At first I thought the letter had not made any impression upon me; but presently, when walking up and down the room, I found that I had been mistaken.  The impression increased every minute, and became very strong indeed.  After an hour I said to myself with amazement:  “The deuce is in it!  I cannot think of anything else but that.”  Strange how quick my thoughts travel, chasing each other like clouds driven by the wind.  What a creature of nerves I am!  First, a great tenderness for Aniela woke up within me.  All that I had felt for her not long ago, and that had lain dormant in odd nooks of my soul, stirred into life.  To go at once, soothe her, make her happy, was the first impulse of my heart,—­not clearly defined, perhaps, but very strong all the same.  When I imagined to myself the tearful eyes, her hands resting within mine, the old feeling for her woke up with renewed strength.  Then the idea crossed my mind to compare her to Laura,—­with a fatal result for Laura.  I felt sick of the life I was leading; felt the want of a purer atmosphere than I was breathing here,—­of restfulness, gentleness, and above all, rectitude of feeling.  At the same time a great joy filled my heart, that nothing was lost yet, everything could be made right; it depended only upon my will.  Suddenly I bethought myself of Kromitzki, and of Aniela’s mother, who, not trusting me, is evidently on his side.  A dull anger rose within me, which, gradually increasing, smothered all other feelings.  The more my reason acknowledged that Pani Celina was right in mistrusting me, the more I felt offended that she should harbor that mistrust.  I worked myself up into a terrible rage against everybody, including myself.  What I thought and felt can be expressed in a few words:  “Very well, let it be as they wish!”

The letter came yesterday; to-day, analyzing myself more quietly, I find to my own astonishment that the offence not only rankles in my mind, but also has taken firmer root.  I say to myself all that a soberly thinking man can say in mitigation thereof, and yet I cannot forgive either Aniela or her mother the Kromitzki business.  Aniela could have put a stop to it with one word, and if she has not done it, she is sacrificing me to her mother’s headaches.  Besides, Kromitzki lowers Aniela in my eyes, stains her, and brings her down to the level of marriageable girls.  I cannot even speak of it quietly.

Maybe my reasoning and feeling are those of an exasperated man; maybe that love of self is too predominant in me.  I know that I am able to look at and judge myself as a stranger would; but this dualism does not help me in the least.  I am more and more embittered.  To write about it irritates my nerves,—­therefore, enough!

1 May.

During the night I thought, “Perhaps to-morrow I shall be more composed.”  Nothing of the kind.  I am simply in a rage with Aniela, Aniela’s mother, my aunt, and myself.  The wind ought to be tempered for the shorn lamb, and they forget that my wool is deucedly thin.  After all, I am comfortable where I am.  Laura is like a marble statue.  Near her nothing troubles me very much, because there is nothing except beauty.  I am tired of over-strained, tender souls.  Let Kromitski comfort her.