(Pages from a discovered diary)
And the rib, which the Lord God had taken from man, made he a woman, and brought her unto the man. And Adam said, This is now bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh: she shall be called Woman, because she was taken out of Man. Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh. Genesis 2:22–24
I have been intoxicated with joy for six days now and can hardly believe my good fortune. Six days ago I entered a new phase of life, one so markedly different than what preceded, that it seems I am living through a great cataclysm.
I received a letter from her.
Since her departure abroad a year ago to an unknown destination – this first wonderful sign from her … . I cannot, I truly cannot believe it! I will faint from joy!
A letter from her to me! To me, someone completely unknown to her, a humble, distant admirer with whom no friendly relations had existed before, not even a fleeting acquaintanceship. But the letter is genuine. I carry it continually with me, I do not part with it even for one second. The name on the address is clear, without a doubt: Jerzy Szamota. It is I, after all. Not believing my own eyes, I showed the envelope to several acquaintances; everyone looked at me with some amazement, then smiled and confirmed that the address is legible and bears my name.
So she is returning home, returning in just a couple of days, and the first person who will greet her at her door will be I – I, whose adoring eyes barely dared to look up at her during chance sightings on the street, on some park lane, in the theatre, at a concert … .
If I could have to my credit at least one glance, or a brief smile from her proud lips – but no! She seemed to have been completely unaware of me. Until this letter, I had been certain she did not even know of my existence. Surely she hadn’t noticed me all those years while I trailed after her like a distant, timid shadow? I was so discreet, so very unobtrusive! My yearning enveloped her with such a far-removed, delicate ray. Yet she must have sensed this. With a sensitive woman’s instinct, she sensed my love and my meek, boundless adoration. It seems that the invisible bonds of attraction that existed between us all these years grew more powerful during our distant separation, and now they draw her to me.
My best wishes, my most beautiful one! At this evening hour, the day bows before me in bright, cheerful flashes, and with a raised head I hum a song in praise of your magnificence – my most wonderful Lady!
It is already Thursday. The day after tomorrow, at this time, I will see her. Not until then. Such is her expressed wish. I take her letter in my hand, that priceless lilac sheet from which escapes a subtle fragrance of heliotrope, and I read for the hundredth time:
Dear! Call at the house on 8 Green Street on Saturday, the 26th, at six in the evening. You will find the garden gate open. I will be waiting for you. Let the yearning of many years be fulfilled. Yours, Jadwiga Kalergis
The house on 8 Green Street! Her villa, The Lindens! A splendid, medieval-styled little mansion in the midst of a grand park, separated from the street by woods and a thick wire fence; the aim of nearly all my daily walks. How many times during the evening had I sneaked up to this quiet spot, searching with a racing heart for her shadow on the windowpanes! …
Impatient with waiting for the anticipated Saturday, I was already at her house several times attempting to gain entry; but I always found the garden gate closed – the handle yielded, but the lock did not spring open. She still had not returned. I should be patient and wait, but I am so unbearably excited. I do not eat, I cannot sleep; I only count the hours, the minutes. So much time remains! Forty-eight hours! … Tomorrow I will spend the entire day on the river by her park. I will rent a boat and circle near her villa. Saturday I will spend the morning and part of the afternoon at the railway station. I have to welcome her, at least from afar. I know from her neighbours, who have not seen her for a year, that she has not yet returned. She has definitely postponed her arrival until the 26th of September – that is, on the day of my visit. In truth, I fear I won’t come at an opportune time; after such a journey she will be extremely tired.
* * *
Saturday morning – that is, yesterday – I did not see her among the abundant crowds at the station. I waited until four in the afternoon for the second train, with the same result. Maybe she hadn’t arrived? Or maybe she had come on the morning train and was already at home? In either case, I had to go to her villa and ascertain the truth.
Those two hours that separated us became an unbearable torment whose end I could hardly wait for. Entering a café, I drank a large amount of black coffee, smoked lots of cigarettes, and unable to sit still, I rushed back outside. Passing by a flower stall, I remembered the flowers I had ordered for today.
How absentminded of me! I would have completely forgotten!
I went and collected a bouquet of crimson roses and azaleas. The freshly-cut flowers, their fragrant buds emerging from a circle of ferns, shook gently in the evening breeze. The clocks of the city were approaching a quarter to six.
I wrapped the bouquet in paper and quickly left in the direction of the river. In several minutes I was already on the other side of the bridge. With a nervous step I neared the villa. My heart beat wildly, my legs trembled. Finally I reached the gate and pressed down on the handle: it gave way. Dazed by happiness, I rested for several minutes against the park fence, unable to contain my emotions. So, she had returned!
My wandering gaze travelled along the rows of linden trees, which, arranged on opposite sides of the pathway, stretched in long lanes to the portal. Somewhere to the left, behind mulberry and dogwood shrubs, appeared the skeleton of an autumnal vine-covered arbor; red leaves drifted down a chaotic trellis containing already-withered ivies.
Flower-beds held the blossoms of autumn: chrysanthemums and asters. Yellow chestnut and brick-red maple leaves drizzled with quiet sadness on paths overgrown with grass and weeds. Dahlias bled under a dried-up marble cistern; large glass containers alternated rainbow colours … . In the midst of a privet, on a stone bench covered with a carpet of conifer needles, two finches twittered a song of flight. Deep within the alleys, in the darkening sunset light, spiders spun out their silky, silver threads … .
With both hands I pushed open the heavy front door, and after ascending some winding stairs, I found myself on the first floor. I was struck by the absence of life. The mansion looked deserted; no one met me, nowhere was there a sign of servants or any members of the household. Scattered large electric lamps illuminated, with their blindingly bright beams, empty halls and galleries.
In the antechamber, opened hospitably for my arrival, unoccupied coat-racks presented a lonely sight. Their smooth metallic knobs glittered with the cold reflection of polished copper. I removed my coat. At that moment the sound of the city’s clocks flowed in through a large, open Gothic window: they tolled the sixth hour … .
I knocked on the door in front of me. There was no response from within. I became anxious. What should I do? Enter without permission? Maybe, fatigued by travel, she was fast asleep?
Suddenly the door opened, and she stood on the threshold. Her piercing, proud yet sweet eyes gazed at me from under the regal diadem of her chestnut hair. Her classical head, worthy of Poliklet’s chisel, was crowned by an emerald-inlaid tiara. A soft, snow-white peplos, flowing in harmonious waves to sixteenth-century footwear, enveloped her statuesque figure. Juno stolata!
I bowed before her majesty. And she, withdrawing inside, let me pass with a gesture of her hand into a palatial apartment. It was a magnificent bedroom decorated exquisitely in the fashions of former times.
In silence, she sat inside a deep niche on a giallo antico bed.
I knelt on the carpet by her feet, laying my head on her knees. She embraced it in a warm, maternal movement and started to tenderly comb my hair with her fingers. We gazed endlessly into each other’s eyes, unable to sate ourselves with what we saw. We were silent. Thus far not one word had fallen between us – as if we feared scaring away with a reckless sound the angel of bewitchment that fettered and united our souls.
Suddenly she leaned over and kissed me on the lips. Blood pounded in my head, the world turned round drunkenly – and my passion unleashed itself. I grabbed her roughly and, not sensing any resistance, threw her on the bed. With a quick, elusive movement, she unclasped the amber fibula on her shoulder, exposing before me her divine body. So I possessed her in boundless suffering and longing, my senses intoxicated and my heart enraptured, my soul frenzied and my blood burning.
Hours passed with the speed of lightning, short as its flashes and potent with happiness; racing moments flew by like the winds of the steppe – moments precious like rare pearls. Wearied by pleasure, we drifted off to exquisite dreams that were like the groves of paradise, like magical fairy-tales – only to awaken to day-dreams even more wonderful, more beautiful … .
When I finally opened my heavy eyelids near six in the morning and glanced around, fully conscious, Jadwiga was no longer at my side.
I dressed quickly. After waiting for her in vain for an entire hour, I returned home … .
I feel giddy, there’s fire in my veins. I must have a fever because my lips are swollen and there’s a strange bitter taste in my mouth. Walking about, I stagger and stumble against the furniture … .
I look at the world as if through a mist or a delightful veil of entrancement … .
* * *
The following day, after my return from the newspaper office, I found a letter from Jadwiga on my desk, in which she designated our next meeting. It was to take place at her villa and again on a Saturday evening. That date seemed too distant for me: I went to The Lindens on Tuesday afternoon. But the gate was closed. Irritated, I walked around the little mansion a few times in the hope of spotting her in one of the park alleys. But the paths were empty – the autumn wind alone was there, raising batches of withered leaves and mercilessly driving them into lengthy, sad rows. Even though it soon became completely dark, I did not glimpse any lights through the windows. The house was silent and dead, as if there were no one living in it. So it seems she spends her evenings in one of the rooms with a northern exposure – that is, on the side least accessible to a passerby’s eye. Discouraged, I left.
Similar attempts on the following days met with the same result, and so I had to submit to her wish and wait until Saturday. Nevertheless it surprised me that during that entire week I did not see her, even once, in town, not at the theatre, nor on the tram. Apparently a dramatic change has occurred in her life-style. Jadwiga Kalergis, once the daily object of admiration by the city’s dandies and Don Juans, the queen of parties, concerts and social events, now lives like a nun.
In truth, I am happy and proud because of this. I do not possess the vain ambition of those who like to irritate others with a glimpse of their own happiness. I do not desire to flaunt her before the world. On the contrary – this secrecy, this furtive element in our relationship, has an inexpressible charm. Odi profanum vulgus … .
* * *
Finally Saturday arrived. Throughout the morning I paced about aimlessly. My friends at the office laughed at me, maintaining that most surely I was in love.
‘That Szamota is really crazy,’ muttered the theatre reporter. ‘For some time he’s been completely mad. One can’t speak to him.’
‘A skirt! Cherchez la femme!’ explained a very old reporter. ‘Nothing else. Believe me.’
Punctually at six in the evening I entered her bedroom through the half-open door. Jadwiga was not yet present. On a splendidly laid-out table there was a cup of hot chocolate; a pyramid of pastries rose beside the cup, and a green liqueur glittered nearby.
I sat down facing the adjoining room and reached for a trabuco cigar from a chrysolite box. Suddenly my glance fell on a piece of paper placed between the cigars. I recognized her handwriting; it was meant for me.
Dear! Excuse my lateness. I went to town and will return in half-an-hour. Till then!
I kissed the note and concealed it near my bosom; then I drank the fragrant chocolate. After my first glass of liqueur, I felt somewhat drowsy. I lit up a new cigar, mechanically fixing my eyes on the wall opposite me, where a brilliant Greek shield, with Medusa at its centre, hung. The shield’s shimmering chest had something strangely magnetic about it that arrested the eyes, fettered the will.
Soon my attention was completely focused on one bright spot, on the snake-haired Gorgon’s blazing eye. I couldn’t draw myself away from this hypnotic centre. Gradually, I drifted into a peculiar state. My surroundings retreated to a never-ending distant background, to be replaced by gorgeously rich colours, an exotic fairyland, a tropical fata morgana … .
Suddenly I felt a pair of warm, soft arms about my neck and a sweet, lingering kiss on my lips. I roused myself from my absorption. Next to me stood Jadwiga, smiling seductively. I took her by the waist, pressing her to my chest.
‘Forgive me,’ I explained, ‘I didn’t hear you come in. That shield holds one’s attention most strangely.’
She responded with a silent smile of indulgence.
Today she was even more beautiful. Her statuesque loveliness, framed in Greek attire, exuded marvellous enchantment. Under wonderful brows looked out proud black eyes, smouldering with the flame of desire. Oh, what a joy to move those marble breasts with a wave of passion, to chisel out of the face of a haughty Juno her cool serenity!
Leaning her against my arm, I cast a hungry look at her, sating for a long moment my thirsty eyes on the vastness of her beauty.
‘Oh, how beautiful you are, my sweetheart, oh, how beautiful! But where are your tresses, your violet-scented tresses?’ I demanded passionately, attempting to push away from her forehead the soft, immaculately white veil that covered her head tightly today. ‘I want to stroke your hair, just like that first time – remember? I want to spread out that ambrosial mantle over your shoulders, and kiss you forever. You didn’t deny me on that first evening. Remove this wrap.’
She held back my hand gently, but firmly. On her lips blossomed a mysterious smile, and she shook her head.
‘Not today? Why?’
Again silence and that same prohibitive head movement.
‘Why are you silent? Do you know that so far you haven’t exchanged a word with me? Say something! I want to hear your voice – it has to be sweet and resonant like the sound of expensive crystal.’
Jadwiga said nothing. A deep sadness had spread over her entire face, chilling the entrancing moment. Was she speechless?
So I stopped insisting, and in silence I was already taking in her divine body. Today she was even more passionate than at our last meeting. Every so often a lustful spasm seized her – her eyes misted over with swooning, her face turned a deathly pale, her delicate, silky skin twitched, her pearly teeth grated painfully. Then, terrified, I would let her go and try to revive her. But all of this was just a momentary occurrence; her paroxysm would pass quickly, and a new wave of passion – young, impulsive, totally unrestrained – would plunge us into the depths of frenzy … .
We parted company late at night, at about one. Upon our farewell, she pinned a small bouquet of violets to my person. I raised her hand to my lips:
‘Again in a week?’
She nodded her head.
‘Let it be so. Good-bye, Carissima!’
I went out.
While putting on my coat in the antechamber, I remembered the cigarette case I had placed on the console table. I immediately returned to the room to retrieve it.
‘Excuse me,’ I began, turning to where I had left Jadwiga a moment ago.
But the phrase died on my lips. Jadwiga was not in the bedroom. Had she already gone to the adjoining room? Yet this did not seem possible, for I had not heard the sound of a door opening.
‘Hmm, peculiar,’ I muttered, putting away my cigarette case, ‘most peculiar … .’
And slowly, lost in thought, I went down the steps and out onto the street.
* * *
My relationship with Jadwiga Kalergis has now gone on for several months, still wrapped in complete secrecy before the world. No one imagines that I am the lover of the most beautiful woman in town. So far no one has seen us together in public. I would even suppose that people know nothing of her return. At least that’s the impression I’ve received from chance conversations with my circle of acquaintances. This is a little strange, but it seems Jadwiga had returned stealthily, not desiring that it be known at all. Perhaps she has some hidden reason, which she does not wish to reveal to me. I do not press her on this matter and know how to behave discreetly.
In general, my mistress is a strange woman, and she likes to surround herself in mystery. I still have to get used to her whimsicality and accommodate her eccentric habits; I continually find in her behaviour something incomprehensible. Though we have been with each other for half a year, as yet I haven’t heard her voice. In the first few weeks I repeatedly insisted on a reason for this. In answer came letters the day after our meetings requesting that I do not ask her about it, that I stop unnecessarily tormenting her, and so on. Finally I gave up. Maybe she had suffered some injury and has really lost the ability to speak? Now it’s an embarrassment to her, and instead of acknowledging her disability, maybe she prefers to leave me in doubt as to its cause?
We still see each other only once a week and always on a Saturday – she doesn’t receive me on any other day. Here I must mention the strange beginning of every such visit.
When I enter the bedroom, I do not always find her there. Sometimes I have to wait a long time before she comes out to greet me. And she always does this so unnoticeably, so quietly, that I never know when and from where she emerges. Usually she stops right behind me and kisses me on the neck. Her kiss is delightful, sweet – but terrible as well. Besides, I have a feeling that I am never in a completely normal state at that moment. What type of state it is, I am not able to say – maybe some light reverie or entrancement?
In any event, whenever Jadwiga keeps me waiting a long time, I feel an overpowering urge to gaze at the Greek shield. A thought comes to me, from where I do not know, that the shield was placed there deliberately to draw attention to itself and fix one’s eyes on its brilliant circles. Who knows whether it is not, in fact, the cause of that strange state into which I sometimes fall?
Later, after this prelude, everything proceeds along normally: we are eager for each other, we caress each other, we even play tricks and jokes on each other. But the beginning is always as I have described it – a little strange … .
One other circumstance doesn’t completely satisfy me – actually something quite minor, yet unwelcome. Jadwiga likes covering her head to excess with a type of Greek veil of a dazzling white, close-knit fabric. I detest this veil! If she would merely cover her hair and the back of her head – but, besides this, she repeatedly covers her alabaster forehead, she jealously hides a portion of her face, conceals her lips, her eyes … .
When I want to remove this milky veil, she seems to get angry and escapes to the far corner of the room. What obstinacy! But it is said that beautiful women are like chimeras. One has to know how to accommodate them. Yet sometimes I cannot control myself. Irritated the last time by this rather eastern custom, reminiscent of a masquerade, I grabbed her as she tried to slip away. My movement was rough and clumsy: I tore her costly snow-white peplos, of which a large section remained in my hand. I put it away for a memento and always carry it with me.
* * *
The other day, on Saturday, I made a strange observation. As usual, when I entered the villa in the evening I did not find Jadwiga in the bedroom. I avoided glancing at the Medusa on the shield and went to the niche separated from the rest of the room by a long white curtain hanging down from a brass rod. Suddenly I noticed that the curtain bore signs of being torn; near the middle was a semi-circular gap. I mechanically took the material in my hand and began to pass it through my fingers. The fabric’s softness and silkiness were somehow familiar. Involuntarily I reached into my pocket and took out the peplos fragment I had concealed as a memento. I compared its shape to the outline created by the torn-off portion of the curtain. A strange thought occurred to me: they seemed identical. I placed the section in my hand to the curtain’s torn edges. Most interesting! The fragment filled the gap exactly! As if it were not torn from the dress but from the curtain, or as if the peplos and the curtain were one and the same.
Greeting Jadwiga a half hour later, I paid close attention to her dress. Any signs of it having been torn were gone; the garment fell to her feet in immaculate folds, untainted by the slightest flaw. She evidently noticed my observation because she smiled half-playfully, half-mysteriously. I then raised the torn peplos piece and led her to the niche to show her what I had seen. A strange thing, however! The curtain was not there! A funny thought suggested itself: Had she ‘borrowed’ it for her peplos?
Meanwhile, instead of the curtain, the arms of a sheltered recess opened up invitingly before us. I glanced at Jadwiga. She responded with a smile of bewitching encouragement … .
* * *
Not long ago I made an interesting discovery. Jadwiga has birthmarks that are exactly identical to my own. A funny coincidence! The more amusing in that these marks even appear in the same places. A dark-red one, shaped like a bunch of grapes and the size of a nut, on the right shoulder-blade, and the second one, a mole high up on the left groin. The chance resemblance of these physical details intrigues me, the more so as these marks do not have typical features – on the contrary, they have a strongly individualized character. Peculiar, isn’t it?
I have noticed something else. Her skin, particularly on the chest and shoulders, has a darkish tinge, as if from repeated sun tanning. The same is true of me. I acquired this epidermal feature through many summers of sun-bathing. Can one explain it in the same way for her? I doubt it. As far as I know she avoids the sun and pulls down the blinds in her mansion to bar its rays. I, on the other hand, like the sunlight immensely, and allow it to pass through my window as much as possible.
* * *
Jadwiga’s eccentricities definitely exceed all limits. For several weeks she has been receiving me in a half-lit, sometimes dim room and forces me to wait for hours. When she finally emerges from some dark corner, she is completely wrapped in those loathsome veils, so that at times she creates the impression of an apparition. Last week she gazed at me from behind these coverings as if through a narrow slit.
Yet, at the same time, her passion has increased. That woman is going mad! She has wound herself up in a vicious sexual circle, and she rolls about licentiously, writhing in lustful convulsions. There are moments when I cannot keep up with her satanic pace, and I am left behind dazed, exhausted, breathless. Damn! I hadn’t really known Jadwiga Kalergis!
On the other hand, I have observed in her figure something quite unique, something that one might define as ‘elusiveness.’ Whether it’s due to those white coverings in which she now carefully wraps herself, or whether it’s a consequence of the inadequate lighting – at moments her figure evades my sight. Interesting illusions and optical surprises arise from this. At times I see her doubly, at other times as if strangely diminished – then again, as if from a distance. Absolutely like a ‘dance of the seven veils’ or a cubist painting. Frequently she looks like a statue not completely carved, in some enigmatic stage of formation – a sort of half-finished project.
And that ‘elusiveness’ also crosses over into the tactile sphere. Particularly as it concerns the upper portion of her body. Several times I have ascertained with dismay that her shoulders and chest, not long ago so compact and limber, are now strangely limp. Under the pressure of my hand, her dress recedes somewhere inside, and I am unable to feel the former resilience of her body.
One night, intensely irritated by this and seized by an overwhelming urge, I suddenly decided to prick her. I slowly drew out an opal pin from my cravat and plunged it into her naked leg. Blood squirted out, and a cry was heard – but from my lips: at that moment I felt a sharp pain in my leg. Jadwiga was looking with a peculiar smile at the blood dripping from her wound in large ruby drops. Not a word of complaint came from her lips.
Returning home late that night, I had to change my clothing, for it was stained in blood. To this day I carry a mark on my leg from that pin prick.
* * *
I will not go there anymore! After what happened at The Lindens on the last Saturday of August, a month ago, life has lost its attraction for me. My hair has turned white overnight. My acquaintances cannot recognize me when they see me on the street. Apparently I was laid up senseless for a week, raving as if in a fever. Today I went out for the first time. I wobble like an old man and support myself on a walking stick. A horrible end! …
It happened on August 28th, not quite a year since the start of that ill-fated relationship.
That evening I was late. Some pressing review or literary article occupied me two extra hours: I arrived at eight.
The bedroom was dark. I stumbled against the furniture a few times, and a little irritated by this, I said loudly:
‘Good evening, Jadwiga! Why haven’t you put on the lights? One can break one’s neck in this darkness!’
I received no answer. Not the slightest movement betrayed her presence. Nervously, I started to look for some matches. Apparently my intention did not please her, for suddenly I felt something cool brush my cheek, as if from a hand, and I heard a soft, barely perceptible whisper:
‘Don’t put on the lights. Come to me, Jerzy! I am in the niche.’
I shuddered, perturbed by an odd sensation. For the first time since we had been together I heard her voice – in truth, her whisper. Groping, I advanced toward the bed. The whisper died and did not return. I did not see her face, for the darkness was almost complete; only some indistinct whiteness was visible. She must have been already in her underclothing. I stretched out my hand to clasp her and encountered her naked hips. A thrill ran through my body, and my blood seethed. In a moment I was already taking in the sweetness of her womanhood. She was insane. The giddy scent of her body intoxicated my senses and incited a craving to possess her completely. The passionate rhythm of her divine hips inflamed my blood and drove me wild. But I sought her lips without success, I tried to enclose her in my arms to no avail. I began to pass my trembling hands about the pillow, to slide them along the length of her body. I met only wraps, veils. She had, as it were, completely enclosed herself in the fire of her sex, withdrawing everything except that. Finally I lost all patience. Feelings of wounded pride, lowered dignity, rose in fervent opposition. I had to have her lips at all costs. Why was she denying me them? Didn’t I have a right to them?
Suddenly I remembered that nearby on the wall was an electric switch. Kneeling on the bed, I found the lever with my fingers and flipped it up. The light gushed, illuminating the room. I looked down and, propelled by boundless terror, jumped out of bed.
Before me, in a turmoil of lace and satin, lay the bare, shamelessly spread-out body of a woman – a body without breasts, without shoulders, without a head … .
With a cry of dread, I rushed out of the bedroom; I leapt like a madman down the stairs and found myself in the street. In the quiet night, I hurried along the bridge … .
In the morning, I was found unconscious on a garden bench.
* * *
Two months later, passing The Lindens by chance, I noticed workmen in the park. Roses were being wrapped in straw coverings for the winter. An elegantly dressed man was emerging from an alley, speaking to someone.
Seized by an irresistible urge, I approached him, tipping my hat:
‘Excuse me. Is this the house of Jadwiga Kalergis?’
‘At one time it was her’s,’ came the answer. ‘A week ago her family took possession of their inheritance.’
I felt a strange tightness in my throat.
‘Inheritance?’ I asked, straining for an indifferent tone.
‘Why, yes. Jadwiga Kalergis has been dead for two years. She was killed in a hiking accident in the Alps. Sir, what’s wrong? You’ve turned pale.’
‘Nothing – nothing at all. Sorry to have bothered you. Thank you for the information.’
Tottering, I went along the shore to the city … .