A dream!—A dream!
That hand, of pure white tint,
Full fain a bell would swing
That nevermore may ring,
For the long rift within’t.
But why then am I so immensely, so divinely happy?
Those eyes, dim, sweet, and sad, of him who once was mine!—I can no longer say whether it was all a dream, or not. My ice-plains once more, my ice-plains!—No—before these—still farther back! … still farther! Another, and a far different, sweet smell: a fresh delicious perfume—of meadows in flower, of willow catkins, of the lilacs in blossom.—Yellow marigolds! (O heavens, those strange far-off memories!) … O sunshine, O green fields, O adorable bygone days! … O my childhood!
Tears flow in torrents—tears for the sunshine, for life, for happiness.—Do not wipe my eyes, for they are dropping pearls! Why brush those pearls away?
That hand, of pure white tint,
Oh, let it never swing
The bell which cannot ring
For the deep rift that’s in’t.
I awoke long after daybreak.
Gina was bending over me.
“Let us leave the place,” she said; “you are a little shaken. A usual thing the first time. You must accustom yourself.”
A tall woman, draped from head to foot in a long mantle of white fur, was waiting for us. Her complexion was of a muddy yellowish hue; her eyes were dull and sodden. It took me more than one glance to make sure who she was.
We were accompanied to the carriage by a grey-haired gentleman whom—so far as I could remember—I had never seen before.
I put up my hands to my eyes, unwilling now to look upon the world any more.
And with this my canticle of love comes to an end.
I had asked Smilowicz to let the Professor know I was going to call upon him: and I have been there today.
What a curious feeling I had in beholding once more those solemn-looking apartments, lined all round with books up to the very ceiling and the same beautiful old man, now a little older!
He welcomed me with joy.
“My prodigal daughter,” he said, “is ever so much dearer to me now than before!”
To have kept complete silence about the rupture which had taken place, would not have satisfied his kindness.
“You must not fancy I am quite disinterested in wishing you back again,” he said. “I have something special in view.”
“What may that be, Professor?”
“I have just received permission from the Russian Government to publish a scientific journal, and it has confirmed me in my status as editor. As my secretary, you would be useful, and I ask you to accept the position.”
“I should do so with pleasure, but my occupation prevents me.”
“Your office? You will give it up: it is no fitting situation for you. I have been thinking it over: this is just what will serve most to bring your abilities into full play. You will have to do the ‘Intelligence’ columns, make summaries, and write translations—at first. And it will be necessary to read very, very much. I have by me a great number of new and highly interesting works, which I must show you.—Well, what do you say?”
I said yes.
During our conversation, I was under the same impression that I had, when I went to see Mme. Smilowicz. I was no longer “up-to-date,” for I had long given up reading.—Obojanski talked at length to me about various changes that had latterly taken place in his field of science.
Those last years had been lost for me. My abandonment of the “Ice-plains” had cost me dear. I had learned nothing by having become acquainted with Life; I was not capable of forming any synthetic views about it. The more we know of it, the less is it possible to comprehend it in any systematized generalization.—Everything in Life contradicts everything else: Science is by far more consistent.
“But,” Obojanski asked, “to what am I to ascribe your return?”
“To Smilowicz.”
“I don’t mean that. There must have been something deeper down—some change in your mind and views, eh?”
He no doubt expected to hear some romantic phrases about the barrenness of life spent as in those years, and of its failure to give me happiness.
Instead of which, I made him this unforeseen reply:
“Well, on the whole, it is because I prefer to return to you whom I have left, rather than to the Church!”
And Obojanski eyed me in bewilderment.
Endnotes
-
When the brute’s gorged, an angel wakes within it. ↩
Colophon
Women
was published in by
Zofia Nałkowska.
It was translated from Polish in by
Michael Henry Dziewicki.
This ebook was produced for
Standard Ebooks
by
Robin Whittleton,
and is based on a transcription produced in by
Richard Tonsing and Distributed Proofreaders
for
Project Gutenberg
and on digital scans from the
Internet Archive.
The cover page is adapted from
Female Portrait,
a painting completed in by
Boris Grigoriev.
The cover and title pages feature the
League Spartan and Sorts Mill Goudy
typefaces created in and by
The League of Moveable Type.
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