corruption in this pure atmosphere.  But does not the principal evil lie in her marrying a man she cannot love?  What is more immoral, my love which is a manifestation of nature’s great law, or the belonging of Aniela to that man, which is a shameful breaking of the same law?  And I, who understand this so clearly, am yet so weak that a horror seizes me when I kick against that corrupt morality.  But all these scruples melt like snow at the words, “I love.”  If even now my heart feels sore at the thought that at this very moment she may be awake, weeping perhaps, or torn by doubts, it is only another proof how I love her.  It hurts me, and at the same time I do not see how otherwise we can arrive at happiness.

19 May.

The first night after my arrival I slept profoundly.  At Ploszow I grudged every moment that kept me from Aniela, and during the night I was writing; consequently I felt deadly tired.  And now I feel still heavy, but am able to think.  I am somewhat ashamed that I ran away and left Aniela alone to bear the burden of my confession; but when the beloved woman is in question, a little cowardice is not dishonorable.  Besides, I should not have fled had it not been necessary for the future weal of my love.  Now, every day when she rises and says her prayers, walks in the park or attends her sick mother, she must, if ever so unwillingly, say to herself, “He loves me,” and the thought will gradually become familiar, less terrifying to her.  Human nature gets accustomed to everything, and a woman soon becomes reconciled to the thought that she is loved, especially when she returns that love.  This question, “Does she love me?” I put to myself the first time when I knew I loved her still; and again I turn it over in my mind, try to weigh all the circumstances as if somebody else’s fate were at stake, and I arrive at the conviction that it cannot be otherwise.  When she married she loved me, not Kromitzki; she only yielded to him her hand driven by despair.  If she had married a superior man who dazzled her by his fame, his thoughts, or exceptional character, she might have forgotten me.  But how could a Kromitzki, with his money-grubbing neurosis, get hold of her affection?  Besides, he left her soon after they were married; he sold Gluchow, which was as the very apple of the eye to these two women.  Judging Kromitzki quite impartially, there was nothing in him which could win a being full of ideal impulses and feelings.  Then I came back,—­I, whom she had loved.  I touched the chords of her heart with memories of the past, by every word and glance.  I drew her towards me, not only with that skill an experience of life gives, but also with that magnetic force true love bestows on man.  Adding to this the fact that she knew how much I suffered when I sent Sniatynski to her, she must have pitied me, and that pity cannot have vanished altogether.  I play for my life, but the cards are in my favor.  I cannot lose the game.