In a garden of feelings
I. Klotylda and Lucjan
W klatce is a novel that is little known to the general public, probably not only because it is rarely reprinted, but also because critics are reluctant to recommend it. Some connect the creation of this work with Orzeszkowa’s private life, others would like to see it as a sign of the times in which it was written. Irena Krzywicka summarized the ideas contained in Orzeszkowa’s second novel this way: “I suspect that it was the first period of her [Orzeszkowa’s] relationship with Święcicki that inspired her to have such delusions.” The scholar confidently and without hesitation considered all prose works of this period (up to Pan Graba) to bear the mark of the writer’s personal experiences. It’s hard to deny this thesis; indeed, when she was writing W klatce coincided with the intense experience of her relationship with Zygmunt Święcicki, so it’s easy to propose a clear interpretation of the novel: a complicated relationship, suffering, games, and love secrets, all drawn, as it were, from the author’s personal experiences. Moreover, Krzywicka, by using the noun “delusions,” negatively assesses the work’s content, which could be interpreted as indicating that Orzeszkowa’s attempt at prose is rather feeble. It’s worth emphasizing, however, that portraying difficult, unusual relationships, grappling with issues previously underrepresented in Polish literature, is typical of the second half of the 19th century. Writers attempted to create a language for describing interpersonal relationships and the psyche of their characters, which, from the perspective of world literature, might seem rather awkward. Two examples demonstrate the similarity between the realizations proposed by leading Polish writers of the positivist era: Henryk Sienkiewicz’s prose debut Na marne, and a fragment of Bolesław Prus’s Lalka. This latter similarity was noted by Zbigniew Przybyła:
Some plot situations in Prus’s work show a significant similarity to the compositional solutions of the novel W klatce, in which Orzeszkowa gives the answer to the question posed in Początek powieści: “How, for example, can a man-human and a woman-doll come together […]?” In W klatce, thanks to chance (!), a worldly lady meets a provincial doctor at the Grand Theatre in Warsaw, and the order of their subsequent meetings […] will also be faithfully repeated in the plot chronology of the “footbridges on which” Wokulski and Izabela meet.
Upon first reading, W klatce may seem like a novel about Klotylda Warska, the character who, in a way, organizes the entire novel. It is Klotylda who evokes extreme emotions, is the most reflective, and is also a powerful influencer and intensely active. Compared to her, many people seem downright static. Klotylda Warska – the novel’s femme fatale – is an atypical woman, defying all conventions and notions of a woman’s role in the 19th century: financially independent, morally free, and committed to intellectual development. A rare case. The embodiment of the author’s dream of being able to make her own decisions and develop in the direction she chooses. And although Warska is free and, according to Orzeszkowa’s terminology, a fully-fledged “human being,” she is unable to capitalize on this. She must hit rock bottom to rise again and establish a “human purpose.” Why? The novel does not provide a clear answer and that is probably why subsequent researchers cannot classify it (as is the case with many other works) into a specific category. This makes the entire text more engaging. A first reading doesn’t give this impression, but a second reading reveals the multifaceted nature of the characters, their ambiguity. The dilemmas that plague Warska aren’t merely trivial and stem from her flighty nature. Analysing this character one can see the ambivalence inherent in her life: she’s capable of committing to love, yet she’s easily captivated, which leads to hurting many people. She has an education, which Orzeszkowa believes is essential for better functioning in society, yet this doesn’t protect Klotylda from rash decisions and the reckless investment of her emotions, which leads to tragedy. She is a woman of extraordinary and striking beauty. Perhaps this is what has the greatest influence on shaping her character. A girl, and later a woman, perceived primarily through the prism of her body, had no chance to mature emotionally. She’s like a smart but spoiled child. At the same time, from the perspective of nineteenth-century views, she could be considered an anti-woman, for she possesses too much independence and self-reliance, and too little concern for the opinions of others: she has money, looks, and isn’t looking for a husband. She’s the one still being “hunted” for; she’s not young, but she’s still desirable. Feminists born decades later could be proud of her…
Orzeszkowa attempted to combine literary fiction and her own experiences in a single character, presenting the views of American emancipated women. The writer paid considerable attention to America and the emerging attempts there to raise women differently than before. Progressive norms in the 19th century were more strongly and clearly expressed overseas than in Europe, especially in Grodno or Warsaw. Warska goes somewhat beyond the standard 19th-century upbringing of girls; she would rather be among Polish women of the next generation like Bronisława Skłodowska, Maria Kowalewska, and Antonina Leśniewska – educated, free from stereotypical thinking about the roles of men and women, planning their lives according to their own desires and intellectual abilities. If we analyse the character of the Jodłowa heiress in this way, an image of a woman of the future emerges: educated, independent, beautiful, and intelligent. Warska, however, is not a fully formed person. She has distinguished manners resulting from so-called good upbringing and the ability to present herself in society; she knows how to dress tastefully, which from the very beginning serves to create a contrast with other female characters in the novel; she is vain in her behaviour and lifestyle – this is how one can describe Warska’s present in both the mental and physical spheres. But she desires a different future for herself: she strives to utilize her acquired knowledge and live consciously. She seeks room to change, feeling internally exhausted by her current existence. She needs a powerful emotional experience that will allow her to understand where she is truly headed. The blow of Dolewski’s death awakens in her a genuine desire to free herself from the stereotypes imposed on women and allows her to understand that Mickiewicz’s message, “whoever has never experienced bitterness…”, has long been a curse that has governed her life. Warska is characterized not only through words and actions. Orzeszkowa, known for her love of nature, herbs, and flowers, speaks of Klotylda (but also other characters) using the so-called language of flowers, popular primarily in nineteenth-century flirtations and social gatherings. The Jodłowa heiress remains ambiguous in this characterization as well. The construction of the space around Klotylda, a space largely defined by vegetation, is interesting. The garden surrounding Warska’s estate is presented from several perspectives, each attributed to a specific event and the character’s emotional state. It’s also worth noting how strongly nature demarcates the space. Jodłowa feels isolated from the town. On one side, a mountain looms, dominating and sheltering the Warska estate, and looking from the perspective of the nearby road, Jodłowa is behind the mountain, at the foot of which there is a stretch of greenery:
Entering this garden from the mountain side, one could walk for a long time among these dark, rustling spaces, under the vaults of fir trees and on the soft carpets of grass surrounding the birch groves, without seeing a house, without hearing the slightest sounds that usually accompany human bustle and efforts.
The trees define a completely separate, slightly mysterious space. The description created by the writer creates an atmosphere known from fairy tales or horror stories, strongly indicated by words referring to the senses: from this place, a passerby will not notice any signs of everyday life (the sense of sight is directed exclusively towards what is natural), the trees isolate from everyday sounds (the sense of hearing), and the carpets of grass are soft (the sense of touch). The location and dynamic of the description are changed by the introduction of the adverb “suddenly.” The isolated, mysterious space unexpectedly opens up, and the description gains dynamics:
And suddenly, at the end of the widest avenue, cutting through the very centre of the garden, a vast space was revealed, no longer shaded, but only surrounded in a large circle by a low-cut row of lilacs and jasmine (part II, chapter I; emphasis – A.K.).
The perspective shifts significantly. Initially, vegetation dominated or protected humanity. The closer one gets to the buildings, the flora seems to gradually diminish, while more species appear, each with a unique meaning. Strolling through the garden, the owner can, thanks to her imagination (and perhaps her knowledge of plant symbolism), “hear” that the shrubs consider it a blessing to serve a beautiful woman: “Happy is he whose brow is shaded by your fragrant curls […], happiest is he who can say to you evening and morning: you are mine!” – say the jasmines; the lilacs complement the statement, revealing in a way the nature of Klotylda: “There are moments when, far from the hustle and bustle of the world, from the hubbub of entertainment, you brood alone in your room, then think of me.” This message accompanies Warska throughout her garden journey, all the way to the door of the house, where a camellia conveys a desire for closer acquaintance. One might wonder whether the white flower planted there is meant to encourage the garden owner to explore her property better, or perhaps to entice visitors. The closer we get to the buildings, the more dynamic the description becomes. When we consider the symbolism of the plants, we get the impression that the emphasis was placed on the natural order, built by the mountain and the vertical arrangement of vegetation, primarily trees. While the garden appears chaotic at first, in reality, it displays more conscious action, supported by the gardener’s hand, than in the space further from the house. The plants planted closest to the buildings are a mix of fragrant orange trees (stimulating another sense), cypress bushes reminding us of the inevitability of death, and myrtles offering hope for an imminent marriage. This richly symbolic mix corresponds with the haphazardly arranged garden furniture:
On this porch, among the large orange, myrtle and cypress trees, there were sofas, armchairs and marble tables arranged carelessly and without symmetry, and here and there a white camellia or a pink datura would peek out from among the greenery and peeked into the long and narrow windows of the house, with their ancient shape and mirrored glass (part II, chapter I).
This description is largely complemented by colour. There’s a visible contrast between the garden at the very top of the hill and the one right next to the house. Closer to the hill, the world was dark and quiet; near the house, subdued colours dominate: the white of the house, the statues, and the marble stairs. The whole is complemented by “paths paved with bright gravel” (part II, chapter I) and the wafting scent of flowers. The emphasis on sensory experiences is obvious. Orzeszkowa doses them, beginning with sight, then moving on to hearing and touch, and concluding with the sense of smell. The latter also becomes crucial during Lucjan’s first visit to Jodłowa. The writer reverses the order in a way, building the atmosphere with the help of scent: “The garden door was open, the scent of daffodils flowed through it and mingled with the strong scent of flowers arranged in two spiral columns in the corners of the room,” then she stimulates the sense of sight: “The setting sun gilded the heads of the white statues standing opposite the door in the garden and, sneaking through the mirrored windows, cast reddish streaks on the colourful drapery of the walls,” and then smoothly moves on to the activation of hearing: “A deep silence enveloped the soft and fragrant room; only the gentle rustle of the fir trees came from the garden and, occasionally interrupted, the song of a nightingale, which in one of the birch groves had its first spring rehearsals of its voice” (part II, chapter II).
The guest’s arrival and shared feasting are complemented by the sense of taste – the set table suggests the preparation of a meal: “A small table was set on the garden porch, among orange trees, myrtle trees, blooming daturas, and camellias” (part II, chapter II). It’s worth adding that the introduction of sensual experiences is not merely a stylistic device aimed at organizing the space. By using plants, Orzeszkowa suggests the characters’ attitudes and feelings. Just before Lucjan’s visit, the novel mentions a birch grove, which, through plant symbolism, is meant to say: “Come with me, we will be happy,” orange trees signifying “a gift of love,” and myrtle used in making wedding wreaths. The whole thing is summed up, as it were, by the presence of a camellia in the garden space surrounding the meeting place of Klotylda and Lucjan, saying: “I very much wish to know you better,” and also by daffodils, anticipating further events: “What did he do to deserve your cruelty?”.
However, the most telling scene is the one in which Warska, sitting opposite Lucjan, holds a myrtle twig above her head: “For a moment they were both silent. Klotylda, not looking at her guest, scanned the flowerbed, and the branch of the myrtle under which she was sitting, falling on her head, crowned it with tiny leaves” (part II, chapter II). The young doctor sees the woman sitting opposite as an innocent girl, ready for marriage. She, on the other hand, knows that she lost her innocence long ago, entangled in a powerful experience of herself and the world, which is why her body language betrays uncertainty and slight anxiety: she looks down, searching for an anchor point other than Lucjan’s face. However, the doctor fails to notice these signals, already captivated by the charm of the beautiful woman:
Lucjan didn’t take his eyes off her; he couldn’t help but think that with that myrtle on her forehead, with the faint blush that returned to her face a few times as if under the influence of a secret thought, in her white attire she resembled a young, ideal bride walking towards the wedding altar.
The thought flashed through his mind like a fiery lightning bolt; he wasn’t aware of his feelings, but he instinctively felt a tightening in his chest, painful or delightful, he couldn’t tell. He ran his hand over his forehead, which suddenly burned (part II, chapter II).
Orzeszkowa ends this scene in a very symbolic way – by breaking a plant that announces an imminent marriage, which can be considered an anticipation of the upcoming events:
At that moment Klotylda, still lost in thought, raised her hand and lifted a myrtle branch from her forehead; but when it bent back to its former position, she stretched out her hand and broke it from the tree.
“Why did you break that twig, Madam?” Lucjan said involuntarily.
“It was weighing on my head, and it wouldn’t bend in any other direction. Do you pity plants? You surely believe that they feel and suffer.”
“Surely, Madam…” Lucjan began.
“So,” Klotilde interrupted him, “in compensation for the momentary discomfort I caused you, I offer you this twig…” (part II, chapter II)
The doctor accepts the gift and, in the privacy of his own room, completes the work of destruction, naively hoping that this will finally nip the dangerously developing feeling in the bud:
A few moments later, a light flashed in Lucjan’s window, and he, resting his forehead on his hand, sat down at his desk. A myrtle twig lay before him.
In the drawing-room, the clock chimed loudly, announcing the hours of one and two after midnight, and the young doctor sat still, motionless, staring at himself. He finally rose and said,
“Yes, this is madness, this is a dangerous game! I won’t be with her again, at least not anytime soon.”
As he spoke, he picked up the twig, looked at it for a moment with a sad smile, then plucked off its tiny leaves and tossed the bare stem away.
“It was a beautiful dream, but only a dream to be forgotten…” he said to himself.
The light in the doctor’s room went out; myrtle leaves lay scattered on the floor amid the shadows. These traces were to remind him the next day of what he called a dream (part II, chapter II).
The concise thought that appears at the end creates a contrast between what is symbolically presented in the story of the myrtle twig (a signal that the wedding will not take place) and Lucjan’s actual, deep feelings and desires: “Alas! It is easier to strip a green branch of its leaves than to tear from the heart the feeling once born there; it is easier to say: I will conquer! than to extinguish the seething inner fire within” (part II, chapter II). Initially, these words may seem insignificant to the novel’s message. They only become clearer after reading the entire work, and it becomes striking how quickly Orzeszkowa hints at the planned course of events. The actions and behaviours of Lucjan and Klotylda can be interpreted in many ways, as the writer also strives to avoid a one-sided characterization.
Using the symbolism of flowers and colours, Orzeszkowa allows us to discern not only the budding love but also Klotylda’s character and Lucjan’s profound sensitivity and tendency to experience life emotionally. Deepening the character’s characterization and developing the novel’s plot, she utilizes specific situations and phenomena from social life. She skilfully combines both narratives, thus effortlessly developing diverse themes simultaneously, particularly those seemingly disparate, such as love and illness.
Lucjan is, in a sense, unmasked in the scene with the myrtle twig – portrayed in the first part of the work as a down-to-earth doctor, he reveals his romantic and melancholic side, the same one Cyprian, who carefully observes his friend, has noticed in him.
Klotylda is more often than other characters characterized symbolically. Moments crucial to building relationships with men, especially with Lucjan, are highlighted with white roses, which in the language of flowers signifies innocence and beauty. Warska, seen with such an entourage at the opera, not only emphasizes her beauty but also sends an additional signal to those around her. She wants to be perceived as someone without obligations, free, and pure: “In her hand she held a bouquet of white roses, and the same flower glittered above her forehead, shimmering with the emerald that held it in her hair” (part I, chapter III). The precious stone in her hair underscores the flower’s significance, as it symbolizes love and fidelity.
Warska and her entourage clearly have no problem deciphering the flowers’ meaning. The wreath prepared for Klotylda disturbs the young servant. The lively girl sees the decoration primarily as flowers symbolizing mourning and sadness:
“[…] and the flowers?
“Here they are, madam.” And from the small box she held in her hand, she took out a gracefully and intricately woven wreath of dark cypress branches and white rosebuds.
“Such a sad wreath, madam,” remarked the maid (part I, chapter VIII).
Warska, however, is aware that a wreath woven from cypress and white rose will reflect her inner self. The combination of such strikingly expressive flowers can also inspire reflection in those who will be looking at the lady of the house and will undoubtedly admire her beauty:
“Sad!?” the beautiful lady repeated after her mechanically. “Sad?… you’re right. The cypress is a grave flower, but the rosebuds symbolize youth and hope. Yes, this wreath is beautiful and wise,” she continued, as if to herself, “for how often in a person’s life does the cypress join the roses? Seemingly, the roses themselves sparkle, and dark cypress branches curl around them…”
She was silent for a moment, still gazing at the fantastic wreath, and her face became gloomy again.
“Put it away, Marylka,” she said finally, handing back the flowers (part I, chapter VIII).
Even in such a simple situation as preparing for a ball, a woman experiences extreme moods. She is sometimes reflective, sometimes highly agitated. The flowers she herself has chosen put her in a bad mood (at the same time, they reflect it through their meaning), as if recalling unpleasant moments. Klotylda is tormented (like her father) by constant dissatisfaction. Transferring her emotions to objects, she chooses those that resonate strongly with her, simultaneously highlighting all the contrasts—those within and those that are, in a sense, created for the needs of the outside world:
Her unbraided hair, in sheaves of dark golden rays, flowed around the white folds of muslin in which she wrapped herself; before her lay a dress of spiderweb lace and a wreath of roses and cypress, and next to the mirror, against a background of crimson velvet, thick strings of pearls wove their way (part I, chapter VIII).
The lightness of the lace, the delicacy of the muslin, and the message conveyed by the white rosebuds are contrasted with cypress and dark velvet. Strings of pearls, in a way, tie this entire arrangement together. If we accept the literary symbolism of the pearl, then Klotylda’s necklace can be seen as a harbinger of tears. Everything is as radically different as this woman’s moods. The Jodłowa heiress swings between emotional poles. This is evident in the transition from joyful excitement at the impending reunion to regret and sadness evoked by flowers and memories. It is even more evident in the bipolarity of life’s events and roles: from an orphaned child, to a wife subservient to her husband, a woman devoid of moral standards, wallowing in luxury and toying with the feelings of others, to a tender heiress, caring doctor, and caregiver to orphans and young girls. Since these changes don’t always occur linearly (which would justify viewing this character in the context of maturation), and childhood trauma clearly had a huge negative impact on Warska, it’s possible to consider personality disorders. As Anna Wrońska points out:
Borderline personality disorder is defined as a dominant pattern of behaviour characterized by disturbances in interpersonal relationships, instability of self and emotions, and a tendency to impulsive behaviour, beginning in early adulthood.
Constant searching and lack of fulfilment are the symptoms of this disorder. A person affected by it lives without considering what is and what is not socially acceptable. Warska leads an ostentatiously free life: she is carefree, travels around Europe, and her behaviour there differs significantly from what would be considered acceptable in provincial Jodłowa. Like many people with borderline personality disorder, Klotylda feels that her life is “cursed” and incomplete when there are no other people around her.
Simon Baron-Cohen’s research has shown that “people with borderline personality disorder can’t stand being alone. When they’re alone, they feel abandoned. To avoid this terrible feeling, they seek contact with others—even fleeting relationships with strangers,” which would explain many situations in Klotylda’s life, including organizing parties, fraternizing with Marylka and the old house servant, constantly wanting to move from place to place, and finally, creating an ambiguous situation by flirting with two men who wanted to marry her.
The extreme behaviour of the Jodłowa heiress can also be seen as an attempt to distance herself from the past. However, an analysis of the novel’s individual threads raises questions about the sincerity of this woman’s intentions. It’s possible that Warska hasn’t fully freed herself from the armour of tradition, as she also experienced a traumatic childhood, which weakened her psyche and she easily succumbs to the tendencies stemming from her disorder. After a longer stay in Jodłowa, she begins to see how conventions and small-town mentality can destroy a person. It’s difficult to live in a society where people aren’t valued, only general ethical principles are. Furthermore, Warska struggles with her own choices. She stops noticing that she’s destroying people even when she loves them, because her previous lifestyle, in which she didn’t have to consider the consequences of her choices, doesn’t hold water in the face of true love. She suddenly becomes responsible for other people’s feelings, a responsibility she can’t bear, because her personality disorder conditions her emotions and incites toxic behaviour. From the perspective of a metropolitan world, she’s a doll to be admired; from a provincial perspective, she lives a meaningless life. She constantly questions the meaning of her own existence, thus deepening her condition. She’s intelligent and recognizes both the multiplicity of her own thoughts and the extremes of her choices, as well as the perspectives of her surroundings, experiencing this ambiguity as undesirable. She falls into a chaos from which it is difficult to escape. The inability to make a choice destroys her. Paradoxically, only the shock of Lucjan’s death acts as an effective remedy, facilitating a peaceful and more fulfilling existence. Therefore, Klotylda initially seems to be the axis of the entire work, the woman who unites all the characters, devastating them with her destructive nature. However, when one reflects on the novel’s epigraph, it is easy to see that in the very first words Orzeszkowa summarizes the entire scene, revealing its main theme and ending, and also sketches out the key characters in bold strokes: men, whom she sets tasks that are more closely linked to ideas and concrete actions, viewing love as limiting and leading to death (a direct foreshadowing of Lucjan’s fate). The epigraph suggests that weak men are the cause of self-destruction. Warska is admittedly an indecisive woman, at times vain, even calculating, but her fundamental “fault” is that there is no other beauty around the novel’s protagonists who can present to the world not only her charm but also her intellect. Against the backdrop of ordinary women, functioning according to predetermined social norms and adopting traditional roles, Klotylda is like an exotic bird, a forbidden fruit. Ultimately, she becomes poison because she distracts men from important things: action, ideas, fame. But it must also be honestly emphasized that she is not the only woman influencing the doctor’s self-limiting actions. Lucjan rejects the possibility of development, choosing the countryside. He does this for his mother, who refuses to move to the big city. Remaining in a small town doesn’t kill Lucjan’s body, but it slowly corrodes his inner self. He replaces his desire for development with work for the cause, doing important things for the local community, thus perfectly aligning with positivist ideals. This, however, does not extinguish his need to do something great or at least something different, something that would surpass his everyday, rather monotonous existence. Through his insincere choice, he becomes an intriguing patient: a grateful son, a good doctor, implementing a plan of groundwork. This is the image presented to the residents of N., and how he is perceived by his friend Cyprian. However, Lucjan’s conversation with a friendly priest reveals how different Dolewski is on the outside from who he is on the inside. Orzeszkowa portrays this contradiction metaphorically, once again allowing objects to speak (as the flowers did earlier). It is through the books on the desk and the room’s furnishings, which testify to the owner’s particular taste, that we broaden our understanding of the village doctor. We get to know him as a man inclined to philosophical reflection, familiar with new scientific trends, and full of longing for an intellectual life. Just as the myrtle twig indicated Lucjan’s sensitivity, other objects reveal further layers of his heterogeneous, hidden nature:
“How unlike your entire house, this room is!” said the priest, sitting in the armchair in front of the desk.
“Yes,” replied Lucjan, pulling up another armchair and sitting opposite his guest, “in other parts of this house, my mother is the sole mistress; […] But in this room, I exercise my exclusive dominion and have arranged it according to my own liking. Whatever you wish, Father Stanisław, such is my nature: I must like what is beautiful and pleasing to the eye.”
“That is an inconvenient nature for a person living in N.,” replied the priest (part I, chapter VII).
A person who desires intellectual and aesthetic beauty, who daily visits dirty apartments, and is faced with simple thought and behaviour, must suffer greatly. Yet the doctor, reading philosophical books, pursues this path, disregarding his own mental health. Therefore, by implementing “philanthropic-utilitarian plans” (part I, chapter VII), he appears less than sincere, a fact confirmed in part by his sudden breakdown and lovesickness. It seems ironic on Orzeszkowa’s part that, of all the people living against their nature, experiencing minor and major frustrations and nervous breakdowns, the doctor proves the least resilient to stress. It is he—predestined to implement a program of recovery—who succumbs to mental illness and dies. The support of a grateful child who brings daily a “large bouquet of forget-me-nots and wild roses” to Lucjan’s room (part II, chapter VIII) is of no help. The bouquet symbolically speaks of grateful memory and wishes for true, sincere love. He is not satisfied with the admiration of the townspeople or his mother’s love. His melancholy and inability to cope with his failure in love lead to a deepening heartbreak syndrome and, ultimately, death. Lucjan’s death is decidedly theatrical: a heart attack is triggered by the sight of his would-be lover, and among all those gathered around the dying man, no one can do anything except bring a glass of water, which, unfortunately, is not an effective remedy. The moment of Lucjan’s death brings together key characters in one place:
Lucjan lay on the bench, dead and beautiful in his stillness. The long lashes of his closed eyes cast a shadow over his pale face; his bloodless mouth hadn’t completely closed after his last moan; his forehead was obscured by scattered black hair. One hand lay on his chest, the other dangling to the ground.
Beside him stood Grodzicka with a glass of water in his hand, Cyprian with a look of heartfelt concern on his face, and Dembowski, anxiously twirling his grey moustache (part II, chapter IX).
This moment could serve a painter as a genre scene worth immortalizing. It focuses on Lucjan and those close and friendly to him, still waiting for the help that is to come with Father Stanisław. Without the priest’s presence, nothing is completely certain; it is he who must make the final and irreversible diagnosis: death.
The silent and invisible figure at the centre of this scene is Jodłowa’s heiress: “Klotylda half-hid behind one of the porch posts and stood petrified, her hands broken and convulsively clenched” (part II, chapter IX). Her inability to act or utter a single word shows how deeply she is affected by what is happening around her. This moment of reflection and the shock she experiences are her attempt at transition, a new birth. Along with Lucjan Dolewski, Chameleon, an enigma who plays with the feelings of others, dies, and a true, conscious, and responsible woman is born. The ending of this story sounds like a fairy tale:
Several years had passed since Lucjan Dolewski’s death. Prosperity had spread around Jodłowa; a caring hand was evident at every turn. Nurseries, orphanages, and hospitals flourished, and when someone curiously asked who had done all this, they were shown a beautiful, large manor house, surrounded by ancient fir trees, and the name of Klotylda Warska was uttered (part II, Epilogue).
The question remains whether Warska regains her health through this transformation.
