richer they are than I!  There is no danger of life becoming to them a desert and a barren wilderness.  In each of them there is life enough for ten.  I too feel conscious of ties to my country; but the consciousness is not so pressing, does not burn with the same steady light, and is not part of myself.  My existence does not depend upon any Koslowka, Michna, or Ploszow.  Where men such as Sniatynski or Lukomski find live springs from which they draw their motive vigor, I find dry sand.  And yet, if they had not this basis, there remains still, for one his sculpture, for the other his literature.  It seems incredible that a man possessing so many conditions of happiness should be not only so little happy, but clearly does not see the reason why he should exist at all.

It is doubtless my bringing up which has something to do with it,—­those Metzes, Romes, Paris; I have always been as a tree taken from its soil and not firmly planted in another.  Partly it is my own fault; because I am putting points of interrogation all along the road of life, and philosophize where others love only.  The consequence is that philosophy, instead of giving me anything, has eaten my heart away.

8 June.

I note down the occurrences of a whole week.  I received, among other letters, one from Sniatynski.  The honest fellow is so concerned about the turn my affair with Aniela has taken that he does not even abuse me.  He tells me, though, that his wife is angry past forgiveness, and does not allow my name to be mentioned in her presence,—­considers me a perfect monster, who finds his only delight in gloating over fresh victims.  For once I am a good Christian, and not only do not bear malice to the little woman, but feel very friendly towards her.  What a warm, generous heart hers is!  Sniatynski evidently thinks the question finally settled; for he refrains from advice, and only expresses sorrow.

“God grant,” he writes, “you may find another like her.”  Strange, when I come to think of it!  It seems to me that I do not want another like Aniela, or a better one either,—­I want her.  I say it seems to me; for it is a feeling without any definite shape.  I carry within me something like an entangled skein; I weary myself, and yet am not able to reduce it to any kind of order.  In spite of all my self-knowledge, I cannot quite make out what it is that makes me feel sad.  Is it because I find I love her, or is it because I feel I could love her very much?  Sniatynski unconsciously replies to this question in these words:  “I have heard or read that gold nuggets have sometimes a large admixture of quartz, which must be crushed in order to get at the gold.  I suppose your heart is thus covered with an incrustation, that only partly melted while you were staying at Ploszow.  You did not remain long enough, and simply had no time to let your love grow sufficiently strong.  You have, maybe, energy enough to act, but not enough to decide; but you would have found the energy if the