Then if her heart at the moment of my return was a tabula rasa I must have contrived to write something on it, I who managed this in other conditions, and was more bent on it than I ever was on anything in my life, who worked upon her feelings of friendship, touched the chords of pity and memories of the past, not neglecting anything, considering every trifle, and moreover am possessed of the power a strong, earnest feeling gives.  I take myself by the shoulders:  “Man, whatever you may be, you are not a provincial lion, that considers himself irresistible to any woman chance throws in his way; have you not deluded yourself into the belief that she loves you?”

What speaks in favor of its being a delusion?

At the first glance, her resistance.

But I never supposed for a moment that she would not resist.  I fancy to myself any other married woman, desperately in love with another man; can one suppose she would not resist and struggle against it and the loved one, until her strength gave way?  Resistance is not the outcome of love, but since those two forces can exist side by side like two birds in a nest, one does not exclude the other.

I write this diary not only because it has become my second nature, my passion, not only because it gives an outlet for my pent-up feelings, but still more because it gives me a clear view and keeps account of all that is passing.  I read over again the pages where I have written down my and Aniela’s history from the time of my arrival at Ploszow.  I have taken note of well-nigh every glance, every smile and tear, caught every tremor of her heart; and no!  I do not deceive myself, the analysis is not wrong!  Hers were the tears, the words, the glances and smiles of a woman—­maybe unhappy—­but not indifferent.  I must have influenced her, made an impression upon her.  I am not blind; it tears my heart day after day to see how her face is getting smaller, the hands more transparent—­and it makes my hair stand on end to think she is paying out her life in this struggle.  But all these are invincible proofs.  Her heart, her thoughts belong to me.  For that very reason she is unhappy—­perhaps even more unhappy than I.

I read over what I wrote a moment ago,—­that I did not even suppose she would not resist.  I thought so soon after my return to Ploszow, but lately and when she was at Warsaw I fancied that I saw signs of yielding.  I was wrong.  She did not give way in the least, showed no sign of pity; my words to which she would not even listen seemed blasphemy to her.  I saw in her eyes sparks of anger and resentment; she tore away her hands I covered with kisses, and the words:  “You insult me!” were continually on her lips.  Her energy daunted me the more as I had least expected such an explosion of wrath.  Ah me!  She threatened to leave the carriage and go on foot in the pelting rain to Ploszow.  The word “divorce” acted upon her as a red-hot iron.  I obtained