relation to each other, nothing interests
me,--nothing whatever; neither light nor darkness, war nor peace, nor
any other thing. She, Aniela, or rather both she and her husband, and
my part in their life, are my reason for existence. If for this same
reason I cannot bear my existence any longer, what will happen then?
Suddenly it came upon me, as a surprise, that I had not thought of the
most simple solution of the problem,--death.

What a tremendous power there is in human hands,--the power of cutting
the thread. Now I am ready. Evil genius of my life, do thy worst;
pile weight upon weight,--but only up to a certain time, as long as I
consent. If I find it too much I throw off the burden! "E poi eterna
silenza," Nirvana, the "fourth dimension" of Zoellner--what do I know?
The thought that it all depended upon me gave me an immense relief.

I remained thus an hour, stretched out on the couch, thinking how and
when I would do it; and that very abstraction of my thoughts from
Kromitzki seemed to calm me. Such a thing as the taking of one's life
wants some preparation, and this also forced my thoughts into another
groove. I remembered at once that my travelling revolver was of too
small a calibre. I got up to look at it and resolved to buy a new one.
I began to calculate ways and means to make it appear an accident.
All this of course as a mere theory. Nothing was settled into a fixed
purpose. I might call it rather a contemplating the possibility of
suicide than a purpose. On the contrary, I was now certain it would
not come to that soon. Now that I knew the door by which I could
escape I thought I might wait a little to see how far my evils would
extend, and what new tortures fate had in store for me. I was consumed
by a burning and painful curiosity as to what would happen next, how
those two would meet, and how Aniela would face me? I became very
tired, and dressed as I was I fell into a troubled sleep, full
of Kromitzkis, eyeglasses, revolvers, and all sorts of confused
combinations of things and people.

I woke up late. The servant told me that Pan Kromitzki had gone to
Ploszow. My first impulse was to follow and see them together. But
when seated in the carriage I suddenly felt I could not bear it, that
it would be too great a trial, and might hasten my escape through the
open door into the unknown; and I gave orders to drive somewhere else.

The greatest pessimist instinctively avoids pain, and fights against