“It will be easier the next time,” he said; “like everything else, one must get accustomed to it.”  And he repeated several times:  “This will be something like a portrait.”

He looked also with a pleased countenance at my aunt, who has noble features and a singularly commanding presence.  The way she met Angeli was in itself a treat.  It was the off-hand manner of the grande dame, always in good taste, but evidently not making much of him.  Angeli, who is used to flattery and homage, and at the same time a clever man, judged her aright, and I saw he was amused by her demeanor.

We had decided upon a black silk dress, very elegantly made.  It shows off Aniela’s figure to perfection, its suppleness and rounded curves.  I can neither think nor write about it calmly.  Angeli, addressing Aniela, repeatedly called her “Mademoiselle.”  Feminine nature, even an angelic one, has still its little weaknesses.  I noticed that my dear love was pleased, and still more so when I told Angeli of his mistake, and he said:—­

“But I shall always fall into the same mistake; looking at madame it is impossible not to make the mistake.”

And indeed with those vivid blushes mantling in her face she was surpassingly lovely.

On our way out, when a little distance from my aunt, I whispered to Aniela:—­

“Aniela, do you know yourself how beautiful you are?”

She did not say anything, but lowered her eyelashes, as she always does in such a case.  Nevertheless, I noticed that during the rest of the day there was a shade of unconscious coquetry in her manner towards me.  Angeli’s words and mine had attuned her to that disposition.  She knows I admire her, that never woman was admired more, and it pleases her.  I not only admired her, but I said inwardly, rather shouted to myself:  “To the deuce with all compacts.  I love you without limits and restrictions.”

In the evening we went to the opera to hear Wagner’s “Fliegende Hollander.”  I scarcely heard anything at all, or rather, heard and saw only through her.  I asked of Wagner:  “What impression do you make upon her?  Does your music enter her soul and make her inclined to love me?  Do you transport her into higher spheres, where love is the highest law?” That is the only thing that interests me.  Women perhaps cannot love so exclusively.  They always reserve part of their soul for themselves, for the world and its sensations.

27 August.

My aunt expressed a wish to depart.  She is anxious to be back at Ploszow, and says that her presence here is not necessary, and that in fact we should get on better without her; that we should not be obliged to consider her and could devote all our time to the portrait.  We all protested a little, and maintained that a lady of her years ought not to travel alone.  Though reluctantly, I considered it my duty to offer my companionship.  I confess that I awaited her reply with a certain trepidation; but the dear old lady said, with great liveliness:—­