me inclined to go.  As I have said, I am comparatively speaking calm, do not wish for anything, or expect anything, am resigned in fact to that kind of spiritual paralysis until the time comes when bodily paralysis carries me off, as it carried off my father.  Nevertheless, I cannot forget altogether, therefore it is only a partial paralysis.  The one being I ever loved presents herself before my mind in two shapes.  The one is called Pani Kromitzka, the other Aniela.  As far as Pani Kromitzka is concerned, I am indifferent and a stranger; but Aniela still haunts me and brings with her, as gifts, the consciousness of wrong, my foolishness, spiritual crookedness, pain, bitterness, disappointment, and loss.  Verily a munificent spirit!  I might be even now perfectly contented if somebody could take from my brain that particular part wherein memory dwells.  I try to drive away the thoughts of what might have been if things had turned out differently, but cannot always manage it.  My munificent, generous angel will come now and then, and from her cornucopia shower her gifts upon me.  At times the idea comes into my mind that Pani Kromitzka will lay the ghost of Aniela,—­and that is one reason I wish to go; to look upon her happiness, her married life, and all those changes which must have made her different from the old Aniela.  Perhaps I may meet her at Ploszow, as she will want to see her mother, after so many months of separation.

I suppose that I do not delude myself, and that “ceci tuera cela.”  I count mostly upon my nerves, which are so easily worked upon.  I remember that when I had made Aniela’s acquaintance and her charm began to act upon me with such irresistible force, the very mention of Kromitzki in connection with her made her less desirable.  This will be more so now, when she belongs to him body and soul.  I am almost certain the remedy will prove efficacious, and that “ceci tuera cela.”  And if not, if it should turn out differently, what have I to lose?  I do not wish to gain anything, but should not be sorry perhaps to know that the guilt was not on my side only, and that henceforth the burden would have to be divided between us two; this might give me a kind of satisfaction.  I say, it might, because I am not sure that it would.  Thoughts of revenge are very far from me.  It is only on theatrical boards that disappointed lovers are thirsting for revenge; in real life they go away with distaste, that is all.  Moreover, to make Pani Kromitzka believe that she had done wrong in rejecting my repentance I should have to believe firmly in it myself,—­and strange to say, there are moments I am not sure of anything.

5 April.