My aunt came back towards evening, and announced visitors.  To-morrow both the Sniatynskis are coming, and Clara Hilst.

It is very late, but I do not want to sleep, for I am loathe to part with the memories of the day.  Sleep cannot be more beautiful.  The park is literally alive with the song of the nightingales, and there is still in me a great deal of the old romanticist.  The night is clear and limpid, and the sky full of stars.  Thinking of Aniela, I say a hundred times good-night to her.  I see that side by side with the improductivite Slave, there is in me a great deal of purely Polish sentimentality.  I had not known myself in that capacity before.  But what does it matter?  I love her very much.

13 May.

Clara and the Sniatynskis have not arrived.  Instead of this, there came a letter, informing us they would come to-morrow, the weather permitting.  To-day we had a thunder-storm, the like of which they have not experienced here for a long time.  About ten o’clock in the morning a hot wind rose, which smothered everything in clouds of dust.  The wind fell at times, and then rose again with such fury that it seemed to lay the trees flat.  Our beautiful park was filled with the sound of crashing branches, and clouds of dust mingled with torn-off leaves and twigs.  The great lime-tree close to the pavilion, where young Latysz died, was split in two.  It was fear-fully close, there was no air, and the wind seemed to come straight from a heated furnace, and carried with it a breath of carbon.  I, used to the Italian scirocco, did not mind it so much, but Pani Celina suffered greatly, and indirectly, Aniela.  My aunt was in a bad temper about the damage done to the park, and as usual, vented it on Chwastowski.  The peppery old gentleman, who probably was caned often enough over his Homer, had evidently not forgotten the Odyssey, nor his ready speech either, for he replied to my aunt that if he were AEolus he would not serve her as agent, and bear with her unjust tantrums.  My aunt gave way this time, merely because of the redoubled threats from the skies.  It had grown very still all at once, but from the south, banks of cloud, black as a funereal pall, overcast with a sickly red sheen, came rolling up.  In a moment it grew as dark as night, and Pani Celina rung for lights.  Shortly afterwards the darkness yielded to an ominous reddish light.  Chwastowski rushed off in a hurry to give orders for the cattle to be driven home, but the cow-herds had started without waiting for orders, for presently we heard distinctly the mournful lowing of the cattle.  Then my aunt fetched the bell of Our Lady of Loreto, and went around the house ringing energetically.  I did not even try to explain to her that ringing a bell in that motionless atmosphere might rather attract than avert a thunderbolt, and in spite of the consciousness that in case of danger I could not be of the slightest help, I was ashamed to let her risk the danger alone.