even such a thing is not impossible.”
Roslawski’s face puts on a cold smile. Indeed, he is in favour of marriage, as is quite natural with a man who has sown his wild oats, and is desirous of love that is lawful. The fastest men I ever knew were theoretically in favour of monogamy. Imszanski, too, always told Martha that, were it not for the fickleness of women and various other untoward conditions, he would be happiest with one woman and one alone.
On this point, Obojanski is a sceptic; this is the only subject on which he can speak wittily.
“And you—do you intend to marry for love?” Roslawski asks me suddenly, with a subtle tinge of flippancy in his tone, such as men of his kind always use in speaking to women: an attitude with him quite instinctive and unreasoned, since he is very far from sharing Obojanski’s prejudice concerning the inferiority of our sex.
A sudden qualm of terror seizes me, but I master it, and say with a tranquil smile: “Your question makes me feel as if under examination. Confess now that you are at present wanting to know what my reply will be, not what I really intend to do.”
There is an ironical gleam in his eyes.
“You may take my word for it that I am not,” he answers emphatically.
“In that case, I’ll tell you as much as I myself know. If I marry for love, it will not last very long; if, on the contrary, I do so with judgment and out of a conscious conviction that the man is destined for me, then I shall be faithful to my husband all my life.”
“And which of these alternatives do you prefer?”
“The second,” I reply; and add truthfully, “for there are certain classes of feeling in which I object to changes.”
“Really? But you would have the same result, even if you married for love.”
“I am afraid I cannot bring myself to believe in the eternal duration of mere feeling. Love in marriage, as a rule, becomes in time a sort of mutuality of habit, a sense of solidarity, as it were, and now and then even a brotherhood of minds. It is just in such cases that divorce would be advisable.”
“And when it is a marriage of reason?”
“Why, then the question is correctly stated from the first; at the outset, suitability of characters and of individualities are taken into consideration, so as to prevent any possibility of future disagreement.”
“And yet it is possible to obtain the continuance of love by incessantly watching over it, by not unfrequently putting on a mask, and by keeping private certain emotions and states of mind which might prejudice one party in the eyes of the other.”
How the remembrance of Janusz comes back to me as I listen! Of all this, he knew nothing at all.
“I doubt whether so much trouble is very profitable,” I return. “The game is hardly worth the candle.”
“And yet some there are,” he goes on to say, “for whom present bliss has no value, if they know beforehand that the morrow will take it away. And they often prefer to renounce it entirely.”
The words are spoken calmly, without any apparent significance; yet there is in their tone, I fancy, an undercurrent of ominous import.
“Well,” I say, repressing my irrational dread, “then let all such take care to marry with judgment.”
“Nevertheless, to give love and get in its place only intellectuality is not a good bargain, I fear.”
Now—now I understand—and I almost feel hatred for the man. Yes, I may throw myself under the wheels of a locomotive, but never will I say I do that out of love for it!
“Reasonable people should remember that ‘the heart is no servant,’ and that, beyond intellectual and conscious resolve, we can find nothing on which we can safely count.” This I say, as light-heartedly and as smilingly as I can, feeling meanwhile the dismay of a horrible misgiving—almost a certitude—clutching at my heart.
And now at last I am alone with Roslawski and Obojanski. I remain in my corner all the evening, saying little, overwhelmed with dread of the coming decisive moment. That tall, red-haired gentleman in glasses—I simply detest him!
Roslawski sets to playing Wagner—stiffly, correctly, like an automaton. His playing grates strongly upon my nerves: each of the notes taps on my heartstrings.
Obojanski is enchanted. He goes about the room on tiptoe, making the floor creak as he walks; he fetches music from the bookshelves for Roslawski, and lays them in heaps on the piano. Now and again he glances at me, and whispers, almost aloud: “How very beautiful!” He finally brings me a volume of some German encyclopaedia, and opens it at the article “Wagner,” which he expects me to read.
I
