As to Aniela, I try to forget her, because the memory is troublesome, or rather I cannot arrive at a clear understanding as to the whole Ploszow episode.  At times I feel inclined to think that I was not worthy of her; at others, that I made an ass of myself over a girl like dozens of others.  This irritates my vanity, and makes me feel angry with Aniela.  One moment I feel an unsavory consciousness of guilt in regard to her, in another the offence appears to me futile and childish.  Taken altogether, I do not approve of the part I played at Ploszow, nor do I approve of the part I am playing here.  The division between right and wrong is becoming more and more indistinct within me, and what is more I do not care to make it clearer.  This is the result of a certain apathy of mind, which again acts as a sleeping draught; for when the inward struggle tires me out I say to myself:  “Suppose you are worse than you were—­what of that?  Why should you trouble about anything?”

Then I see another change in myself.  Gradually I have got used to what at first chafed my honor,—­the insulting of the crippled man.  I notice that I permit myself hundreds of things I would not do if Davis, instead of being physically and mentally afflicted, were an able-bodied man capable of defending his own honor.  We do not even take the trouble of going out to sea.  I never even imagined that my sensitiveness could become so blunted.  It is very easy to say to myself:  “What does the wretched Eastern matter to you?” But verily I cannot get rid of the thought that my black-haired Juno is no Juno at all,—­that her name is Circe, and her touch changes men (as one might say in correct mythological language) into nurslings of Eumaeus.

And when I ask myself as to the cause, the answer shatters many of my former opinions.  It is this:  our love is a love of the senses, but not of the soul.  The thought again comes back that we, the outcome of modern culture, cannot be satisfied with it.  Laura and I were like unto gods and beasts with humanity left out.  In a proper sense our feelings cannot be called love; we are desirable to each other, but not dear.  If we both were different from what we are, we might be a hundred times more unhappy, but I should not have the consciousness that I am drawing near the shelter of Eumaeus.  I understand that love merely spiritual remains a shadow, but love without spiritualism becomes utter degradation.  It is another matter that some people touched by Circe’s wand may find contentment in their degradation.  It seems a sad thing and very strange that I, a man of the Hellenic type, should write thus.  Scepticism even here steps in, and in regard to Hellenism I begin to have my doubts whether life be possible with those worn-out forms; and as I am always sincere, I write what I think.

30 April.

Yesterday I received a letter from my aunt.  It was sent after me from Rome and dated two weeks back.  I cannot understand why they kept it so long at Casa Osoria.  My aunt was sure I had gone to Corfu, but thought I might have returned by this, and writes thus:—­