r reason. I only
repeat to myself, over and over again, "What is it that bars my way?"

7 June.

I have made an enormous mistake somewhere; there is something in
Aniela I have not observed or taken into account. For two days I have
tried to understand what has happened to me, but my head was in such a
whirl that I could not think. Now I am collecting my thoughts, pulling
myself together to look the situation in the face. It would be clear
enough if Aniela were guarded by a strong love for her husband. I
could understand then the offended modesty and indignation with which
a being, so meek and sweet-tempered usually, spurned me from her feet.
But I cannot even suppose such a thing. I have still enough brains
left to know that it is a mistake to see things too black, as it is
a mistake to see them too rose-colored. Where should her love for
Kromitzki have come from? She married him without love. In the short
time they lived together, he deceived her and sold the land so dear
to both of those women, and injured her mother's health. They have no
child; besides, a child does not teach a woman to love her husband; it
only teaches her to take him into account; it makes her safer,--that
is to say, it strengthens the union of hands, not of hearts. Aniela
besides does not belong to that kind of women to whom love comes
suddenly, as a revelation after marriage; women like that pine more
after their husbands, or more readily take a lover. I speak of all
this in such a matter of fact way that it hurts me; but why should
I spare myself? Finally, I am convinced she has no feeling even
approaching to love for Kromitzki,--what is more, does not even
respect him; she does not permit herself to despise him, that is all.
I consider that as proved, otherwise I should be blind.

Then if her heart at the moment of my return was a _tabula rasa_ I
must have contrived to write something on it, I who managed this in
other conditions, and was more bent on it than I ever was on anything
in my life, who worked upon her feelings of friendship, touched the
chords of pity and memories of the past, not neglecting anything,
considering every trifle, and moreover am possessed of the power a
strong, earnest feeling gives. I take myself by the shoulders: "Man,
whatever you may be, you are not a provincial lion, that considers
himself irresistible to any woman chance throws in his way; have you
not deluded yourself into the belief that she loves you?"