picturesque Demadoc, singing at her feast; but Aniela would take care
of me even if she were not my wife.

I must acknowledge that, having such convictions, a week of indecision
seems a long time; and here I have been wavering for five months, and
the letter I wrote to my aunt was not very decisive either.

But I comfort myself with the thought that my aunt is a clever woman,
and loving me as she does, will guess what I meant to say, and will
help me in her own way; and then there is Aniela who will assist her.
Nevertheless, I regret now that I did not write more openly, and I
feel half inclined to send another letter, but will not yield to the
impulse. Perhaps it will be as well to wait for the reply. Happy those
people, like Lukomski, whose first impulse is towards action.

15 June.

Whatever name I might give to the feeling I cherish for Aniela, it is
different from anything I ever felt before. Either night or day she is
never out of my thought; it has grown into a kind of personal affair
for which I feel responsible to myself. This never used to be the
case. My other love affairs lasted a longer or shorter time, their
memories were pleasant sometimes, a little sad at others, or
distasteful as the case might be, but never absorbed my whole being.
In the idle, aimless life we are leading, woman, perforce, occupies a
large space,--she is always before us; we bestow our attentions upon
her until we become so used to it that she counts only as a venial sin
in our lives. To disappoint a woman causes us but little trouble
of conscience, though a little more perhaps than she feels in
disappointing us. With all the sensitiveness of my nature, I have a
rather blunted conscience. Sometimes it happened I said to myself,
"Now is the time for a pathetic lecture!" but I only shrugged my
shoulders and preferred to think of something more pleasant. This time
it is altogether different. For instance, I think of something that
has no connection with it whatever; presently I am overcome by a
feeling that something is missing, a great trouble seizes me, a fear
as if I had forgotten something of great importance, not done a thing
I ought to have done; and I find out that the thought of Aniela has
percolated through every nook and cranny of the mind, and taken
possession of it. It knocks there night and day like the death-tick in
the desk of Mickiewicz's poem. When I try to lessen or to ridicule the
impression, my scepticism and ir