Leon.—They are in my heart—and there is a tomb. Let us leave the past alone.
Jadwiga.—Yes, you are right. Leave it alone. What is dead cannot be resuscitated. I wish to speak calmly. Look at my situation. What defends me—what helps me—what protects me? I am a young woman, and it seems not ugly, and therefore no one approaches me with an honest, simple heart, but with a trap in eyes and mouth. What opposition have I to make? Weariness? Grief? Emptiness? In life even a man must lean on something, and I, a feeble woman, I am like a boat without a helm, without oar and without light toward which to sail. And the heart longs for happiness. You must understand that a woman must be loved and must love some one in the world, and if she lacks true love she seizes the first pretext of it—the first shadow.
Leon (with animation).—Poor thing.
Jadwiga.—Do not smile in that ironical way. Be better, be less severe with me. I do not even have any one to complain, and that is why I do not drive away Count Skorzewski. I detest his beauty, I despise his perverse mind, but I do not drive him away because he is a skilful actor, and because when I see his acting it awakens in me the echo of former days. (After a while.) How shall I fill my life? Study? Art? Even if I loved them, they would not love me for they are not living things. No, truly now! They showed me no duties, no aims, no foundations. Everything on which other women live—everything which constitutes their happiness, sincere sorrow, strength, tears, and smiles, is barred from me. Morally I have nothing to live on—like a beggar. I have no one to live for—like an orphan. I am not permitted to yearn for a noble and quiet life; I may only nurture myself with grief and defend myself with faded, dead flowers, and remembrances of former pure, honest, and loving Jadwinia. Ah! again I break my promise, our agreement. I must beg your pardon.
Leon.—Mme. Jadwiga, both our lives are tangled. When I was most unhappy, when everything abandoned me, there remained with me the love of an idea—love of the country.
Jadwiga (thoughtfully).—The love of an idea—country. There is something great in that. You, by each of your pictures, increase the glory of the country and make famous its name, but I—what can I do?
Leon.—The one who lives simply, suffers and quietly fulfils his duties—he also serves his country.
Jadwiga.—What duties? Give them to me. For every-day life one great, ideal love is not enough for me. I am a woman! I must cling to something—twine about something like the ivy—otherwise truly, sir, I should fall to the ground and be trampled upon (with an outburst). If I could only respect him!
Leon.—But, madam, you should remember to whom you are speaking of such matters. I have no right to know of your family affairs.
Jadwiga.—No. You have not the right, nor are you obliged nor willing. Only friendly hearts know affliction—only those who suffer can sympathize. You—looking into the stars—you pass human misery and do not turn your head even when that misery shouts to you. It is your fault.