I live, as I said before, the life of a plant; I rest as one rests after a long fatigue, and as if immersed in a warm bath.  Never did I feel less inclined to any kind of exertion; the very thought of it gives me pain.  If I had to choose a watchword, it would be, “Do not wake me.”  What will happen when I wake up, I do not know.  I am sad now, but not unhappy; therefore I do not want to wake up, and do not consider it my duty.  It is even difficult to me to recall the image of the Ploszowski who fancied himself bound to Aniela.  Bound,—­why? by what reason?  What has happened between us?

A slight, almost imperceptible kiss on the forehead,—­a caress which, among near relations, can be put down to brotherly affection.  These are ridiculous scruples.  I have broken ties far different from these without the slightest twinge of conscience.  Were she not a relation, it would be a different matter.  It is true, she understood it in a different way, and so did I at the time,—­but let it pass.  One prick of conscience more or less, what does it matter?  We do worse things continually, to which the disappointment I caused Aniela is mere childishness.  Conscience that can occupy itself with such peccadilloes must have nothing else to do.  There is about the same proportion of such kinds of crime to real ones as our conversations on the terrace to real life.

Upon the whole, I do foresee what will happen; but I want to be left in peace at present and not think of anything.  “Do not wake me.”  To-day it was determined that we ought to leave Peli as soon as the hot weather sets in,—­perhaps in the middle of April,—­and go to Switzerland.  Even that terrifies me.  I fancy Mrs. Davis will have to place her husband under restraint; he shows symptoms of insanity.  He says not a word for whole days, but sits staring either at the floor or at his finger-nails; he is afraid they will come off.  These are with him the consequences of a wild life and narcotics.

I leave off writing as it is our time for sailing.

2 April.

Yesterday there was a thunderstorm.  A strong southern wind drove the clouds along as a herd of wild horses.  It pulled and tore, chased and scattered them, then got them under and threw them with a mighty effort upon the sea, which darkened instantly as man in wrath, and began in its turn to send its foam aloft,—­a veritable battle of two furies, which, battering each other, produce thunder and lightning flashes.  But all this lasted only a short time.  We did not go out to sea, as the waves were too rough.  Instead of it we looked at the storm from the glazed balcony, and sometimes looked at each other.  It is no use deluding myself any longer; there is something going on between us,—­a subtle change in our relations to each other.  Neither of us has said a word or overstepped the boundary line of friendship; neither has confessed to anything, and yet speaking to each other we feel that our words serve only to