The Secret Of The Talking Bird 1st Edition Amar

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The Secret Of The Talking Bird 1st Edition Amar Chitra
Katha Pvt Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Amar Chitra Katha Pvt
ISBN(s): 9788184825091, 8184825099
Edition: 1
File Details: PDF, 5.88 MB
Year: 2011
Language: english
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beseeching him, and saying over and over: “Kiss me, kiss me—now—
now—now!”
A moment before, a dress was still looming in the dark in front of
us; now we are quite alone. Our eyes have begun to make out the
shapes of things; we can discern the trees, and the long narrow strip
of pathway where we are walking between two hedges of quickset.
Black cloudlike shadows seem now to flee away, now to gather and
close upon us.
Suddenly a spasm of horrible unearthly dread clutches at my
heart.
“Good God! Look there!” I cry.
“What—what of it?”
I raise my hand to my eyes, and shudder all over with fear, and
press close to him.
“There—just beneath us, far, horribly far down—there is water!”
“Well, what of that? There is nothing to be frightened at. I know
the garden; it is only a brook which feeds the pond.”
“Let us go away—away at once. I saw it glitter through the leaves in
the dark: it was so strange! And so deep down: an abyss where I
never dreamed the ground sloped at all.”
“But we could not fall in: there is a stone barrier.”
“No matter,” I whisper, half-frantic with dread. “Let us go!”
We make the best of our way back. Janusz is silent, but I feel, as I
am holding to his arm, that he too is trembling. He might have
quieted me with the words: “Fear nothing by my side!” For but a
minute ago, I had boundless confidence in him. Now I know that he
can be frightened.
We hear the sounds of the harp and the violin, and a row of lit
windows shines on the pitch-black trees.
Janusz breaks the silence. “I have no fear in a forest at night; I fear
neither robbers nor wild beasts: but things one cannot explain are
not to my liking.”
Yes, I quite understand, and share the same dislike: but somehow I
had a fancy that....
 We dance merrily till morning; my painful impression has quite
faded.
As we return, we change places; Martha goes with her grandfather,
and I am with Janusz. Daybreak shows us a lovely landscape: hills
covered with dark woods, fields white with stubble. The sky grows
rosy, and we catch ever new glimpses of dim heights, of solitary pear-
trees scattered in the fields, of tall sombre poplars in rows, marking
the highways in the plain.
We travel long by a road full of deep holes; we climb the heights,
we go down into the valleys. All the country round is enchantingly
beautiful.
Up comes the sun, casting upon the road distinct mobile shadows,
lengthened out monstrously, of our two equipages and of our own
figures.
I feel stupefied after this sleepless night; my face is hot, my lips are
burning. Yet, and in spite of my plaid and the rugs, I shiver with cold,
I close my eyes and lean my head against the back of the carriage,
listening to the screaking wheels, to the trot of the snorting horses,
and to the timid chirruping of the birds, just roused by daylight.
Though awake, I am dreaming.
Janusz bends over me, and touches my lips with his in a gentle
kiss, as if he meant not to wake me.
I do not move at all, and pretend to sleep on, though well aware
that Janusz knows I am awake.
And now my golden morning—here it is!

On one of the last warm summer days, Martha and I go and bathe
together outside the park. When undressed, she is very pleasant to
look upon. She pretends to object, but puts on her bathing-dress so
deliberately that I can gaze quite at my ease. After having bathed in
the clear cool water, we return and lie down on the lush grass in the
park. We are surrounded by tall trunks, bare to a great height; far
above us their branches form a canopy of bright green verdure under
the blue sky.
“I wonder,” say I to her, “how plain people feel about themselves.
With us, comeliness is such a matter of course!... If I were to lose my
good looks, or even my knowledge that I am good-looking, I really
think I could not bear life.... It is that alone which gives me strength
in presence of others. I go out in the full glare of day without a
sunshade; in company, I sit with my face turned straight to the
lamplight; I walk in the crowd, with head erect, fearing no one,
abashed by no one—simply because I know that the sight of me must
cause pleasure.... If I am good-natured, it is because of my good
looks. I hate nobody, envy nobody, and am filled with a sort of
Pagan, sunshiny, royal love for all.”
“And which of us two do you think is prettier?” asks Martha.
“I don’t know.... In reality, each of us thinks herself prettier; but
we are both too cultured ever to have tried conclusions on that
subject.”
Strictly speaking, I am not so fair as she: but then, she is less
graceful than I. Besides, my eyes have a golden tint, such as no other
girls have, so far as I know.

I often walk a few versts with Martha, as far as the “Kirkut,” or

Jewish cemetery.
There they stand, the hewn gravestones, in long parallel upright
rows. Upon them you may see cabalistic signs and symbols; a lion, a
broken taper, or a shelf of books; and certain embellishments that
might almost be styled “decadent.” The graves, overgrown with
moss, heather, and wild thyme, are nearly level with the rest of the
ground. The wooden inclosure, over which we always have to climb,
is lost in the woods among the pine-trunks; and those long regular
rows of stones raise their heads in a forest elsewhere untouched by
man. Here, I feel as though I had gone far back into the dim
immemorial Past.
I love that burial-ground; I love to contemplate Life trampling
upon Death; and as I gaze, I cease to fear Death any more. Death
makes away with the individual only, with the accidental
manifestations of Life: Life itself remains. I see myself standing for
the whole of mankind, and identical with Life. I always was; I shall
be everlasting.... Death is slumbering quietly beneath my feet.
And with that a delightful sense, as it were of infinite might, comes
over me. To my power, to my continuance, I can find no limit. I am
not of the earth, I am not Janka Dernowicz; I am eternal, unsleeping
consciousness; I am the Universe! In this burial-ground, Janusz
grows dismal, and holds forth on the evanescence of all earthly
things. A beautiful animal which lives in fear of Death!
What if it be true that animals have no souls?

At times I experience the pangs of an entirely unjustified longing

for the man who came into my life and went out of it like a hurricane.
Yes, now and again I long for my ice-plains and my Northern Lights!
Once he asked me whether I should never wish to feel and think
and strive along with some companion in life.
Then I burst into laughter; for I hate sentiment—hate to mix up
love and “brotherhood of souls.”
Now I am near thinking that this man, whom I never loved, may be
the only one fit to become my husband.
Often of nights, lying awake and staring into the darkness with
wide-open eyes, I feel burning lips, lips famished with hunger, that
are pressed to mine....
And when I seize the kiss upon those lips, I know that they are the
lips, not of Roslawski, but of Janusz.
And then I am full of terror lest an evil thing has been done that
never can be undone—lest something may have fallen away for ever
out of my life.
Then do I no longer feel any desire for any one; and I weep in the
dark, but silently, not to awaken Martha.
In the morning, I look upon Janusz with hatred and with loathing;
and I treat him harshly, though he is indeed in no wise to blame. I
merely use him ill, because my soul is a-wandering alone over those
ice-plains of mine, is still dreaming cold silvery dreams, is seeking in
vain for a fraternal soul.
Is it then really an impossibility to be in love without loving also?

While out shooting to-day, Janusz had just such a gleam in his
eyes as he has when he gloats on me.
 He is a typical primitive man of a nomad race of hunters, in whom
the instinct of conservation manifests itself as vehemently when
procuring his own subsistence as when acting for the preservation of
the race. Game is to him a vital necessity; so is woman.
I was sorry for the hares he had killed and lectured him with great
unction on man’s cruelty in taking the lives of such defenceless
innocent creatures.
Just now I was thinking how I should like to lock Janusz up in a
nice cage, and have him all to myself. I should give him plenty of
food, but neither let him read (that prohibition he would not find
very hard) nor talk to any one; so that he, with all his treasures of
vitality, might be mine alone. And occasionally I should enter the
cage.
I should then be far more spiritually disposed than I am now. At
present, my splendid, primitive, untamed beast is hungry and
howling, and mars the divine symphony I listen to in my dreams of
light.
I should appease it, and go out to walk in my sacred grove, along
the margin of the dark abysmal lake which is in my soul.
And I should willingly have Roslawski to walk with me there!

Janusz has asked me if I would consent to become his wife.

“If only for a month or two, I would with pleasure,” was my
truthful reply, which I afterwards turned into a jest: not a nice one, I
must say.
Janusz darted one or two angry looks at me, and gave vent to this
aphorism: “There are things one should never jest about.”
Most certainly he is right. And all this begins to worry me just a
little.
I might perhaps fancy myself playing the part of his seductress; of
his wife, never. And what to do with him now, I can’t tell.
I should like to go away now. Oh, why has all this come about so
suddenly?
 Out boating late in the evening, on the great pond beyond the
park.
I have consented to come here, for I am so wretched, I want to die.
And I know that Janusz, whom I have been tormenting all day long,
can no longer control himself.
His nerves are racked to the very utmost; it is my doing. He
clutches me by the shoulders and holds me down to the side of the
boat with an iron grip. To get the better of his mad fit, I keep myself
very passive and cool.
“Hear me, Janka!” he growls between his teeth, his face close to
mine, “you! listen: I am speaking for the last time. Say Yes!”
I could disarm him with a single cry of pain or fear: but I remain
mute. I must have strong sensations to-night.
“I’ll kill—I’ll kill you! Do you hear? I hate you as much as I love
you, and more. Speak instantly—speak!”
His rage is suffocating him; the words stick in his throat. His knee
is pressed hard upon my bosom; his nails dig deep into my flesh.
With all my strength I stifle a groan, and wait. The boat is careening
over more and more, and begins to be water-logged.
“I shall drown you! See, the boat is about to go down! Say Yes!”
Quietly, silently, I look into his wild burning eyes, of which the
whites gleam through the darkness and fascinate me.
For an instant I have a desire to close my eyelids and disappear,
sinking noiselessly into the dark water. My eyes nevertheless
instinctively encounter his.
Suddenly I feel that the grip of his clenched hands is growing
weaker.
Now sure of victory, I whisper, “No!” with a smile.
Janusz, uttering a cry of pain, falls back into the boat. He presses
his forehead hard against my feet which he covers with kisses, and is
swept by a storm of convulsive sobs. The boat recovers her balance,
and rocks up and down violently.
But I am the reverse of elated by my victory. For now I can no
longer believe in the omnipotence of mere physical strength, which
has just shown itself less mighty than the power of Mind.
 Had Janusz continued to grapple with me thus for a few seconds
more, I think I might have given way to him. And now I envy him the
incomparable joy of acknowledging my predominance.
The warrior does not delight in triumphing over one less strong,
but in confessing the power of him that has been found stronger, and
by whom he has been overcome.
Over this writhing figure, shaken with sobs that grow fainter and
fainter with fatigue, I look out far into the night. No moon, not a star.
And the rushes along the shore keep up an incessant rustling.
And the dark lake, my soul, is looking up with unseeing eyes to the
dark sky.
All around is dead: no life anywhere. Nothing remains but my
loneliness—the unbounded loneliness of my strength, self-centred
and unparalleled.
Never yet have I felt my power so strongly, and never yet has it
made me so sad.
The black sky bends its lowering vault above me; under its clouds
the black pond lifts up swelling waves. Between the Infinite and my
soul, there is nowhere any room for strength.
Oh, “I am so weary, weary of these heights!” How I desire to meet
with a force able to subdue mine!
“Pray, Janusz, pray get up,” I say, gently stroking his hair; “I beg
you, rise; it must be very late. Where are the oars?”
I am lying in the hollow between two rows of graves, breathing the
perfume of the white forest gilliflowers, abloom in the “Kirkut,” and
thinking of life—of this most admirable and most beautiful marvel,
life. I am explaining to Martha how my worship of life is really the
outcome of resignation.
“But in me resignation has taken a form that it has not in you. ‘If I
cannot have all, I refuse to have anything;’ such is the creed of
despairing pride, held by slaves and wretched men. My belief in
Azoism is nothing but the creed of a proud woman, who is reconciled
to her slavery, and will take up no spurious imitations of freedom.
Such a withdrawal from the vortex we live in, enabling me to look on
all things as Garborg does, from above them, and with a smile of
dignified amenity—this is what I love. It often seems to me, so little I
feel adapted for my life on earth, that I have somehow wandered
hither by a mischance, a blunder.”
“It is well,” says Martha. “Adaptation to environment is of avail
only to brute animals: man can make his own world by viewing it in
his own special way.
“I,” she goes on to say sadly, “believe in nothing. And yet women in
general are inclined to have faith in an existence after death. It is
simply an outcome of sympathy with suffering, and of an instinct of
justice. You know how the thought of useless suffering in nature
makes me beside myself. Think of all those silent agonies which
never will be known; of those tortures endured throughout the world
by multitudes that leave no trace behind them.... When but a little
boy, Janusz once focussed the sun’s rays on a little insect he had
fastened by its wing, and which was writhing in impotent throes. I
can still see those poor limbs, red in the glow, quivering in
excruciating pain, until I snatched the lens away from Janusz, and
set the half-roasted creature free.... Those were its last impressions of
life: after them came—Nothingness! I can see all the tiny invisible
beings that I slay by hundreds in my daily walks, trampling them
down in the long grass or under the pine-needles, and unwittingly
leaving them to expire in the most dreadful torments, perhaps drawn
out for many an hour.... I know, too, of the pain which fishes
undergo, often kept living in the air for whole days, and seen to move
convulsively, even when on the fire.... All this pain, and nothing to
justify, nothing to compensate it! This I know; for beyond death
there is nothing!”
“But did it never strike you that, if there is nothing beyond death,
it is impossible for nothingness to be there?”
She looks at me inquiringly.
“The ideas of justice, of vengeance, of compensation, are purely of
this earth, though they once formed a religious ideal in the worship
of Jehovah. I put them in the same category as the concept of mercy,
now prevailing amongst Christians. Some other idea will spring up
later, equally foreign to that of existence beyond the grave.”
“Well, and what do you infer from that?”
“My belief is, that the phenomenon called death consists in our
losing all sensations, ‘categories,’ concepts and all projections (so to
speak) of this our world; and in our finding other sensations in the
next. Perhaps not even that. For in the next world, just as there will
be no idea of justice, so there may be none of sensations. Do you
follow me?”
“So you think you shall continue to exist then?”
“I cannot say—I cannot say.”
For a few minutes I listen to the undertone of the pine-trees,
sounding far above us in the sky.
“You see,” I continue, “there, it may well be, we shall have no idea
of an Ego which excludes and contradicts the Non-Ego. The
distinction between them has arisen from the fact of our existence
upon earth: it is a form into which we mould our impressions;
something purely accidental, depending upon the quality and
mechanism of the brain.... There, too, the idea of Time may be
wanting; also that of Space. Of course, from our earthly point of view,
it is nonsense to say that the world is boundless: that which the brain
calls ‘the Infinite’ cannot be represented in imagination as space.
Truly, there are times when I simply feel admiration for a God who
has created so great and endlessly complicated a scheme of beings.”
Martha’s disappointment is plain to perceive.
“So then you believe in God?”
“I do not know, and do not trouble about it. It is not likely the
ideas of creation out of nothing, of sovereignty as opposed to
subjection, of volition as opposed to passiveness, have any
counterpart out of our minds.... Notice, Martha, that in my view the
expression, ‘Transcendental Being,’ implies a contradiction. Our very
idea of Being is a mere outcome of experience: and I go so far beyond
Nature, I leap so completely out of my human skin, that I can force
myself to the contemplation of an unimaginable world, in which
there is no contradiction between Being and Non-Being....
“Therefore, I do not trouble whether I shall in that world be myself
or not myself: nor even whether I shall be or not be....”
She gazes at me, her eyes wide open, and says under her breath:
“Yes, I see.”
“And, do you know, the capacity of thus abstracting one’s thought
itself from its outward form, of looking upon the universe and one’s
very thought from such a standpoint, sets one on heights
incomprehensibly sublime, and gives the purest, the most unearthly
delight.”
... There is a black cat here, with eyes like emeralds; it ranges
noiselessly amongst the rows of gravestones. A singularly sociable
creature; it follows us everywhere in our walks, like a dog.... When I
look at it, I cannot help believing in Metempsychosis: there must
dwell within this cat some very refined aristocratic soul, one that
looks upon everything with supreme scepticism.
“What is the matter, Martha?”
“Nothing. I have only dropped a hairpin.”
A tortoise-shell pin has fallen out of her thick black tresses, and
dropped on to the earth with a faint sound.
Martha is just now in a very lofty mood. This real world of ours
strikes her as a contrast, ridiculous in its littleness, to the world we
are speaking of. So she does not wish me to pick up that pin, though
it has dropped quite close to me on the heather. To my mind this is
too high-flown, too girlish. After all, the realities of life are
paramount, and we ought to have so much intellectual culture as
never to forget it.
Wherefore I give her the pin, smiling very sarcastically.
“After all,” I conclude, rising from the hollow ridge and preparing
to walk home, “I quite understand that what I have said amounts to
the same as belief in nothing. It is all the same to me whether I shall
cease to be after death, or be transferred to a world wherein there is
no idea of being, or of any Ego, conditioning my self-consciousness. I
understand, too, that a world in which Being does not contradict
Non-Being, is to our minds equivalent to no world at all. So that my
faith is similar to your unfaith, but inferred and formulated
otherwise.”

Janusz is very humble and wretched now. Sometimes, when we sit

long together of an evening, he will fall asleep with his head in my
lap, worn out with nervous exhaustion. And then I am face to face
with something very strange.
 I feel a mysterious dread of the torment of an everlasting vigil,
together with a sense of responsibility beyond my strength. Yet I do
not wake him, although I am shuddering with dread; I will not let
him know that I am afraid!... There are certain things one should not
speak about to children.... That I love solitude when alone, but that
the feeling of solitude when some one is by me, fills me with
unspeakable dread, for then I hear my soul uttering her triumphant
laugh: this I would never confess to him.
Vigorous I am, and able to struggle for a long time. But even for
warriors there come moments when they trustfully lay their tired
heads on some one’s lap; when they feel secure in the knowledge of
some one above them, watching over them, standing between them
and their foes, between them and the Infinite, the Unknown.
Is there any man in the world who could thus lull my watchfulness
to sleep? There is one, only one. But the price I should pay would be
all that makes life charming.
When Janusz is sleeping on my lap, I then invariably think of—
Roslawski.

As a rule, it is from a novelist’s or an artist’s standpoint—from

without and objectively—that I view whatever happens in my life;
consciously throwing all my impressions into the form of sentences,
rounded and complete, often affected and unnatural; and in
everything I say, think, or do, seeking for dramatic, literary, or
picturesque effects. This peculiarity I hold for one of the tragic sides
of my life, since it almost entirely robs my impressions of their
directness.
People sometimes blame me for being mannered, for
attitudinizing, for performing everything with artifice, whether I
make a bow or do my hair. And I fully admit they are right. But then,
artificiality comes naturally to me. Every motion, every smile of mine
is present to me before it is elicited: it is scrutinized and judged by
me, as though I were some one else. For me, there is no present; I
look at all things from out of the Future: there are no involuntary
bursts of thought, no inarticulate words or mechanical gestures for
me. And should I try to behave with apparent artlessness, I should
then be artificial twice over.
 This afternoon a carriage, covered with mud, and drawn by a
couple of splendid sorrel horses, pulls up in front of our terrace.
Imszanski jumps out, throwing the reins to the groom, who sits
behind. Janusz welcomes him, and he slowly comes up the steps. He
has driven thirty-five miles, but his impassive features bear not the
slightest trace of fatigue.
He improves upon acquaintance. Beyond all doubt, he is the
handsomest man I know: a great point in his favour. His movements,
characterized by a certain graceful languor, betray his noble descent;
in his bright eyes there is to be seen continual concentrated thought
and tranquil, half-forgotten sorrow. He has every accomplishment,
talks interestingly, elegantly, with literary turns and expressions; he
has at his call every variety of smile but never laughs outright.
Considerate restraint is his speciality.
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 lady-loves. 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 Phœnix?
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 post-card 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 returned to Warsaw by now. A fever of impatience
possesses me.
On my return, I lie down on the drawing-room sofa, still in my
riding-habit.
Martha, as usual, is journeying from pantry to cellar, Janusz has
gone to dress for supper; “Grandfather” is probably asleep in some
nook. I feel maddened with impatience at the thought of seeing Him
again. I tear my hair, sobbing noiselessly and without tears.
My misery is at its height. And now, besides, I feel this: that I am
sorry to go away—sorry for Janusz. Something there is within me,
tearing at my soul—tearing it to bits, to shreds, to tatters.
I hear Janusz coming, take up an easy recumbent attitude, without
rising from the sofa, and arrange my hair.
“What! you here already?” I remark in a peevishly flippant tone of
inquiry.
He does not reply, but draws near with noiseless reverent steps, in
an attitude of supreme worship, such as an idolator may pay to the
idol he distractedly adores. Kneeling down before me, he gently takes
my hands and presses them to his brow. I do not withdraw them. I
lean forwards instinctively.
“Janka, listen,” he says tenderly, in a voice that trembles with
suppressed emotion; “say that you will be my wife; say so, my dear....
You know what you have made of me.... You laughed at me for my
sober-mindedness, my shallow outlook upon life, my thoughtless joie
de vivre. Now I am quite different.... Now I am like you, and like the
rest of your set.... Could I ever, in the old days, have thought it
possible that I should become like a child—crying my eyes out at the
thought of your going away, Janka? I have nothing in the world to
console me but you ... Janka, since you told me you were sorry for
the hares I had killed, I have not gone out shooting any more.... Oh, I
shall not struggle with you, I should not get the mastery; but as your
slave, I beg you, I entreat you, be my wife! Oh, my adorable lady, my
most sweet one, say but that you will! You will be happy; you will see
me do everything, everything to please you.... You will live like a
princess.... If you will not give me this assurance, I shall go to ruin,
indeed I shall. Janka, I will leave the University without taking my
degree.... I will follow you everywhere on earth. Martha, too; does
she not love you? And does it matter to you if you say Yes now?
Nothing hinders you from saying the word; I even think you love me
just a little.... Oh, Janka, Janka!”
He ends with a burst of tears. My head bends down to his, and we
both weep together. In turns I am rent by compassion for him and by
my longing for Roslawski. I kiss his black silky curls, and we cry like
children.
Finally we agree that I shall go to Warsaw “to take counsel with my
family and with my own heart”; and I am to give him a definite
answer in a month’s time.
By then I shall surely have seen Roslawski—and everything will
have been settled: for life or for death.

Every morning, the trees in the park are now white with hoarfrost,
and we find the threshing-floor in the barn covered with many a
steel-blue swallow, lying frozen to death. The stoves are heated, the
windows hermetically closed (for the time being), and, though
autumn has but just commenced, we are in winter quarters already.
In the calm white country house, sleep reigns supreme.
The wild wind howls through the sombre shrubberies, and sweeps
showers of drifting leaves, green but frost-bitten, along the walls of
the park. Through the windows I look out into the cold bleak night, a
night of desolation and evil omen: such a night as one might expect
to bring us mysterious half-frozen travellers who have lost their way;
and on this very night they should come knocking at the door. The
old, faithful, superstitious servants should mutter the saying: “Some
one has hanged himself, the wind is so high,” and the dogs should
howl together mournfully.
There is no light save in one window, by which, through the broad
chinks in the shutters, its bright streaks filter out into the park. The
maids are there, keeping vigil as usual; Janusz and the old man have
gone to bed and have long been asleep.
Around there breathes that stillness and quiet sense of security
which a winter night is wont to bring with it—an atmosphere of
repose.
 I am kneeling by the fire, in a plain dressing-gown, with my hands
clasped behind my head, and my eyes fixed upon the flames. Flashes
of red light up my dark face and my chestnut hair. Now and then I
put big logs on the fire from the heap close at hand; I like to resemble
a vestal virgin.
Martha, partly undressed and without her corset, lies dejectedly
smoking a cigarette on a rose-coloured couch, not looking in my
direction.
She absent-mindedly strokes a cat, which lies close to her and
purrs loudly, pretending to be pleased but cross in fact, because she
wants to sleep, and Martha prevents her.
“I shall be so bored when you leave us, Janka,” she says. “There
will be a sad void all over the place.”
“Then come with me to Warsaw.”
“Somebody must remain to keep house at Klosow; besides,
Grandfather cannot be left alone. I shall not be free till after a year’s
time, when Janusz has finished his course of agronomy.”
“Do you know, Martha, you remind me of a heroine in an old-
fashioned novel and I don’t care for variety. You are too goody-
goody. Such a pity as it is to waste a year of one’s youth.... You may
quite well leave everything to the steward’s care.... Remember, you
will soon be twenty-five, and life never goes back.”
“But I am glad—how glad!—that it does not.”
“That’s a pose, or a mere high-flown mood. You love life in spite of
all.”
Turning towards her, I meet her earnest gaze—calm, and yet, oh!
how mournful!
“I hate life, Janka!” she replies.
Silence follows. The cat leaps from off the couch, stretches herself,
and makes for the fireplace with leisurely velvet tread. She rubs
herself against me, lies down in the full glare of the hearth, and
instantly falls asleep.
“Once,” Martha continues, “I saw them kill a black sheep, as I had
told them to do. A clean-shaven old farm-labourer first tied its legs,
and then sharpened his knife on a whetstone for a long time. Finally,
he turned its beautiful tapering head on one side, and deliberately,
skilfully, drew the knife backwards and forwards across its throat.
And the poor animal did not so much as shrink: never did it once
bleat, or show the least sign of reluctance. I wanted to run away, or
cover my eyes, or at least turn from the sight: but I forced myself to
undergo that internal agony, in order to atone for the quiet death of
that meek, harmless beast. I asked the labourer afterwards whether
he was not sorry for killing it. He answered me: ‘Why should I be? It
was my lady’s order. I would cut a man’s throat for her, if she told me
to.’
“Once my threshing-machine killed a man. Corn had been stolen,
and I had to watch the men by myself, the steward being away at the
time. They had stolen it, because I had more than they.... I remember
the man leaning forwards incautiously—a horrible cry—a dull
grinding sound—and a sudden silence. The machine had stopped;
out of it they took only a bleeding mass. I made the dead man’s
widow a life-pension, and saw to the bringing up of the children. And
because of that, they call me benefactress and angel!
“Or again. A woman of seventeen died in childbed. Three days and
three nights she lay howling in the farm-servants’ quarters, howling
like a wounded beast, so that I could hear her even in my own room.
Well, she died at last; but the boy survived. He is now three years old,
he laughs in the sunshine, cuts earthworms to pieces for a pastime,
and tears off cockchafers’ legs.
“Kosa, a peasant here, had a son who was dying slowly of
consumption. The priest was sent for, and brought him the last
sacraments. Outside the hut, he had to bargain with Kosa about the
burial fees.
“Once, in our pond, the loathsome swollen corpse of a new-born
child came floating to the surface. What harm had it ever done?
Possibly it was put to death because its life of a day or two had made
it the instrument of some wrong done!
“Janka, I hate life!”
“Listen,” I say, casting my eyes down. “I—I don’t know how to
begin; that is, I wanted to tell you that it may be I am leaving you
only for a short time. In a few weeks, I shall perhaps be here again.”
“I wish you would,” she replies. “Janusz is in a pitiful state.”
 Another pause ensues. I am thinking how far indeed I am from
such a wish; and I feel something rising in my throat. Suddenly I
decide to speak now.
“Martha,” I say, “tell me the reason why you refused Imszanski.”
She starts, and stares at me with eyes like a frightened deer’s.
“Fear nothing,” I say, reassuringly. “You must not think I shall
inflict compassion on you; I am only calmly and objectively
interested. Tell me: can you possibly not be in love with so amazingly
handsome a man?”
She is silent a while, debating with herself; and then:
“Yes, I was in love with him,” she replies, in a calm low voice.
“Well, and have you sacrificed your happiness to that abstract
theory of yours?”
Another pause.
“Not exactly.... The fact is that I simply could not bear to think I
had not been his only love.”
There she stops, but I feel she is only waiting for me to question
her further: this is the moment when she must lay bare to me what
she has hitherto, with her wonted secretiveness, concealed from
every eye. Yet I refrain from questions.
Again she speaks, slowly and as one that looks back on memories
that are still fresh: “We often spent the winter evenings together. His
soul was the thing nearest and dearest to me on earth, but I loved
him yet more because his eyes were so mournful and his lips so fine.
“He may have been too outspoken: he desired I should know all
about him, before I plighted my troth. I wish I had known nothing;
there is bliss only where there is ignorance.... For there have been
some instants of forgetfulness; and these have given me an inkling of
what my happiness would have been—how immense, how incredible
—had I been his only love in the past, as I am (it yet may be) his only
love in the present.
“It was on a most beautiful winter’s night, silvery in the
moonbeams, that I saw it pass before me, that long procession of
women, fair as the flowers of spring: ‘a connoisseur in women’ is
what they call him. A whole garden of red flowers sprang up in the
snowy wilderness, shining afar like a great pool of gore. I closed my
eyes with the torture of the sight.
“If it be true that love consists of happiness and delight, then all
this delight ought to have been mine: and Life had taken it from me:
not to give it to others, but just to throw it away (ah! the crime of it!)
to fritter it away amongst a multitude of delights that might have
been. For indeed, what would have made my bliss was a wrong
inflicted upon others, in the form of compulsion and shame, the
torment of humiliation, the infringement of their right to live,
hurling them into an abyss of misery and abandonment, and closing
the gates against their return to a happier state:—all these deeds of
wrong-doing were acts that might have given me bliss!...
“Now, it came that in one of those moments of oblivion, when I felt
I was happy, I told him I would be his affianced wife.
“Then he gathered me in his arms—Oh, with what a movement,
admirable in its tenderness—and pressed me gently to his heart, that
he might kiss my lips.
“And then came the most astonishing instant in all my life. I had,
to put it simply, a vision. Upon his lips I saw blood—clotted, dried
blood—the ashes as it were of thousands and thousands of kisses. It
was neither loathing nor hatred that I felt; only an exceeding horror
for what is as much against Nature as was any elaborate excruciating
torture of Mediæval times—as a crime committed in secret and
hidden under flowers to conceal its every trace. And from beneath
those flowers—a sea of them there was—I seemed to hear the groans
as it were of those slain at some banquet of Heliogabalus: or rather I
heard laughter, artificial, forced, metallic laughter—the laughter
which ‘women of that sort’ always utter, it being the paid merriment
to which they are bound:—such a laugh as breaks off suddenly,
abruptly, as though startled at its own sound. And I saw my white
lilies plunged in that sea of tainted blood!
“So I repulsed him, as I would have repulsed a foe. And here,” she
concluded suddenly, in a falsetto of spasmodic laughter, “here my
little idyll comes to an end.”
“But do you love the man still?”
“I do.”
 From the farmyard comes the crowing of a cock: as a key that
grates in a rusty lock, it grates on our ears. Dawn is here.

I like the man; or it may be that I rather like his surroundings,

inseparably connected in thought with him. I like those rooms of
severe aspect, with their high ceilings, and shelves which are nearly
as high filled with books, all in regular order and bound in black. I
like the great table in the centre, lit up with bright lamps, and strewn
with periodicals in every language. I like, too, those heavy,
comfortable, leather-covered arm-chairs which stand round it.
Obojanski also I like, who in this environment is a handsome man,
with grey hair and eyes dark and youthful.
Formerly my professor, Obojanski has been extremely useful to me
in my studies. The profit I have derived from him is, however, chiefly
negative, from the critical side of his teaching. It still pleases him, in
our mutual relations, to take up the attitude of a master.
Generally I come to him late in the evening, dressed in black, in
the style of “la dame voilée.” If he is working, I sit with him, and set
to reading some interesting book: but we mostly converse together,
and invariably of serious things.
Obojanski is an old bachelor, and objects to women as a rule. “The
idea of emancipation, possibly not quite unreasonable in principle,
has been misunderstood and warped from its true meaning by the
women themselves. For instance, they are not content with equality
in the field of economics; they want to have the same freedom in
their conduct as is enjoyed by men. A fine place the world would be,
if they had! And, as concerns the admission of women to the higher
studies, this is absolutely superfluous: a woman’s brain is not able to
think with the logical accuracy which these require.”
“As to this last,” I reply, “a census of the sexes would not, I think,
be desirable. It may well be doubted, not only whether all males, but
whether all learned men, are capable of accurate logical reasoning.”
“Oh, of course, exceptions are everywhere to be found,” he answers
gravely, with his own peculiar directness of mental association.
To his mind, I am among women one of those exceptions. He is
never scandalized at my late visits; perhaps only for the reason that
my visits are made to him. He is withal full of respect for my
intellectual capacity, which he thinks due to him. For him, I am the
one woman who can talk reasonably.
For my own part, I do not consider myself to be clever merely for
being able to draw a logical conclusion from two premises. What I
call cleverness is the faculty of understanding all things, and of
wondering at none; that of setting aside all preconceived ideas and
doctrines, by reason of which men have set up “categories,” and of
giving up accepted forms of thinking, that seem to be, but are not,
necessary to thought; the faculty of getting out of oneself, and
viewing both oneself and everything else from without and
objectively.
I sit down in one of the high-backed arm-chairs, and begin to talk
about some abstruse subject or other, but making every endeavour to
lead the conversation round to Roslawski.
“Do you know London?” I ask.
“Oh, yes; I was there; a long time ago, when I had just finished my
University studies.”
“I think Roslawski went there for about six months.”
“Yes, and he is there still.”
My strength has just been put to the test, and I am satisfied. The
news I hear neither makes my lips tremble, nor dims my dark-golden
eyes with the slightest mist. But I am careful not to pretend either
indifference or special good humour. Obojanski, in spite of his weak
points, is no mean expert in the knowledge of human nature.
“Indeed! Why, I was informed he had returned to Warsaw
already.”
“No. I am expecting him about the middle of this month. He is a
nice fellow, is he not? We three got on very well together.”
“I hope you don’t mean that we two do not get on well,” I answer,
smiling amiably.
He shows me a post-card that he has got from Roslawski: water,
some shipping, and an ugly building ashore, with innumerable
windows. I for the first time see his handwriting: sloping, not very
legible; nothing much out of the ordinary. I should like to press it to
my lips, which would be a piece of highly unjustifiable
sentimentalism.
 Greatly as I want to go home, and—like a child—have “a good cry”
all by myself, I stay on there for some time. Obojanski offers me
several books, dealing mostly with matters zoölogical. I of course try
to excuse myself as best I can. At last, he lectures me on the way I am
wasting my talents, and says that my mind, “if deprived of
intellectual nourishment, will pine away.”
“But, Professor,” I point out, not without a touch of pride, “I really
am not at all naturally fitted to be a woman of scientific
attainments.”
“Ah, but have a little faith in yourself; you ought to. Truly, science
is your exclusive vocation; but you must work; you need to work a
good deal. With your abilities....”
I go home, taking the books with me. My room is dark and dreary
and solitary. I am most bitterly disappointed.

I have done a silly thing to-day.

A girl named Nierwiska works in the office with me. I like her best
of all, because she is the prettiest. Both her looks and her getup are in
rather consistent Japanese style; a style that makes her look limp
and drooping under the burden of her own hair. Now, on my return
from the holidays, I had noticed that she was much changed and
extremely dejected.
To-day, contrary to my custom, I left the office with her, and it
turned out that our way home was the same for a good distance.
Our conversation runs at first on indifferent matters. Nierwiska
answers briefly, in low tones, now and then casting a somewhat
suspicious glance towards me. Women have intuition; and she, less
cultured than Martha, is averse to purely objective curiosity. I feel
that, at any question too bluntly put, she will shut her lips fast,
shrink back into herself, and close up like a mimosa leaf; and this
makes me doubly cautious. Our talk turns upon the general lot of
women who earn their bread.
“Those who are forced to work for their livelihood,” she says in
musical tones, “are apt to fall into a chronic state of dreariness, even
when no real and tangible cause is there.”
 “You are right. Certainly, there are people who cannot understand
how it is possible to feel sad, so long as no harm is done them. But
for us, life itself is an evil; it harms us.”
“Because of the work we have to do.”
“Then don’t you like your work?”
“On the contrary. I should like it, but....”
“Well, but what?”
“In general, I can work with a pretty good will; but just now I am
so weary and so upset....”
We are now in front of the house where Nierwiska is living. As we
take leave of each other, I draw her into the doorway, and ask her in
a whisper:
“You are in love, are you not?”
She starts away from me in a flutter of shyness. I stroke her hand
soothingly.
“And things don’t go smoothly, eh? Tell me.”
She hangs her head, and replies, in an earnest childlike tone:
“No, they do not.”
“What! does he not love you?”
“Perhaps he does—just a little. But I must tell you, with me, self-
respect comes first of all.... I cannot.... Even should I be forced to
break it all off, I will have nothing to blush for.”
I look at her attentively, not without surprise: till now, I had not
known her to be of this stamp.
“As for me,” I suddenly burst out, “as for me,—if the man who
ruined my life, and took his leave without even a smile or a kind
word of farewell, were only to beckon me to him to-day, I would at
once follow him like a lamb!”
Then, in the rough, free and easy way of comrades at work, I bid
her good-bye with a hand-shake, and walk swiftly away from her
door, depressed and uncomfortable; humbled, in a word.
And now, I am in a most vile humour. She has shown herself far
more clear-headed than I have. By means of a few commonplaces,
she has forced from me an avowal that I never would have made, no,
not even to Martha herself!... A pose,—in part at least,—that
prodigious self-respect of hers. All the same, she is sacrificing her
love to it.
Strange creatures they are! Take Martha’s case: purity! why, she
was raving about it.
Nothing should stand in my way, if I loved; and therefore no doubt
I cannot meet with love anywhere.
I often call upon Obojanski now, in the dim semi-conscious hope
that I may meet him there. And each of my visits is only a fresh
disappointment.
This “hope deferred” is working me up beyond all bearing; and the
bitterness of my suffering makes me long for him yet more
impatiently and more fondly. Really, I begin to believe that I love the
man.
I care no longer for songs, for dances, for flowers. I dream of a
strange life, a cold out-of-the-way life,—he and I together,—nay, a life
from which kisses should be shut out. I cannot tell why, but I
somehow fancy I could not bring myself to kiss that hard, firm-set
mouth. Nothing binds me to him—nothing but the sway of his keen,
icy glance. And yet, I live in the belief that he is destined to be mine,
that no one else shall be my husband.
I went to Obojanski to-day, in order to return to him (unread) a
monograph about some species of insect.
From the ante-room I could hear a man’s voice.
My heart gave a bound of joy, mingled with trepidation; it was
stilled again at once.
It was, as I presently found out, the voice of Smilowicz, a former
pupil of Obojanski: an ugly little man, who makes people laugh a
great deal, not by his wit, but by his queer, comical grimaces.
“I must begin by telling you quite frankly,” he says, turning to me,
“that at first sight I thought you hateful; you had all the outward
appearance of a fine lady. It was only when the Professor had
explained to me that you were an accountant and worked for your
living, that my hatred changed into sympathy for you.”
His hearty laugh infects me with a gaiety so artificial that it almost
gives me pain.
 “Your compliment, paid in so negative a form, I cannot doubt to be
sincere; as such it is a novelty. But I have not the least wish to make
my appearance symbolize the dreary lot of a woman who works.”
Obojanski, somewhat annoyed, remarks: “Alas! that even the
cleverest of her sex should have this little bit of vanity!”
I glance at his form, gracefully leaning back in his easy-chair, clad
in a fine suit of black cloth; at his trousers, beautifully creased, his
nicely-tied cravat, and his silvery beard in perfect trim; and I smile
silently. I shall not tell him what comes to my mind: he would
directly begin to protest that his clothing is as unpretentious as can
be; neither dirty nor untidy, but nothing more. Now all these half-
conscious, but innumerable, little insincerities, are distasteful to me:
there is something unmanly about them.
“Vanity is nothing but the æsthetic feeling in its maturity.
Undoubtedly it contains an element of coquetry, but the latter has its
source in the reproductive instinct.” This I say, seriously, but
speaking quickly, to hide what I feel; adding, “It is by a woman’s
clothing that her individuality and degree of artistic culture are made
known.”
“Individuality? In the fetters of fashion? Bah!”
“Well, what is fashion after all? It only expresses variations in the
preferences of human beings: just like the various periods in
literature and art and history.”
Smilowicz interferes. “Yes, but these variations of preference
should be free, not enforced.”
“There is no help for that. In every sphere of life we meet with
individuals who have happy thoughts, and with crowds who imitate
them. No one orders them to imitate: they do so willingly, driven by
the force of other people’s opinions, because they neither think nor
act for themselves. Besides, is the following of fashion necessarily a
spirit of imitation? It is very often, as it were, something infectious in
the air we breathe. Short sleeves succeed to long ones, sleeves puffed
about the wrists, to sleeves puffed at the shoulders: just as Idealism
comes after Realism, and as Mysticism reigns where Positivism
reigned once.”
“Tut, tut, tut,” says the Professor, “there is some difference
between literature and dress.”
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