It is not the first time I have compared myself to Kromitzki, and it makes me angry considering what a vast difference there is between us.  We are like inhabitants of different planets, and as to our souls, if one has to climb up to reach mine, such as Aniela would have to stoop very low to reach his.  But would this be such a difficult task for her?  It is a horrible question; but in regard to women I have seen so monstrous things, especially in my country where the women generally speaking are superior to the men, that I am obliged to consider it.  I have seen girls, angels in all but wings, full of noble impulses, sensitive to everything beautiful and uncommon, not only marry louts of narrow and mean characters, but adopt after marriage their husbands’ maxims of life, vanities, narrowness, and commonplace opinions.  What is more, some of them did this eagerly, as if former ideals were only fit to be thrown aside with the bridal wreath.  They seemed to labor under the conviction that only thus they could prove themselves true wives.  It is true that sometimes a reaction follows, but in a general sense Shakspeare’s Titania is a common enough type, to be met with every day.

I am a sceptic from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet, but my scepticism springs from pain, for it hurts me to think that such may be Aniela’s fate.  Perhaps she too will shrug her shoulders at the memory of her girlish aspirations, and consider contracts in Turkestan better adapted to practical life.  A dull wrath seizes me at the thought, all the more as it will be partly my fault, that is, if it should come to that.

On the other side these reflections and vacillations are not merely the result of a want of decision, as Sniatynski seems to think.  I have such a high conception about marriage, such lofty demands, that they take away my courage.  It is true that often husband and wife fit each other like two warped boards, and yet jog through life contentedly enough; but this would not be enough for me.  For the very reason that I believe in happiness so little, I should like to attain it; but can I attain it?  It is not so much the unhappy marriages I have met with that make me so wavering, but the few happy ones I have seen; at the remembrance of these I ask myself, “Is it possible I could be so happy?” And yet happiness is not met with in fiction only,—­but how to know where to look for it!

11 June.

In the last few days I have become quite intimate with Lukomski.  He is not so self-contained and melancholy as he used to be.  Yesterday, towards evening, he came to see me; we went out for a walk as far as the Thermes of Caracalla; then I asked him to come back with me, and he stopped until midnight.  I had a long talk with him, which I note down, as it made upon me a certain impression.  Lukomski seemed a little ashamed of the exhibition of feeling he had made near “The Dying Gladiator;” but I led him on and gradually came to know the man as he really was.  As we were growing very friendly I ventured to remark,—­