nothing, nothing, nothing with all my eloquence and audacity; neither my entreaties nor my love moved her; she took everything as an insult to her womanhood, spurned my love and trampled on it.  To-day when I see her so meek and sweet-tempered it seems like a horrid dream, and I can scarcely believe that it is the same woman.  I cannot hide it from myself; I have met with a defeat so complete and decisive that if I had the strength, or anything else to live for I ought to go away at once.

Supposing she does love me, what good can it be to me if that feeling is to remain for ever imprisoned within her own heart, and never show itself—­either in word or deed?  I might as well be loved by Greek Helen, Cleopatra, Beatrice, or Mary Stuart.  Such must be the feeling which does not desire anything, exact anything, and is sufficient unto itself.  Maybe her heart belongs to me, but it is a faint heart, incapable of any action.

Possibly she poses before herself as a lofty soul, sacrificing her love upon the altar of duty—­and pleases herself in that pose.  It is a satisfaction worth doing something for.  Be it so!  Sacrifice me; but if you think you sacrifice much in immolating your feeling, and feed your duty upon it, you are mistaken.  I cannot, I cannot either think or write calmly.

8 June.

A coquette is like a usurer, giving very little and exacting upon it a high percentage.  To-day, as I am growing more composed and can think again, I must render Aniela justice; she never encouraged me or exacted anything.  What I mistook for a touch of coquetry at Warsaw was mere joyfulness of a youthful spirit that had shaken itself momentarily free from all trouble.  All that has happened was brought on by me.  I made mistake after mistake, and it is all my fault.

To know something, and to make it a matter of calculation are two different things.  We account to ourselves for unknown factors which act upon the soul of a given individual, but in dealing with the same we generally take ourselves as a point of issue.  This happened to me.  I knew, or at least was conscious of the fact, that Aniela and I are as different from each other as if we were the inhabitants of two separate planets, but I did not always remember it.  Involuntarily I counted upon her acting in a certain position as I should have acted.

In spite of the consciousness that we two are the most dissimilar beings under the sun, as opposite as the poles, I note it down with a certain surprise, and seem not able to get used to the thought.  And yet it is true.  I am a thousand times more like Laura Davis than Aniela.

And now I begin to understand why I failed.

The rock I split against is the want of that which has vanished within me, thereby freeing my thoughts, but bringing instead of it the mortal disease that has become my tragedy; it is the catechismal simplicity of the soul.

Now I can account for it clearly, perhaps not quite satisfactorily, for I am of so complex a disposition as to have lost the very instinct of simplicity.  “I hear thy voice, but I see thee not.”  My spiritual sight suffers from Daltonian disease and cannot distinguish colors.