His outbreak having exhausted him, he sat down on an armchair at some distance from me, and proceeded to light another cigarette.
For many minutes, I was dumbstruck, trying to dig my way out of the ruins of that building which had fallen upon me so suddenly and in a way so unforeseen. Who would have expected this from this page of mine, with his sweet, tawny eyelashes.
At first, I was unable to realize it.
“But I see, Witold, that you have not the least love for me—that is, for what is most essential in me; I have at last found it out.”
I mused awhile.
“And then, besides, what you say is untrue. Recall which of us two revels more in high-flown, naive, silly, maudlin sentiment! Who was it was always dreaming of an ideal ‘brotherhood of souls,’ instead of regarding love in the ordinary way? It was I who cannot bear what is high-flown; I, who always had to bring you down from your stilts.”
Witold was looking out of the window. There was in his bearing aristocratic boredom and lassitude, plainly expressed.
“Ah, Janka,” he said, this time in a tone of supreme indifference, “that, too, is on your part all theory. Of this you only make use, that you may struggle against the high-flown sentimentality which you feel within you, though you disown it, and deny its existence. And the eternal conflict with yourself in which you are plunged, and your empty theories, with their unconscious hypocrisy—these are the best proof of what I say, and the most high-flown sentimentality of all. … Only you delude yourself. … You are just as other women are, capable of infinite self-devotion and sacrifice. Hear me still. If I were now to love you no longer, to go away from you and forget you (men forget so very readily), you would be longing for me, and in anguish, like any other woman in the same situation, and in spite of all your ‘positive’ theories; you would be miserable, as you were during the last two weeks when we were parted; and you would again write first to me. And should I not come in answer to it—as I had a great mind not to come, notwithstanding my ‘idealistic’ way of looking at love—why then, you would write again and again, even to the tenth time! Don’t say you would not; I know you well. Oh, how well I know women! I’ll tell you what: I am still more certain that you love me and will be faithful than I was in Martha’s case, for all you say about paying me in my own coin, if I were false. Martha could forget herself for my sake; you never could. A bundle of theories, of sentimental scepticism, of self-assurance: that’s what you are! A poor frightened bird always popping its head under its wing!”
I felt quite broken. There was an immense and awful void in my heart. I had the odd delusion—or had his words suggested the feeling?—that I really experienced the weakness of which he spoke, and was unable to escape from his hands. Thereupon, I began to cry.
“I don’t—I don’t believe—that you ever loved me!”
In an instant he had changed his manner, and become kind and gentle as he had always been before. He came to my side, with caresses and words of comfort; even a little friendly banter.
“Alas!” I groaned; “why did you never tell me about this before?”
“Because I was quite sure that you would burst out crying, as you are doing at present, you naughty child!”
At those words, directly and on the spur of the moment, there fell upon me a sense of strong distaste. Back to my memory came in swarms all sorts of seeming trifles, which, together with many a minute detail of our past, made proof demonstrative and irrefutable … of what he was.
“And you were quite sure, Witold, of something else into the bargain!”
“What was that, Janka?”
With downcast eyes I answered, smiling:
“That I should never love you any more.”
I had spoken with absolute candour and certitude. I knew this to be a necessity of life to me; and I wiped my last tears away—
“Bah! give over, little girl. Do you not see this too is silly sentiment? You yourself don’t believe what you say.” He still spoke as in tones of tranquil persuasion; but I could see disquietude looking out of his eyes.
I smiled at him once more, saying: “Whether I believe or not, matters little. What matters is that you certainly do!”
He turned a trifle pale, and felt nervously for his cigarette-case. “Give over!” he cried out roughly, on a sudden, and again came towards me.
I rose, quivering all over with excitement, but managed to say, calmly enough:
“I should not like to part from you too tragically. And since I have had enough of love in general, and enough of your person especially, I am afraid I must ask you to have the goodness to withdraw now. Let us shake hands on parting. Go.”
He came forwards, with knit gloomy brows, and looks which betrayed the storm that raged within him. I stepped backwards. He stood for an instant struggling with himself, and I fully expected he would rush at me.
But his breeding prevailed. He made a courtly bow, kissed my hand and retired.
I stood where I was, with head bent forward. … That page, with his dear tawny eyelashes—with his soft sad eyes—with his lips, of the odour of faded roses—he that once had been mine!
“All the same,” I whispered to myself, “the thing is done at last!”
Today I feel I have crossed the Rubicon, and am standing on the farther shore, not very sure whether things are better with me now. And yet, I should not wish to go back again.
I have this morning received several nosegays.
Flowers to embellish the funeral repast! Flowers on the coffin of one gone forever!
But that is nothing.
