I haven’t worked much and not opened a book since I left; but I’ve thought a lot. Edouard’s conversation is extraordinarily interesting. He doesn’t speak to me much personally, though he pretends to treat me as his secretary; but I listen to him talking to the others; especially to Laura, with whom he likes discussing his ideas. You can’t imagine how much I learn by it. There are days when I say to myself that I ought to take notes; but I think I can remember it all. There are days when I long for you madly; I say to myself that it’s you who ought to be here; but I can’t be sorry for what’s happened to me, nor wish for anything to be different. At any rate, you may be sure that I never forget it’s thanks to you that I know Edouard and that it’s to you I owe my happiness. When you see me again, I think you’ll find me changed; I remain, nevertheless, and more faithfully and devotedly than ever
Bernard was much too spontaneous, too natural, too pure—he knew too little of Olivier, to suspect the flood of hideous feelings his letter would raise in his friend’s heart—a kind of tidal wave, in which pique, despair and rage were mingled. He felt himself supplanted in Bernard’s affection and in Edouard’s. The friendship of his two friends left no room for his. One sentence in particular of Bernard’s letter tortured him—a sentence which Bernard would never have written had he imagined all that Olivier read into it: “In the same room,” he repeated to himself—and the serpent of jealousy unrolled its abominable coils and writhed in his heart. “They sleep in the same room!” What did he not imagine? His mind filled with impure visions which he did not even try to banish. He was not jealous in particular either of Edouard or of Bernard; but of the two. He pictured each of them in turn or both simultaneously, and at the same time envied them. He received the letter one forenoon. “Ah! so that’s how it is …” he kept saying to himself all the rest of the day. That night the fiends of hell inhabited him. Early next morning he rushed off to Robert’s. The Comte de Passavant was waiting for him.
II
Edouard’s Journal: Little Boris
I have had no difficulty in finding little Boris. The day after our arrival, he appeared on the hotel terrace and began looking at the mountains through a telescope which stands outside, mounted on a swivel for the use of the tourists. I recognized him at once. A little girl, rather older than Boris, joined him after a short time. I was sitting near by in the drawing-room, of which the French window was standing open, and I did not lose a word of their conversation. Though I wanted very much to speak to him, I thought it more prudent to wait till I could make the acquaintance of the little girl’s mother—a Polish woman doctor, who is in charge of Boris and keeps very careful watch over him. Little Bronja is an exquisite creature; she must be about fifteen. She wears her fair hair in two thick plaits, which reach to her waist; the expression of her eyes and the sound of her voice are more angelic than human. I write down the two children’s conversation:
“Boris, Mamma had rather we didn’t touch the telescope. Won’t you come for a walk?”
“Yes, I will. No, I won’t.”
The two contradictory sentences were uttered in the same breath. Bronja only answered the second:
“Why not?”
“Because it’s too hot, it’s too cold.” He had come away from the telescope.
“Oh, Boris, do be nice! You know Mamma would like us to go out. Where’s your hat?”
“Vibroskomenopatof. Blaf blaf.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why do you say it?”
“So that you shouldn’t understand.”
“If it doesn’t mean anything, it doesn’t matter about not understanding it.”
“But if it did mean something, anyhow you wouldn’t be able to understand.”
“When one talks it’s in order to be understood.”
“Shall we play at making words in order to understand them only us?”
“First of all, try to speak good grammar.”
“My mamma can speak French, English, Romanian, Turkish, Polish, Italoscope, Perroquese and Xixitou.”
All this was said very fast, in a kind of lyrical ecstasy. Bronja began to laugh.
“Oh, Boris, why are you always saying things that aren’t true?”
“Why do you never believe what I say?”
“I believe it when it’s true.”
“How do you know when it’s true? I believed you the other day when you told me about the angels. I say, Bronja, do you think that, if I were to pray very hard, I should see them too?”
“Perhaps you’ll see them if you get out of the habit of telling lies, and if God wants to show them to you; but God won’t show them to you if you pray to him only for that. There are heaps of beautiful things we should see if we weren’t too naughty.”
“Bronja, you aren’t naughty; that’s why you can see the angels. I shall always be naughty.”
“Why don’t you try not to be? Shall we go
