urpose. I am convinced that if a
great writer tried to prove, for instance, that purity of thought and
mind were not only superfluous in a woman, but even blameworthy from
a moral point of view,--Aniela would opine that the principle might
apply to the whole world with the exception of herself. The utmost I
can hope for is that the reading of appropriate books will render her
familiar with a certain kind of broad views and thoughts. That is all
I wish for. Loving her from my whole soul, I want her to respond to
that love, and do not neglect any means towards that end. I, who never
deceive myself, confess openly that I want Aniela to sacrifice for me
her husband, but I do not want to corrupt her or to soil her purity.
Let nobody tell me that this is a sophism, and that the one includes
the other. The tormenting devil that is always within me raising
difficulties says: "You create new theories; the way of faithlessness
_is_ the way of corruption." How these conflicting thoughts tear me
to pieces! I reply to the familiar spirit: "I might doubt opposite
theories quite as much; I contrive what I can in defence of my
love,--it is my natural law." And there is a greater law still, the
law of love. Some feelings are mean and commonplace, others lofty and
full of nobility. A woman that follows the call of lofty feeling does
not lose the nobility of her soul. Such a great, exceptional love I
try to awake in Aniela, and therefore I may say conscientiously that I
do not want to corrupt her.

Besides, these inward arguments do not lead to anything. Even if I had
not the slightest doubt that I am doing wrong, if I were unable to
give any conclusive answer to the tormenting spirit, I would not cease
loving; and always following where a greater power leads me, I should
go according to my feeling, and not according to abstract reasoning.

But the true misfortune of those analytic and hyper-analytic modern
people is that, though not believing in the result of their analysis,
they have the invincible habit of inquiring into everything that goes
on within themselves. It is the same with me. For some time I have
been questioning myself how it is possible that a man absorbed by a
great feeling should be able to be so watchful, so calculating about
ways and means, and to account for everything as if somebody else did
it for him. I could reply to it in this way: The man of the period
reserves above everything part of himself to observe the ot