Inwardly I was furious,—­with myself, Sniatynski, and Clara.  I am neither so vain, foolish, nor mean that every conquest of that kind should rejoice me; therefore felt annoyed at the thought that Clara might love me, and nourish some baseless hopes.  I knew she had some kind of undefined feeling, which, given time and occasion, might develop into something more lasting; but I had no idea this vague feeling dared to wish or expect something.  It suddenly struck me that the announcement of her departure was prompted by a desire to find out how I would receive the news.  I received it very coolly.  A love like mine for Aniela ought to teach compassion; yet Clara’s sadness and the mention of her departure, not only did not move me, but seemed to me an audacious flight of fancy and an insult to me.

Why?  Not from any aristocratic notions; that is certain.  I could not account at once for the strange phenomenon; but now explain it thus,—­the feeling of belonging to Aniela is so strong and exclusive that it seems to me that any other woman wanting but one pulsation of my heart endeavors to steal something that is Aniela’s property.  This explanation is sufficient for me.  No doubt, by and by I shall bid Clara good-by, and feel as friendly as ever towards her; but the sudden announcement of her departure gave me a distaste for her.  It is only Aniela who may with impunity trample on my nerves.  Never did I look at Clara so critically and resentfully; for the first time I became fully aware of the amplitude of her figure, the bright complexion, the dark hair, and blue, somewhat protruding eyes, the lips like ripe cherries,—­in brief, her whole beauty reminded me of the cheap chromo-lithographs of harem beauties in second-class hotels.  I left her in the worst of humors, and went straight to a book-shop to select some books for Aniela.

For a week I had been thinking what to choose for her reading.  I did not wish to neglect anything, though I did not attach undue weight to this, as it acts very slowly.  Besides, I have noticed that to our women, though their imagination is more developed than their temperament, a book is always something unreal.  If it falls even into the hands of an exceptionally susceptible person, it creates in her at the most an abstract world, that has no connection with real life whatever.  To almost none of them it occurs that ideas taken from books can be applied to any practical purpose.  I am convinced that if a great writer tried to prove, for instance, that purity of thought and mind were not only superfluous in a woman, but even blameworthy from a moral point of view,—­Aniela would opine that the principle might apply to the whole world with the exception of herself.  The utmost I can hope for is that the reading of appropriate books will render her familiar with a certain kind of broad views and thoughts.  That is all I wish for.  Loving her from my whole soul, I want her to respond to that love, and do not