And I think she is in the right.
Every now and then Czolhanski comes and calls upon me. He came yesterday, too. This, I think, is rather too much. God! how I detest that man! … He enters, sits down, stays for three mortal hours, pays me a few compliments, lets out a few commonplaces about the lamentable position of a journalist: a man untidy, unshaven, rather dirty in his ways, and very pretentious: his fingernails are in mourning and his hands always moist. No use to take up a newspaper, even to be more uncivil to him still: he will not take the hint and go. Once he wrote a sonnet to me! Journalism has evidently been the death of his poetical talent. But, Lord! what does it all matter after all? He will kiss my hands, though I always beg him not to, he disgusts me so. If I were in his place, I should go and hang myself! And he—he is quite unaware of my feelings, and very much self-satisfied.
Yesterday Radlowski came as well, and for the first time, under the pretext of a message from Gina. His company would be most pleasant, for he is so very extremely young; and his eyes sparkle like a diamond in the sun, with a sort of delectation so lively that it seems unnatural; painfully so. He has again asked me to sit for my portrait.
I have promised: but I cannot—I cannot as yet.
What is the reason of Idalia’s playing so very poorly today? She writhes and twists herself to and fro at the piano, with more than sensual affectation; she suddenly and convulsively coils and uncoils herself like a snake, during the more brilliant passages: and she goes on playing interminably, from dusk till far, far into the deep, dark, never-ending night.
And why is she doing so, this day of all others, when all my strength to bear it has left me?
The longing, the pain I feel, is stifling, is strangling me: it bites at my throat, and I shudder to feel it cling round my feet like ivy, together with the thought of my blighted joys.
These I see lying on heaps of tropical flowers—lying in long rows, naked, asleep, and beautiful as dreams of what is past forever. … Over them there blows a gentle breeze, scattering the flower-petals upon their fairy-like forms; but it does not wake them from slumber. Only, from time to time, do their long black eyelashes open and shut, slowly and rhythmically, as the silken wings of a fluttering butterfly. They are dreaming of their delights.
Say, O say! why does all this give me such infinite pain?
And then there always come to me haunting visions, which are my childhood! A dark outline of forest-trees; a perspective fading into infinite, infinite distance, and the clear waters wherein life lay hidden once upon a time. The vision stands, I know not how, for the times of my childhood. Music always renders concrete even the most abstract of things.
Something is tearing my soul; it is the impossibility of any delusion about. …
Ah, do not, do not bite thus at my throat! … I cannot weep! … And do not make the sharp-edged music of the violin soft by the dark velvet touch of your smooth hand! … And do not, do not press my bosom so; my heart will burst! … And do not hug my body with that tender embrace, that Lesbian caress! … Nor twine like ivy round my feet, uttering that awful moan for blighted joys! …
Witold, O Witold! behold, I return to you! O sleep, O life! Yes, I return. …
I have written the following short note to Witold today:
“If you wish, you may come. J. D.”
It breathed the spite—the unavailing and very plebeian spite—of my humiliation. I fully recognized this: and yet I chose to send the note, thus styled.
I expected that he would come like a conqueror, triumphant and self-assured; and thinking so, I for the time being ceased to love him at all.
As it happened, he has belied my expectations.
On my return from the office, I found him already here. He was quite childishly delighted, and for a long while I could not free myself from his rapturous embrace.
“Janka, Janka! how cruel, how cruel you have been!” he cried out in broken words amongst his kisses. “You are a monster of barbarity! And of stubbornness too! For you know so well how much I love you! … You should have had trust in me, as I have trust in you. … Have I ever given you any cause for mistrust? I hide nothing from you, nothing whatsoever! … Oh, my dearest, my only one, my darling! … I know that you will be mine one day—mine! It must be so. … Could I ever have exposed myself to the danger of losing your love? Think of that. Think how different you are from all other women. … I know you could never have forgiven me, if. …”
So handsome, so kindly, so affectionate! I knew how intensely I loved him. And then, in the secret depths of my heart of hearts, I was aware that I could forgive him anything in the world.
Yet I said: “My love for you would then instantly turn to hate, as it did for the last few days. …”
He feigned to be horribly frightened. We were both of us in ecstasies of joy.
Long, long, did we speak together of our love. We should love each other forever and forever: and with what intensity! … Only we were to have more of mutual trust, and to be more tolerant one for the other: there would be no more of those former bickerings which
