Marie Tarnowska. Annie Vivanti

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      “You must win him back,” said Olga Kralberg to me one day—she, whose fate it was on a not distant day to commit suicide for his sake. “Every man, especially if he is a husband, has—after some time—to be won back again.”

      “That is sooner said than done,” I replied despondently. “To win a man is easy enough. But to win him back—”

      “There are various ways of doing it,” she said. “Have you tried being very affectionate?”

      “Yes, indeed,” said I.

      “How did it answer?”

      “He was bored to death.”

      “Have you tried being cool and distant? Being, so to speak, a stranger to him?”

      “Yes, I have.”

      “And he?”

      “He never even noticed that I was being a stranger to him. He was as happy and good-tempered as ever.”

      Olga shook her head dejectedly. “Have you tried being hysterical?” she asked after a while.

      I hesitated. “I think so,” I said at last. “But I do not quite know what you mean.”

      “Well,” explained Olga sententiously, “with some men, who cannot bear healthy normal women, hysteria is a great success. Of course, it must be esthetic hysteria—you must try to preserve the plastic line through it all,” and Olga sketched with her thumb a vague painter's gesture in the air. “For example, you deluge yourself in strange perfumes. You trail about the house in weird clinging gowns. You faint away at the sight of certain shades of color—”

      “What an absurd idea!” I exclaimed.

      “Not at all. Not in the least,” said Olga. “On the contrary, it is very modern, very piquant to swoon away every time you see a certain shade of—of mauve, for instance.”

      “But what if I don't see it?”

      “Silly! You must see it. Give orders to a shop to send you ten yards of mauve silk. Open the parcel in your husband's presence. Then—then you totter; you fall down—but mind,” added Olga, “that you fall in a graceful, impressionist attitude. Like this.” And Olga illustrated her meaning in what appeared to me a very foolish posture.

      “I think it ridiculous,” I said to her. And she was deeply offended.

      “Good-by,” she said, pinning her hat on briskly and spitefully.

      “No, no! Don't go away. Do not desert me,” I implored. “Try to suggest something else.”

      Olga was mollified. After reflecting a few moments she remarked.

      “Have you tried being a ray of sunshine to him?”

      I lost patience with her. “What do you mean by a 'ray of sunshine'? You seem to be swayed by stock phrases, such as one reads in novels.”

      This time Olga was not offended. She explained that in order to be a ray of sunshine in a man's life, one must appear before him gay, sparkling and radiant at all hours of the day.

      “Always dress in the lightest of colors. Put a ribbon in your hair. When you hear his footsteps, run to meet him and throw your arms round his neck. When he goes out, toss a flower to him from the window. When he seems dull or silent, take your guitar and sing to him.”

      “You know I don't play the guitar,” I said pettishly.

      “That does not matter. What really counts is the singing. The atmosphere that surrounds him should be bright with unstudied gaiety. He ought to live, so to speak, in a whirlwind of sunshine!”

      “Well, I will try,” I sighed, without much conviction.

      I did try.

      I dressed in the lightest of colors and I pinned a ribbon in my hair. When I heard his footstep, I ran to meet him and threw my arms round his neck.

      “What is the matter?” he asked. “And what on earth have you got on your head? You look like a barmaid.”

      To the best of my powers I was a whirlwind of sunshine; and as soon as I saw that he was dull and silent (and this occurred almost immediately) I said to myself that the moment was come for me to sing to him.

      I sat down at the piano. I have not much ear, but a fine strong voice, even if not always quite in tune.

      At the second bar Vassili got up, took his hat and left the house. I threw a flower to him from the window.

      He did not come back for three days.

      VIII

      When I talked it over with Olga, she was very sympathetic.

      “I know,” she mused, “that these things sometimes succeed and sometimes do not. Men are not all alike.” Then she added: “But there is one sure way of winning them back. It is an old method, but infallible.”

      “What is it?” I asked skeptically.

      “By making them jealous. It is vulgar, it is rococo, it causes no end of trouble. But it is infallible.”

      We reviewed the names of all the men who could possibly be employed to arouse Vassili's jealousy. We could think of no one. I was surrounded by nothing but women.

      “It is past belief,” said Olga, surveying me from head to foot, “that there should be no one willing to—”

      I shook my head moodily. “No one on earth.”

      Olga grasped my wrist. “Stay! I have an idea. We will get some one who is not on earth. Some one who is dead. It will be much simpler. I remember there was an idea of that kind in an unsuccessful play I saw a year or two ago. What we need is a dead man—recently dead, if possible, and, if possible, young. If he has committed suicide, so much the better.”

      “What on earth do you want with a dead man?” I asked, shuddering.

      “Why! can't you see? We will say that he died for your sake!” cried Olga, “that he killed himself on your account. We will have a telegram sent to us by some one in Russia. We will get them to telegraph to you: 'I die for your sake. Am killing myself. Farewell!'”

      “But who is to sign it?”

      “Oh, somebody or other,” said Olga vaguely. “Or we could have it signed with an imaginary name, if you prefer it. That would enable us to dispense with the corpse.”

      “I most certainly prefer that,” I remarked. “But, frankly, I can't see—”

      “What can't you see? Don't you see the effect upon Vassili of the news that a man has killed himself for your sake? Don't you see the new irresistible attraction which you will then exercise over him? Surely you know what strange subtle charm emanates from the 'fatal woman'—the woman whose lethal beauty—”

      “Very well, very well,” I said, slightly encouraged. “Let us have the telegram written and sent to me.”

      We spent the rest of the afternoon composing СКАЧАТЬ