His first words on entering are: “My sister sends you her greetings: she wanted to come with me, but I was afraid to take her. It is so long a journey, and the roads are in so bad a state now.”
He pays court both to Martha and to myself with equal politeness; with her he is more serious, with me more gallant. Which is the proper thing, as I am a visitor in the neighbourhood.
I am all but enchanted, and my eyes are continually fixed on him. And yet at the same time I know that this paragon of a man could never succeed in winning my love. From a physical point of view, I care even less for him than for Roslawski. This, I suppose, is precisely on account of his marvellous beauty, which may draw off my attention from him as a man and an intelligent being. I could gaze with just as much enthusiasm on his portrait.
We go out to inspect some new kinds of ornamental shrubs which Martha has recently had planted in the park. Janusz walks with me; Imszanski with Martha, a few paces before us.
These two make a pretty picture, on which I like to gaze. In this grand old park, they remind me of the days of yore, and the knights and their ladyloves. Martha, I remark, has a style and breeding that I lack. To help her over a plash of water, Imszanski gives her his hand. She gathers up her dress, just revealing her neat and shapely ankles. The pair are just like dancers in a minuet, and so handsome that I cannot find it in my heart to envy them.
Janusz walks at my side like a shadow, and follows my glances with eyes ablaze.
“A fine man, Imszanski: you like him, don’t you?” he asks. “But,” he goes on to say, “I don’t advise you to try your hand on him: he is another’s. Has loved long and hopelessly.”
“Has he?”
“When in Warsaw, he went the length of attempting suicide—unsuccessfully, I need not say.”
“But this love of his, is it not only hopeless, but unrequited too?”
“Well, he proposed—and was refused. But that’s no wonder. Such a man should never marry; a whole seraglio would not be enough for him.”
“H’m, yes; that would be quite in his line. Who is the girl? Does she live near?”
“Yes, she does.”
“And who may she be? Please tell me. Was she at the Sedniewski party?”
“Don’t ask; I must not tell. It has been kept secret.”
“But did anybody confide in you?”
“Why, no.”
“Then I have as much right to know as you have. I am awfully curious, and wonder at the girl’s taste. … Do I know her?”
He holds out for some time, but in the end I disarm him: though in the way I dislike most and very seldom employ, … by wheedling and coaxing him. The secret shall go down to the grave with me, I promise him. He hesitates awhile; then says in an undertone:
“Martha.”
I do my best to conceal my unbounded astonishment under some commonplace expressions of faint surprise. I obviously have not the slightest intention to keep my word: I will ask Martha about the whole business. Can she possibly not be in love with such a Phoenix? Can she too have found him undesirable because of that beauty of his?
During supper I watch her closely, and see in her face that very same pallor, that very look of weariness and constraint that she was wearing in Topolow. No, his love is certainly not unrequited.
I have no fondness, and consequently no fellow-feeling, for the girl: but now I am more interested than before in her theory of “Azoism.” I formerly thought she had taken it up as an apology for her life; now I see that her life itself compels her to profess it.
Imszanski himself is always the same, courteous and languidly good-humoured. He is talking with Martha’s grandfather about this year’s crops, and looking quite interested in the subject.
It is a cool windy autumn day. Clouds are floating close to the earth, rain is in the air, and no birds are seen. Along the woods stretch the fields, either already harrowed, or covered with dingy whitish stubble. Something has gone out of my life forever: I cannot get rid of the thought.
We three are riding together over the desolate plain. Janusz rides in front of us, playing acrobatic tricks on horseback, and really performing wonderful feats of agility.
But it is now ebb-tide with me. Those tight trousers, those raw leather boots of his—I hate them, and scorn myself for having let that sort of thing ever make any impression on me; assuredly there is nothing in all this that is worthy of scorn.
Autumn has come. That is all.
We come abreast upon the muddy highway, all three strangely sick at heart. In silence we ride on.
Latterly Janusz has altered very much. His face is pale; it is the face of a man lost in troubled thought. When we are by ourselves, he scarcely ever raises his eyes to mine; and his outbursts of energy resemble the frenzy of delirium. After the equestrian evolutions just performed, he looks wearied and gloomy, and his lips are closed fast as he rides.
Why is each of us thus? I alone can tell. Because Martha is thinking of Imszanski, and Janusz of me, and I am thinking of Roslawski. It is just like a novel: each of us as remote as one star is from another.
I got a postcard from Obojanski yesterday, saying he had come back; so I shall have to be off in four days. I must then see Roslawski, who has no doubt
