Then, turning to Gina: “You also, Madame,” he said, “should have a little diversion.”
I protested very strongly.
“Not the least need for him; let him stay where he is. You are what we want.”
I held him back, putting my hands upon his shoulders, and my face close to the animal face of that unknown man.
He smiled, much flattered: his white teeth gleamed.
“We shall not keep you long, if you wish to leave us. But for the present, you have to stay with us.”
Someone—who could it be?—filled my liqueur-glass with cognac again and again. Presently, a crimson bloodred smoke began to float from corner to corner of the small cabinet, papered with red and gold, and filled with the sound of his loud voice and the reek of tobacco. All round me, everything was afire and aflame.
He was drawing near; in every limb of mine I felt his approach. His jaws, chewing still, though his supper was over; his tiny eyes, to which expectancy gave a phosphorescent glow; and the hot fulsome breath from his gaping chops, embellished with splendidly shining fangs and incisors; and that blond upstanding moustache of his:—I had all these close to my face. He was unsteadily leaning over, tilting his chair towards the sofa, touching and fingering the gauze trimming of my bodice, and seeking my lips with his.
My brain, intensely excited, showed me things as they were. But I half closed my eyes, and looked at him through the lids as though about to faint.
All would not do. … My mind was sober: its powers came into full play.
At that instant I drew back, and—with all the force of my rage, hate, despair, and revenge—revenge for everything and for us all—I dealt him a furious blow with my clenched fist, right between those phosphorescent greenish lustful eyes!
He reeled, and fell along with his chair on to the floor. Gina was at the door in a flash.
I flung down upon the table all the money I had by me, and, slamming the door behind us, rushed out in Gina’s company.
No one was in the passage. I walked out of the saloon, my face by this time wearing an unconcerned expression. In the cloakroom we put on the hooded mantles we had taken to the concert. I went home, shorn of all my strength, and in a state of complete collapse.
An astonishing woman, that Gina! She never asked me for any sort of explanation.
“This explosion scene has done me good,” was her indifferent and only comment.
From this day, I am her friend.
I have told Gina all about the whole business, from beginning to end. She said I was terribly naive. “Things could not possibly have turned out otherwise.” She advised me to forgive Witold. It was only if he had loved another that I could have had any cause for complaint. But such a passing connection as that! … Besides, I had no rights over him; and moreover, he was a man! … Owinski, too, had been several times unfaithful to her; and yet, though their relations had been very different from ours, she had always forgiven him: though indeed not without difficulty. … It was only now that the inwardness of suffering had come home to her. … Had he been willing, she would have agreed to his having a dozen others besides his wife!
“Never would I agree to such a thing as that,” I replied. “If Witold gave me up for the love of some other woman, then I should at least be sure that my misery was of some service to others, and that there was on both sides equality of rights, since I too might have just as well fallen in love with another. … But if he is false to me for a mere plaything and to amuse himself with what does not mean any more to him than a good cigar, then I am absolutely unable to act, and quite defenceless against him. I shall never, never be able to do the same. And, between the measure of his guilt and of my retaliation for it, there is such huge disproportion as makes me ridiculous in my own eyes. … Why, when Roslawski forsook me, I was also most miserable: but in his behaviour at least there never was anything one whit so mean, so dirty, as this.”
“I have not the slightest wish,” returned Gina, “to impose my philosophy of life upon you.”
He has excused himself; has assured me, even sworn that I am in error. I have refused to believe him. Women are hugely credulous, credulous in the extreme.
I have not seen him this whole week. He came here twice, but was denied entrance, as I ordered. I don’t care for the forgiving system. I don’t care to become like Martha. …
However, if I act thus, it is on principle only; in reality, I am tortured by his absence. My feelings incline me to believe that he says true. … Surely he cannot possibly be thus false to me.
I fear greatly lest, if he should come again. …
No, no.—I am going to call on Wiazewski, who has of late been quite neglectful.
I started by complaining of things in general, and with but little of personal feeling. He has hitherto known nothing about my relations with Witold. And I am also ashamed of this love, in which I have been playing so ludicrous a part.
“… And to think of the years, the golden years of youth, gliding, gliding, gliding by, beautiful, but empty as some marble bath of ancient days! …”
“But I told you once that men of modern times do not care to bathe in those waters. They are too clear, too cold; they run with too swift a stream, and with too many, oh! far too many an eddy and deep hollow. Janka, they fail to attract.”
“Let me say, Stephen, that I am unhappy, and therefore come to you. You, as a friend, have some responsibilities toward me; you can’t get out of them. All that I am is going
