Yesterday I lunched with Lukomski; in the evening I loitered as usual
on the Pincio. My imagination sometimes plays me strange tricks. I
fancied that Aniela was leaning on my arm. We walked together,
and talked like people who are very fond of each other. I felt so
happy,--so different from what I had felt near Laura! When the
illusion vanished I felt very lonely; I did not want to go home. That
night I could not sleep at all.
How utterly unprofitable my life is! These continual searchings of
my mind are leading me into the desert. And it might have been so
different! I am surprised that the memory of Aniela should be still so
fresh and green. Why is it that I never dream of walking arm-in-arm
with Laura? And since I come to mention her name, I add inwardly,
"Perdition upon the memory!" I often think I have been holding
happiness by both wings, and let it escape.