Further discussions were cut short by the entrance of Pani Sniatynska and Aniela.  They were dressed for going out to the hot-houses.  What an imp of mischief lurks in that little woman.  She came up to her husband to ask his permission to go out, which he granted, insisting only that she should wrap herself up warm; she turned to me and said with a roguish smile,—­

“You will let Aniela go, will you not?”

That Aniela should blush furiously was only natural, but that I, an old stager, a razor sharpened against the strops of so many experiences, should have betrayed so much confusion, I cannot forgive myself.  But, putting on a semblance of self-possession, I went up to Aniela, and raising her hand to my lips, said:—­

“It is Aniela who gives orders at Ploszow, and I am her humble subject.”

I should have liked to take Sniatynski with me and join the excursion, but refrained.  I felt a want to speak about Aniela, my future marriage, and I knew that sooner or later Sniatynski himself would broach the question.  I gave him an opening after the ladies had left us by saying:—­

“And do you still believe as firmly as ever in your life-dogmas?”

“More than ever, or rather, the same as ever.  There is no expression more worn to tatters than the word ‘love;’ one scarcely likes to use it; but between ourselves, I tell you; love in the general meaning, love in the individual sense does not permit of criticism.  It is one of the canons of life.  My philosophy consists in not philosophizing about it at all,—­and the deuce take me if for the matter of that, I consider myself more foolish than other people.  With love, life is worth something; without, it is not worth a bag of chaff.”

“Let us see what you have to say about individual love,—­or better still, put in its place woman.”

“Very well, let it be woman.”

“My good friend, do you not perceive on what brittle foundation you are building human happiness?”

“On about as brittle a foundation as life,—­no more nor less!”

I did not want to drift into a discussion of life and death, and pulled Sniatynski up.

“For mercy’s sake, do not generalize about individual happiness.  You chanced to find the right woman, another might not.”

He would not even listen to that.  According to his view, ninety out of a hundred were successful.  Women were better, purer, and nobler than men.

“We are rascals all, in comparison with them!” he shouted, waving his arms and snaking his leonine mane.  “Nothing but rascals!  It is I who say it,—­I, who study mankind closely, if only for the reason that I am a playwright.”

He was sitting astride on his chair, attacking me, as it were, with the chairback, and went on with his usual impetuosity:—­