After his departure I went straight to St. Mary’s Church, and I, the sceptic, the philosopher, I who do not know, do not know, do not know, had a mass offered in the names of Leon and Aniela.  I not only remained during mass in church, but put down here, black on white:  Perdition upon all my scepticism, philosophy, and my “I do not know!”

28 June.

It is one o’clock in the afternoon.  Sniatynski and his wife are starting for Ploszow.  Aniela ought to agree at least to a postponement of her marriage.  Various thoughts cross my mind.  That Kromitzki is greedy for money there is not the slightest doubt; then why did he not fix his attentions on a richer girl?  Aniela’s estate is large, but encumbered with debts,—­perhaps it was the landed property he wanted, so as to secure himself a position and a citizenship.  Yet Kromitzki, with his reputation as a rich man, could have got all this, and money with his wife besides.  Evidently Aniela attracted him personally and for some time.  It is not to be wondered at that Aniela should captivate any one.

And to think that she was waiting, as one waits for one’s happiness or salvation, for one word from me!  My aunt says it, that she was lying in wait for Chwastowski, to take the letters from him.  A terrible fear seizes me that all this may not be forgiven, and that I am doomed and all those that are like me.

10 o’clock in the evening.

I had a terrible neuralgia in the head; it has passed now, but what with the pain, the sleeplessness, and anxiety, I feel as if I were hypnotized.  My mind, open and excited on one point, concentrated upon one thought, sees more clearly than it has ever done before how the affair will end.  It seems to me that I am at Ploszow; I listen to what Aniela says to Sniatynski, and I cannot understand how I could buoy myself up with false hopes.  She has no pity on me.  These are not mere suppositions, they are a dead certainty.  Truly, something strange is going on with me.  A terrible gravity has suddenly fallen upon me, as if up to this moment I had only been a child,—­and such a terrible sadness.  Am I going to be ill?  I made Sniatynski promise to send me a telegram.  No message has as yet arrived, though, properly speaking, it will not tell me anything new.

29 June.

The telegram has come.  It contains these words:  “It is of no use,—­pull yourself together and travel.”  Yes, I will do it.  Oh, Aniela!

Paris, 2 April.

It is some ten months since I put down anything in my journal; it had become such a familiar friend that I missed it.  But I said to myself:  what is the use of it?  If I put down on paper thoughts worthy of a Pascal; deeper than the ocean depth; loftier than the Alps,—­it would not change the simple fact that she is married.  With that fact staring at me, my hands dropped powerless.  Sometimes life concentrates itself in one object, not necessarily an important one; but if that fails us we seem at