"I thought so a little myself. It is not worth while to spoil one's
life for a thing that may never happen. There is the cholera that
sweeps now and then over Italy; it would be foolish for Italians not
to marry for fear they might leave orphans and widows. Besides I have
done what I considered my duty. I told Panna Vanda that I loved
her and would give my life to call her my own, but there was this
impediment. And do you know what her answer was? 'When you are no
longer able to hear me saying I love you, I will write it.' All this
did not come off without some crying, but an hour afterwards we made
merry over it. I pretended to have suddenly grown deaf, to make her
write, 'I love you.'"
This conversation fixed itself in my mind. Sniatynski is wrong when
he maintains that among us only asses have still a kind of will.
This sculptor had a real motive to reflect, and yet a week seemed
sufficient for such a weighty decision. Maybe he does not possess the
same knowledge of self as I, but he is a very intelligent fellow. What
a plucky woman the future Pani Lukomska is; I like her ready answer.
Aniela would do the same. If, for instance, I were to lose my
eyesight, Laura would care only in so far as she could show me off, a
picturesque Demadoc, singing at her feast; but Aniela would take care
of me even if she were not my wife.
I must acknowledge that, having such convictions, a week of indecision
seems a long time; and here I have been wavering for five months, and
the letter I wrote to my aunt was not very decisive either.
But I comfort myself with the thought that my aunt is a clever woman,
and loving me as she does, will guess what I meant to say, and will
help me in her own way; and then there is Aniela who will assist her.
Nevertheless, I regret now that I did not write more openly, and I
feel half inclined to send another letter, but will not yield to the
impulse. Perhaps it will be as well to wait for the reply. Happy those
people, like Lukomski, whose first impulse is towards action.