“That,” I observed, “was of old a custom of yours. I remember well how as a girl the collections you liked best to make were post-cards with photographs of handsome actresses.”
“Oh, but that was quite different,” she replied with a shake of the head. “I feel such a pleasure in gloating over this collection!”
“Yes, the pleasure you take in self-inflicted torture!”
“No, not even that. You see, I gaze at those beautiful faces, those full red voluptuous mouths, those white rounded shoulders, so pleasantly smooth and soft; I,look through the garments and see the colour of the flesh beneath: and each of these women I fancy delirious, swooning in his arms; and so I feed my mind with the thought of their delight in him—or perhaps (I am not quite sure which) of his delight in them!”
Her nostrils were quivering. She settled herself in her soft-cushioned seat, and closed her eyelids; they were red with tears.
On one of the first pages of the album I found Mary Wieloleska, clad as an Algerian girl, blithe and blandishing, and far better-looking than in reality. Towards the end there were about a dozen photographs of Mme. Wildenhoff, and one—a small one—of that French actress whom we had seen at Lipka’s restaurant. The thought flashed upon me—a very unflattering one assuredly—that she had already placed me there too; but, sitting as I was by Martha’s side, I could not possibly look at the last page. Besides, she herself held the album, and showed me no photographs after those of Mme. Wildenhoff and of the French actress.
The same thought occurred to us both at once, and it cast over us the shadow of a moody silence.
She laid her head on my bosom, and closed her eyes with an expression of the utmost fatigue.
“Don’t go on like that,” I said to her soothingly. “That way madness lies, and you might easily get there.”
“Oh, that is very likely. Indeed I wish I may. Oh, to lose memory, and consciousness, and all feeling!” And then: “For I am everlastingly wringing my own heart, Janka!” she added, very sorrowfully.