In spite of my emotion I was struck by Kromitzki's tone of voice and Aniela's silent obedience,—all the more as I had already noticed that his manners towards her during the day had been those of a man who is displeased. There was evidently the same reason, of which I knew nothing, at the bottom of this, and of the estrangement some time ago. But there was no room now for these reflections; the fresh memory of the kiss I had imprinted on her feet still overpowered my senses. I felt a great delight and joy, not unmixed with fear. I could account for the delight because I felt it every time I only touched her hand. But why the joy? Because I saw that the immaculate Aniela could not escape from me altogether, and must needs confess to herself: "I am on the downward path too, and cannot look people in the face; he was at my feet a moment ago, the man who loves me, and I am obliged to be his accomplice and cannot go to my husband and tell him to take me hence." I knew she could not do this without creating a commotion; and if she could, she would not do it, for fear of an encounter between me and Kromitzki,—"And who knows for whom she is most afraid?" something within me whispered.
Aniela's position is indeed a difficult one, and I, knowing this, take advantage of it without more scruples than are admitted by a general in time of war who attacks the enemy at his weakest point. I asked myself whether I would do the same if Kromitzki would make me personally responsible; and as I could conscientiously say "Yes," I thought there was no need for any further consideration. Kromitzki inspires me with fear only in so far as he has power to remove Aniela and put her out of my reach altogether. The very thought makes me desperate. But at this moment, in the carriage, I only feared Aniela. What will happen to-morrow? How will she take it? As a liberty, or as a mere impulse of respect and worship?
I felt as a dog may feel that has done wrong and is afraid of being whipped. Sitting opposite Aniela, I tried at moments when the moon shone on her face to read there what was to be my sentence. I looked at her so humbly and was so meek that I pitied myself, and thought she too ought to pity me a little. But she did not look at me at all, and listened or seemed to listen attentively to what Kromitzki was telling my aunt he would do if Gastein belonged to him. My aunt only nodded, and he repeated every moment: "Now, really, don't you think I am right?" It is evident that he wants to impress my aunt with his enterprising spirit, and to convince her that he is capable of making a shilling out of every penny.
The road to Hofgastein, hewn out of the rocks, skirting the precipices, winds and twists around the mountain slopes. The light of the moon shone alternately on our faces and those of the ladies opposite, according to the varying directions of the road. In Aniela's face I saw nothing but a sweet sadness, and I took courage from the fact that it was neither stern nor forbidding. I did not obtain a single glance, but I comforted myself by the thought that when concealed in the shadow, she would perhaps look at me and say to herself: "Nobody loves me as he does, and nobody can be at the same time more unhappy than he,"—which is true. We were both silent. Only Kromitzki kept on talking; his voice mingled with the rush of the waters below the rocks and the creaking of the brake, which the driver often applied. This creaking irritated my nerves very much, but the warm, transparent night lulled them into restfulness again. It was, as I said before, full moon; the bright orb had risen above the mountains, and sailing through space illumined the tops of Bocksteinkogl, the Tischlkar glaciers, and the precipitous slopes of the Graukogl. The snow on the heights shone with a pale-green, metallic lustre, and as the mountain sides below were shrouded in darkness, the snowy sheen seemed to float in mid air, as if not belonging to the earth. There was such a charm, such peace and restfulness in these sleeping mountains, that involuntarily the words of the poet came into mind:—
"At such a moment, alas! two hearts are grieving.
What there is to forgive, they are forgiving;
What was to be forgot, they dismiss to oblivion."
And yet what is there to forgive? That I kissed her feet? If she were a sacred statue she could not be offended by such an act of reverence. I thought if it came to an explanation between us I would tell her that.
I often think that Aniela does me a great wrong, not to say that she calls things by wrong names. She considers my love a mere earthly feeling, an infatuation of the senses. I do not deny that it is composed of various threads, but there are among them some as purely ideal as if spun of poetry. Very often my senses are lulled to sleep, and I love her as one loves only in early youth. Then the second self within me mocks, and says derisively: "I had no idea you could love like a schoolboy or a romanticist!" Yet such is the fact. I may be ridiculous, but I love her thus, and it is not an artificial feeling. It is this which makes my love so complete, and at the same time so sad; for Aniela misconstrues it and cannot enter into its spirit. Even now I inwardly spoke to her thus: "Do you think there are no ideal chords in my soul? At this moment I love you in such a way that you may accept my love without fear. It would be a pity to spurn so much feeling; it would cost you nothing, and it would be my salvation. I could then say to myself: 'This is my whole world; within its boundaries I am allowed to live. It would be something at least. I would try to change my nature, try to believe in what you believe, and hold fast to it all my life.'"
It seemed to me that she ought to agree to such a proposition, after which there would be everlasting peace between us. I promised myself to put it before her, and once we know that our souls belong to each other we may even part. There awoke within me a certain hope that she will agree to this, for she must understand that without it both our lives will remain miserable.
It was nine o'clock when we arrived at Hofgastein. It was very quiet and still in the village. Only the Gasthaus was lighted, and before Meger's some excellent voices were singing mountain airs. I thought of asking the serenaders to sing before our window, but I found they were not villagers; they were Viennese mountaineers, to whom one could not offer money. I bought two bunches of edelweiss and other Alpine flowers, and giving one to Aniela I accidentally, as it were, unloosened the other and the flowers fell under her feet.
"Let them lie there," I said, seeing she was stooping to pick them up. I went in search of some more flowers for my aunt. When I came back I heard Kromitzki say:—