h the celebrated pianist Miss Hilst, who, having
considerable means of her own, wished to give a few concerts gratis.
My aunt is a queer mixture of eccentricities. She began by abusing
Miss Hilst for not coming in winter, when the time for concerts was
more propitious; presently began considering that it was not too late
yet, and wanted to go and call upon her at once. I could scarcely
persuade her to put off her visit until I had told Miss Hilst about
it. My aunt is a patroness of several charitable institutions, and it
is with her a point of honor to get for them as much as she can at the
expense of other institutions, consequently was afraid somebody else
might forestall her with the artist.

When leaving me she asked, "When are you coming to stay at Ploszow?"

I replied that I was not going to stay there at all. I had thought of
that during the journey and came to the conclusion that it would be
better to have my headquarters at Warsaw. Ploszow is only six miles
from here, and I can go there in the morning and stay as long as I
like. It is indifferent to me where I live, and my living here will
prevent people talking. Besides, I do not want Pani Kromitzka to think
I am anxious to dwell under the same roof with her. I spoke of this to
Sniatynski, and saw that he fully agreed with me; he seemed anxious to
discuss Aniela with me. Sniatynski is a very intelligent man, but he
does not seem to understand that changed circumstances mean changed
relations, even between the best of friends. He came to me as if I
were the same Leon Ploszowski who, shaking in every limb, asked for
his help at Cracow; he approached me with the same abrupt sincerity,
desiring to plunge his hand up to his elbow under my ribs. I pulled
him up sharply, and he seemed surprised and somewhat angry. Presently
he fell in with my humor, and we talked together as if the last
meeting at Cracow had never taken place. I noticed, nevertheless,
that he watched me furtively, and not being able to make me out tried
indirect inquiry, with all the clumsiness of an author who is a
deep psychologist and reader of the human mind at his desk, and as
unsophisticated as any student in practical life. As Hamlet of yore, I
might have handed him a pipe and said, "Do you think I am easier to be
played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you
can fret me, yet you cannot play upon me."

I had been reading Hamlet the night before, as I have read it many a