I looked it over for a time, enthralled and captivated by these faces, each of a different type, some laughing, some grave, some pathetic, others comical or exotic or commonplace, these full of fire, those ethereal-looking; many attired in the strangest raiment, or posing in voluptuous attitudes, and stretching out their half-nude limbs with serpent-like grace—all these surrounded with Oriental magnificence: and again exquisite women, very ladylike in their British stiffness, and the sexless elegance of their tailor-made dresses simple but striking. A multitudinous chaotic assembly of many a style and many a nationality, down to one monstrously sensual negress, no doubt a singer in some music-hall.
“Since you have been away,” she said, “it has been a custom with me to pore over this album. Those different faces remind me of the different periods of my life. I possess but few belonging to the old times of Witold’s lovemaking; but of those he loved since he married, not one is wanting here. Some of them I purchased myself.”
“That,” I observed, “was of old a custom of yours. I remember well how as a girl the collections you liked best to make were postcards with photographs of handsome actresses.”
“Oh, but that was quite different,” she replied with a shake of the head. “I feel such a pleasure in gloating over this collection!”
“Yes, the pleasure you take in self-inflicted torture!”
“No, not even that. You see, I gaze at those beautiful faces, those full red voluptuous mouths, those white rounded shoulders, so pleasantly smooth and soft; I look through the garments and see the colour of the flesh beneath: and each of these women I fancy delirious, swooning in his arms; and so I feed my mind with the thought of their delight in him—or perhaps (I am not quite sure which) of his delight in them!”
Her nostrils were quivering. She settled herself in her soft-cushioned seat, and closed her eyelids; they were red with tears.
On one of the first pages of the album I found Mary Wieloleska, clad as an Algerian girl, blithe and blandishing, and far better-looking than in reality. Towards the end there were about a dozen photographs of Mme. Wildenhoff, and one—a small one—of that French actress whom we had seen at Lipka’s restaurant. The thought flashed upon me—a very unflattering one assuredly—that she had already placed me there too; but, sitting as I was by Martha’s side, I could not possibly look at the last page. Besides, she herself held the album, and showed me no photographs after those of Mme. Wildenhoff and of the French actress.
The same thought occurred to us both at once, and it cast over us the shadow of a moody silence.
She laid her head on my bosom, and closed her eyes with an expression of the utmost fatigue.
“Don’t go on like that,” I said to her soothingly. “That way madness lies, and you might easily get there.”
“Oh, that is very likely. Indeed I wish I may. Oh, to lose memory, and consciousness, and all feeling!” And then: “For I am everlastingly wringing my own heart, Janka!” she added, very sorrowfully.
Silently, I stroked her long dishevelled hair, and all the while, with tender craving and emotional entrancement, my mind was reverting to Witold.
“Are you my husband’s paramour by now?”
It was with some surprise that I was aware the question evoked in me a reaction of outraged dignity. But I choked down the feeling, and unembarrassed, though with downcast eyes, I answered, in a low voice:
“No, not as yet.”
“That is better. You may then presently become his wife.”
Her mouth was slightly twitching. She has that most unpleasant habit of melting with compassion over her own woes.
“Only, please, Martha, not death! Don’t let us hear about death!”
“I am in a very bad way.”
“The idea! You always have been so terribly afraid to die; you told me so. Do you remember?”
“Oh, but it’s quite another thing now!—Afraid of death, I?—No, I desire it with all the desire of my wretched heart. Yes, I desire it that you may become his wife, that you may yourself fathom the depths of the tortures I have gone through, and bask (as I am doing) in the beams of the bliss they give; that you, like me, may taste the delight of them by cupfuls brimming over!—Yet more, yet more!—May you quaff your fill of wormwood, till you overflow with it!—be suffocated with the mortal scent of those flowers of his—drink in their odoriferous delight and the poisonous steam of them, even to agony, even to death!—May I be avenged, when you are forced to yield him up to another! And may the knowledge that even death itself is no sufficient expiation, make the bitterness of your last hour bitterer still. … Oh, God!”
She hid her face in her hands; she was trembling all over with the violence of her spasmodic outburst. Finally, she fell on her knees before me, covering my hands with kisses that I felt burning hot.
“No, Janka, these words of mine are not true: they are lies—lies! There is no longer any hatred at all, nor any thirst for vengeance: there is none—I love you! … I shall die, that you may be happy—in his Red Garden—and that he too may be happy by your side. Don’t you believe me? Won’t you look into my heart? My only wish is for your happiness: beyond this, I have no wish whatsoever. … I humble myself at your feet thus, see! and bless you that in your turn you have taken away from me what to me is dearer than life itself; that you have poured into the cistern of my bliss the last drop of that nectar which inebriates unto death. I love you: it was Christ, was it not? who gave the command that we ought to love our enemies. … Hear me!—I am dying that you may be happy
