and I should never force her hand in that way; no! whatever I may be, I am not bad enough for that!  But I cannot help thinking, “What would she do?” I am almost certain she would not survive the shock and the scorn of herself, but she would not yield.  When I think of this I curse her and worship her at the same time; I hate her and love her more than ever.  The worst is I do not see how I shall ever get out of this enchanted circle.  Added to the passion of the senses this woman wakes in me, I have for her a dog-like affection.  I envelop her with my eyes and thoughts, can never satiate myself with the sight of her, and at the same time she is the most desirable of women, and the very crown of my head.  No other woman ever attached me to her so absolutely and in that twofold manner.

At times this influence of hers over me seems well-nigh incredible; then again I explain it, and as usual take the worst view of it.  I have lived too quickly, passed already the zenith, and am going down hill, where it is dark and cold.  I feel that in her I could recover my lost youth, vitality, and the desire for life.  If she be lost to me, then truly nothing remains but to vegetate, and gloominess unutterable as the foretaste of decay.  Therefore I love Aniela with the instinct of self-preservation,—­not with my senses only, not with my soul, but also from the fear of annihilation.

Aniela does not know all this; but I suppose she pities me, just as I torture her, who would give my life to make her happy.  And therefore I say again that the love for another man’s wife is the greatest misfortune, since it leads the man to make her unhappy whose happiness he would ensure at the cost of his own.  The result of this is that we are both unhappy.  But you, Aniela, have at least your dogma to support you, whereas I am verily like a boat drifting without helm and oar.

I am not well in health either.  I sleep very badly, or rather scarcely at all.  I should like to fall ill and lie unconscious for a month without memories, without trouble—­and rest.  It would be a kind of holiday.  Chwastowski examined me yesterday, and said I had the nerves of a decaying race, but had inherited a fair supply of muscular strength.  I believe he is right; but for that I should have succumbed ere this to my nerves.  Maybe to my very strength I may ascribe this present concentration of feeling; it had to find an outlet somewhere, and as it did not find it either in science or other useful work, it all got absorbed into love for a woman.  But owing to my nervous system it is turbid, stormy, and crooked,—­above all, crooked.

What sensations I pass through every day!  Towards evening the dear old aunt came to me and began to apologize for praising Panna Zawilowska to me.  I kissed both her hands, and in my turn asked her to forgive my momentary show of temper.  She then said,—­

“I promise never to mention her again.  It is true, my dear Leon, I wish from all my heart to see you married, for you are the last of our race; but the Lord knows what is best.  But believe me, dearest boy, it is not family pride, but your happiness I am thinking of.”