re's great law, or the belonging
of Aniela to that man, which is a shameful breaking of the same law?
And I, who understand this so clearly, am yet so weak that a horror
seizes me when I kick against that corrupt morality. But all these
scruples melt like snow at the words, "I love." If even now my heart
feels sore at the thought that at this very moment she may be awake,
weeping perhaps, or torn by doubts, it is only another proof how I
love her. It hurts me, and at the same time I do not see how otherwise
we can arrive at happiness.

19 May.

The first night after my arrival I slept profoundly. At Ploszow I
grudged every moment that kept me from Aniela, and during the night I
was writing; consequently I felt deadly tired. And now I feel still
heavy, but am able to think. I am somewhat ashamed that I ran away and
left Aniela alone to bear the burden of my confession; but when the
beloved woman is in question, a little cowardice is not dishonorable.
Besides, I should not have fled had it not been necessary for the
future weal of my love. Now, every day when she rises and says her
prayers, walks in the park or attends her sick mother, she must, if
ever so unwillingly, say to herself, "He loves me," and the thought
will gradually become familiar, less terrifying to her. Human nature
gets accustomed to everything, and a woman soon becomes reconciled to
the thought that she is loved, especially when she returns that love.
This question, "Does she love me?" I put to myself the first time when
I knew I loved her still; and again I turn it over in my mind, try to
weigh all the circumstances as if somebody else's fate were at stake,
and I arrive at the conviction that it cannot be otherwise. When she
married she loved me, not Kromitzki; she only yielded to him her hand
driven by despair. If she had married a superior man who dazzled her
by his fame, his thoughts, or exceptional character, she might have
forgotten me. But how could a Kromitzki, with his money-grubbing
neurosis, get hold of her affection? Besides, he left her soon after
they were married; he sold Gluchow, which was as the very apple of the
eye to these two women. Judging Kromitzki quite impartially, there
was nothing in him which could win a being full of ideal impulses and
feelings. Then I came back,--I, whom she had loved. I touched the
chords of her heart with memories of the past, by every word and
glance. I drew her towards me, not only with that skill a