iterally for the first time that the memory of
a woman whom I did not love, though I made her believe I did, rouses
within me much ill-feeling. I am so ungrateful and ungenerous to her
that it makes me feel ashamed. Plainly, what reason have I for any
ill-feeling, and what has she done to me that I cannot forgive? It is
because, as I said before, from the very beginning of our relations,
though not through any fault of hers, I did many things I have
never done before in my life. I did not respect my sorrow, had
no consideration for the weakness and helplessness of Davis, got
corrupted, slothful, and finally sent off that fatal letter.

It is all my fault! But the blind man when he stumbles over a stone,
curses the stone, not the blindness that made him stumble.

17 June.

To-day I paid Lukomski, gave a power of attorney to the lawyer, had my
things packed, and am ready for the journey. Rome begins to pall upon
me.

18 June.

I have been counting that my aunt's reply ought to have reached me by
this. Putting aside all the worst suppositions, I try to guess what
she is going to tell me. I regret, for I do not know how many times,
that my letter was not more conclusive. Yet I wrote that I would come
to Ploszow if I felt sure my presence would be acceptable to my aunt's
guests, sending them my kindest regards at the same time. I also
mentioned that during the last days of my stay at Peli I felt so
irritable that I scarcely knew what I was doing. The letter, while I
was writing it, seemed to me very clever; now it appears to me as the
height of folly. It was simply that my vanity did not permit me to
revoke clearly and decidedly what I had written previously. I counted
upon my aunt grasping at the opportunity I gave her for settling
matters, and then I meant to make my appearance as the generous
prince. Human nature is very pitiful. Nothing now remains but to hold
fast to the hope that my aunt would guess how it stood with me.

With my anxiety increasing every moment, I feel not only that I could
have loved Aniela, but that I do love her beyond expression, and also
that I might become an incomparably better man. Strictly speaking, why
do I act as if beyond nerves and egoism there were nothing else in me?
and if there be anything else, why does not my auto-analysis point it
out to me? I have the courage to draw extreme conclusions, and do not
hide the truth from myself, but I decidedly negative the notion.
Why? Be