Here is that long, cursed letter:—­

“I thank you for the last news,—­all the more as that first letter from Peli was not only conclusive, but also very cruel.  I could scarcely believe that you had not only no affection for the girl, but also neither friendship nor compassion.  My dear Leon, I never asked nor advised you to become engaged to Aniela at once,—­I only wanted you to write a few kindly words, not to her directly, but in a letter to me.  And believe me, it would have been sufficient; for she loved you as only girls like her can love.  Put yourself in my position,—­what could I do after having received your letter?  How could I conscientiously allow her to remain in her illusion, and at the same time in that anxiety that evidently undermined her health?  Chwastowski always sends a special messenger for papers and letters, and brings them himself when he comes to breakfast.  Aniela saw there was a letter from you, because the poor child was always on the lookout for Chwastowski, and took the letters from him under pretext that she wanted to put them under my napkin; and the real reason was that she might see whether there was a letter from you.  I noticed how her hands trembled when she poured out the tea.  Touched by a sudden foreboding, I hesitated whether to put off the reading of your letter until I had gone into my room; but I was anxious about your health, and could not wait.  God knows what it cost me not to show what I felt, especially as Aniela’s eyes were fixed upon my face.  But I got a firm grip of myself, and even managed to say:  ’Leon is still sorrowing, but, thank God! his health is all right, and he sends you kind messages.’  Aniela inquired, as it were in her usual voice, ’Is he going to remain long in Italy?’ I saw how much the question meant to her, and had not the heart to undeceive her then,—­especially as Chwastowski and the servants were there; so I said merely:  ’No, not very long; I believe he will soon come to see us.’  If you had seen the flame that shot up in her face, the sudden joy that kindled her eyes, and the effort she made not to burst into tears.  Poor child!  I feel inclined to cry every time I think of it.  What I went through in the solitude of my own room, you cannot imagine; but you wrote distinctly, ‘I wish her happiness with Kromitzki;’ it was duty, my conscience told me, to open her eyes.  There was no need to send for her,—­she came herself.  I said to her, ’Aniela, dear, you are a good girl, and a girl that submits to God’s will.  We must be open with each other.  I have seen the affection that was springing up between you and Leon.  It was my dearest wish you might come to love each other; but evidently the Lord willed it otherwise.  If you have still any illusions, you must try to get rid of them.’  I took her into my arms; for she had grown deadly white, and I was afraid she might faint.  But she did not lose consciousness, but hid her head on my knees and said over and over again:  ‘What message