istle, to hide the trembling of the lips. It was almost an
explosion,--the more astounding, as it was so unexpected. A sudden
emotion seized me at the thought of the vast difference between me and
such men as he and Sniatynski. Even now I think of it with a certain
apprehension. There are vast horizons out of my reach. What an
intensity of feeling there is in those men! They may be happy or
wretched with it; but how immeasurably richer they are than I!
There is no danger of life becoming to them a desert and a barren
wilderness. In each of them there is life enough for ten. I too feel
conscious of ties to my country; but the consciousness is not so
pressing, does not burn with the same steady light, and is not part
of myself. My existence does not depend upon any Koslowka, Michna, or
Ploszow. Where men such as Sniatynski or Lukomski find live springs
from which they draw their motive vigor, I find dry sand. And yet, if
they had not this basis, there remains still, for one his sculpture,
for the other his literature. It seems incredible that a man
possessing so many conditions of happiness should be not only so
little happy, but clearly does not see the reason why he should exist
at all.

It is doubtless my bringing up which has something to do with
it,--those Metzes, Romes, Paris; I have always been as a tree taken
from its soil and not firmly planted in another. Partly it is my own
fault; because I am putting points of interrogation all along the road
of life, and philosophize where others love only. The consequence is
that philosophy, instead of giving me anything, has eaten my heart
away.

8 June.

I note down the occurrences of a whole week. I received, among other
letters, one from Sniatynski. The honest fellow is so concerned about
the turn my affair with Aniela has taken that he does not even abuse
me. He tells me, though, that his wife is angry past forgiveness, and
does not allow my name to be mentioned in her presence,--considers me
a perfect monster, who finds his only delight in gloating over fresh
victims. For once I am a good Christian, and not only do not bear
malice to the little woman, but feel very friendly towards her. What a
warm, generous heart hers is! Sniatynski evidently thinks the question
finally settled; for he refrains from advice, and only expresses
sorrow.

"God grant," he writes, "you may find another like her." Strange, when
I come to think of it! It seems to me that I do not want