30 June.

I overheard from the veranda the end of a conversation carried on in an audible voice between Kromitzki and Aniela.

“I will speak to him myself,” said Kromitzki; “but you must tell your aunt the position I am in.”

“I will never do it,” replied Aniela.

“Not if such is my wish?” he said sharply.

Not desirous of playing the part of eavesdropper, I went into the room.  I saw on Aniela’s face an expression of pain, which she tried to hide upon seeing me.  Kromitzki was white with anger, but greeted me with a smile.  For a moment an unreasonable fear got hold of me that she had confessed something to her husband.  I am not afraid of Kromitzki; my only fear is that he may take away Aniela and thus part me from my sorrows, my humiliations, and torments.  I live by them; without them I should be famished.  Anything rather than part from Aniela.  In vain I racked my brain to guess what could have taken place between them.  At moments I thought it probable that she had told him something; but then his manner towards me would have changed, and it was if anything even more polite than usual.

Generally speaking, but for my aversion to the man, I have no fault to find with him in so far as I am concerned.  He is very polite and friendly, gives way to me in everything as if he were dealing with a nervous woman.  He tries all means to gain my confidence.  It does not discourage him in the least that I meet his advances at times brusquely or sarcastically, and without much consideration for his feelings show up his ignorance and want of refined nerves.  I do not miss any opportunity to expose before Aniela how commonplace he is in heart and intellect.  But he is wonderfully patient.  Maybe he is so only with me.  To-day I saw him for the first time angry with Aniela, and his complexion was of the greenish hue of people who are angry in cold blood and nurse their wrath long afterwards.  Aniela is probably afraid of him, but she is afraid of everybody,—­even of me.  It is sometimes difficult to understand how this woman with the temper of a dove can at a given moment summon so much energy.  There was a time when I thought her too passive to be able to resist me long.  What a disappointment!  Her resistance is all the stronger, the more unexpected it is.  I do not know what was the question between her and Kromitzki, but if she says that she is not going to do what he asks her, she will shake with fear but will not yield.  If she were mine, I would love her as the dog loves its mistress; I would carry her on my hands, and not allow the dust to touch her feet; I would love her until death.

1 July.

My jealousy would be a miserable thing if it were not at the same time the pain of the true believer who sees his divinity dragged in the dust.  I would abstain even from touching her hand if I could place her on some inapproachable height where nobody could come near her.