e sands like a dead
fish. I cannot bind myself not to let my hair grow, or to remain
always young; and as often as I did so, the laws of nature would take
their course in spite of human bonds. It is strange, but all that I
am writing is pure theory. I have no schemes I need justify before
myself, and yet all these reflections have stirred my soul to such
an extent that I had to leave off writing. My calmness is evidently
artificial. I walked up and down the room for an hour, and at last
found out what disturbed me.

It is very late. From the windows of my room I see the cupola of the
Invalides gleaming in the moonlight, as once I saw St. Peter's cupola,
when, full of hope, I walked on the Pincio, thinking of Aniela.
Unconsciously I had given myself up to those memories. Whatever there
be or awaits us in the future, one thing is certain: I could have been
happy, and she might be ten, nay, a hundred times happier than she
is. Even now, if I had any hidden schemes, or if she were to me the
greatest temptation, I would respect her unhappiness. I would not hurt
her for anything. The very thought of it would take away my courage
and decision, I had such an amount of tenderness for her.

But all that is in the past. The sceptic dwelling within me creeps up
again with another question: Would she be really so unhappy? I have
verified, not once, but several times, the fact that women are unhappy
only while they struggle. The battle once over, regardless of the
result, there follows a period of calm and happiness. I knew at one
time a woman in Paris who resisted most persistently for three years.
When at last her heart got the upper hand and she gave in, she only
reproached herself for not having done so sooner.

But what is the use of putting all these questions or trying to solve
problems? I know that every principle is open to argument, and every
proof to scepticism. The good old times when people doubted everything
except their intelligence to recognize the true from the false, have
gone. At present there is nothing but labyrinths upon labyrinths.
I had better not think of anything but the journey before me. And
Kromitzki sold his wife's ancestral home and thus inflicted on her a
cruel blow! I had to write it down black on white once more, otherwise
I could not believe it.

10 April.

I went towards evening to say good-by to Mrs. Davis, and dropped in
for a regular concert. Laura seems really very fond of music. Miss