My aunt sent the carriage for the Sniatynskis and Clara very early, in consequence of which they arrived before noon. The ladies were bright, cheerful, and chirping like sparrows, glad of the fine weather and their excursion. What toilets, and what quaint hats! Clara looked very well in a light, striped dress that made her seem less tall than usual. I observed that Aniela, after the first greeting, looked at her searchingly and seemed struck by her beauty, of which I had scarcely said anything to her. I had not refrained out of calculation, but had been so occupied with Aniela that I had not thought of it. For instance, though I had met Pani Sniatynska several times I had never noticed she wore her hair short, which suits her style of beauty. The light, curly hair falling over her brow gives her the expression of a resolute, rosy-faced boy. We are excellent friends again. There was a time she would have liked to kill me, so angry was she about Aniela. Evidently her husband had told her what I suffered, and women have a special weakness for those who suffer for love's sake; she has forgiven me and reinstalled me in her favor. The presence of such a bright, vivacious, easy-going woman was a great help in bringing Clara and Aniela into closer relation. I saw that my aunt met Clara with great heartiness; but Aniela, in spite of her sweet disposition, seemed shy, and kept aloof from her. At lunch, amid a cheerful conversation, she thawed a little. Clara seemed struck by Aniela's beauty, and as she always says what she thinks, she expressed her admiration with so much grace and enthusiasm that Aniela had to yield.
Pani Celina, who now perhaps for the first time found herself in company with an artist, looked gratified, and turning to her said that "though Aniela's mother, she must say that as a child she was very pretty,—promising far greater beauty." Both Sniatynskis joined in the conversation. He began to discuss with Clara various female types, then spoke of Aniela's type and its aesthetic perfection in a highly amusing objective manner, as if she were a portrait hanging on the wall, rather than a living presence. She, listening to this, blushed and lowered her eyes, truly like a little girl, which made her look more charming than ever.
I was silent, but inwardly compared these three female faces, treating them also objectively, that is, putting aside the fact that one of them was the loved one, and as such occupied an exceptional position; even then everything spoke in her favor. Pani Sniatynska's, especially in her short curly hair, is a charming head, yet nothing but what may be found in any English Keepsake. Clara's beauty rests mainly upon her calm expression, the blue eyes, and that transparent complexion so often met with in German women; but for her art, which surrounds her as with a nimbus, she could only be called a handsome woman. Aniela is not only an artistic production of an exceedingly noble style as regards her features, but there is something individual in her that cannot be measured by any standard. Maybe her individuality rests upon the fact that, being neither dark nor fair, she gives the physical impression of a brunette and the spiritual one of a blonde. The cause of this is perhaps the great abundance of hair on a comparatively small head; enough that she is unique in her kind. She excels even Mrs. Davis in this regard, whose beauty was without a flaw, but it was the beauty of a statue. Mrs. Davis only excited the admiration of my senses, while Aniela rouses in me the idealist, who goes in rapture over the poetry of her expression.
But I will not even compare these two so utterly different beings. I yielded to these reflections during lunch, because the topic in question had brought me on that track; besides, the analysis of Aniela's beauty always gives me a keen delight. My aunt interrupted the discussion, deeming it proper, as lady of the house, to say something about Clara's last concert. She spoke much and very well; I never supposed she had such knowledge of music; she paid her some graceful compliments with the air of a grande dame, in that flowing, winning style only people of the older generation are capable of. In short, I observed that my downright, outspoken aunt was still able to recall the times of powder and patches. Clara seemed quite charmed, and did not remain behind-hand in graceful acknowledgment.
"I shall always be able to play well at Warsaw," she said, "because I am in touch with my audience, but I play best in small circles of friends where I feel in sympathy with everybody,—and if you will permit, I will give you a proof of it after lunch."
My aunt, who was very anxious that Pani Celina should hear her, yet had misgivings whether it would be right to ask her to play, was much pleased by the proposal. I began to speak of Clara's performances at Paris and her triumphs at Erard's concerts; Sniatynski gave an account of what was said at Warsaw; and so the time passed until we rose from lunch. Clara herself got hold of Paul Celina's invalid chair and would not allow anybody to help, declaring laughingly that she was by far the strongest among us, and was not afraid to tire her hands. Presently she sat down to the piano, and as evidently Mozart suited her disposition, she gave us Don Juan. The first notes sounded, she was a different Clara; not the merry, lively child any longer, but an incarnate Saint Cecilia. There shone in her the close relationship of outward form with the spirit of harmony, which surrounded her with a dignity above common womanhood. I made another observation, namely: that a man in love can find food for his feelings even in what tells against the loved woman. When I thought how far my Aniela was from being a Sybil, saw her sitting in a corner of the drawing-room so small and still, as if crushed down by some weight, I loved her all the more, and it made her if possible dearer to me than ever. It also occurred to me that a woman is not in reality what she appears to people in general, but such as the man who loves sees her; therefore her absolute excellence is in proportion to the power of love she inspires. I had no time to follow out this idea, but it pleased me because I saw dimly before me the conclusion that in the name of this excellence the woman ought to give her heart to him who loves her most.
Clara played superbly. I watched the sensation on the others' faces, when presently I noticed that Aniela was looking at me for the same reason. Was it mere curiosity, or an involuntary uneasiness of heart which could not say what it feared and yet was afraid? I said to myself: "If the last supposition were true it would be a proof that she loves me." The thought filled me with joy, and I resolved to find an answer to it in the course of the day. Thenceforth I bestowed all my attention upon Clara, and was more attentive to her than I had ever been before. In the woods whither we had driven, I walked with her, glancing furtively now and then at Aniela, who remained with the Suiatynskis. Clara was in rapture with the woods, which are indeed at their best now, the fresh green of the leafy trees forming a perfect canopy over the more sombre looking pines.
The sun filtering across the branches converted the earth, carpeted with ferns and tender mosses, into a delicate golden embroidery. There were the cheerful voices of spring around us, the cuckoo's call and the woodpecker's knock-knock at the trees. When we joined the others I asked Clara to translate into music the voices of spring. She said there was already a Frühlingslied singing within her, and she would try to give it expression. Truly she looked as if the song was there,—besides she is like a great harp that speaks only in sounds.
Her face was bright with burning blushes; Aniela instead looked fagged, though she evidently tried to keep up with the Sniatynskis, who were as lively as a couple of school-children on their holiday. They began finally to race with each other, and Clara joined in the sport, which she ought not to have done, considering her size, as the quick motion was anything but graceful,—nay, almost ridiculous.
When they were thus running after each other I remained alone with Aniela. According to my plan of operations I was anxious to bring her mind to full consciousness through the uneasiness with which she seemed to be oppressed.