I did this on purpose, so as to walk home with Aniela. I
knew she could not well refuse such a mere act of politeness, and I
was also sure my aunt would not go with us.
I gave orders for the carriage to drive on and wait on the road, and
we went on foot through the lime avenue. I offered my arm to Clara,
but we walked all abreast, accompanied by the croaking of the frogs in
the Ploszow mere.
Clara stopped a moment to listen to that chorus, which ceased now and
then, to start afresh with redoubled vigor, and said,--
"This is the finale of my Song of Spring."
"What an exquisite evening!" remarked Sniatynski, and then began to
quote the beautiful lines from the "Merchant of Venice":--
"How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!
Here will we sit and let the sounds of music
Creep in our ears: soft stillness and the night
Become the touches of sweet harmony."
He did not remember the rest, but I did, and took up the strain:--
"Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold:
There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st
But in his motion like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins;
Such harmony is in immortal souls;
But whilst this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it."
Then I repeated to Clara, who does not understand Polish, the lines in
French, improvising the translation.
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