At the sight of Ploszow I felt more troubled still, and my eagerness increased.  I tried to pay attention to outward things, changes that had taken place during my absence, and look at the new buildings on the road.  I repeated to myself mechanically that the weather was very fine, and the spring exceptionally early this year.  And indeed, the weather was magnificent; the morning air was crisp and transparent; near the cottages the apple-trees, in full bloom, were scattering their petals like snowflakes on the grass; it was like a long line of pictures by the modern school of painters.  Wherever the eye turned, there was that luminous plein-air in the midst of which moved the figures of people working in the fields or near their cottages.  I saw it all, observed every detail; but, strange to say, I was not able to take it in, or give myself up to it altogether.  The impressions had lost their absorbing power, and remained only on the surface of the brain, the brain itself being full of other thoughts.  In this state of divided attention I approached Ploszow.

Presently the cool air of the lime avenue fanned my face, and I saw at the other end, far off, the windows of the house.  The scattered, futile thoughts hammered and knocked louder than ever at my brain.  I stopped the driver from going straight to the house, and dismissed him, I do not know why, at the gate.  Followed by his thanks, I went on foot straight towards the veranda.  I cannot explain to myself why I felt so troubled, unless it was that within these well-known walls something unknown was awaiting me, which was in close connection with the tragic past.  Crossing the courtyard, I felt such a weight upon my chest that it obstructed my breath.  “What the deuce is the matter with me?” said I, inwardly.  As I had dismissed the cab, nobody had heard me coming.  The hall was empty; I went in to the dining-room to wait until the ladies came down.

I knew they would come soon, as the table was laid for breakfast, and the samovar, whispering and growling, was sending coils of steam aloft.  Again not the slightest detail escaped my notice.  I observed that the room was cool and comparatively dark, as the windows faced the north.  For a moment my attention was fixed on the three luminous streaks the light from the windows made upon the polished floor.  I looked at the carved sideboard I remembered since a child, and then recalled the conversation I had in this same room with Sniatynski, and we looked through the window at his wife and Aniela, in fur boots, coming from the hot-houses.

At last a feeling of great solitude and sadness overcame me, and I went close to the window to get more light and make further observations in the garden.  But all this did not restore my balance of mind.  The only real thought my mind was full of was that I should meet her in a few minutes.  There are people who out of fear are capable of the most heroic deeds.  With me it is different.  Fear, uncertainty