Whatever name I might give to the feeling I cherish for Aniela, it is
different from anything I ever felt before. Either night or day she is
never out of my thought; it has grown into a kind of personal affair
for which I feel responsible to myself. This never used to be the
case. My other love affairs lasted a longer or shorter time, their
memories were pleasant sometimes, a little sad at others, or
distasteful as the case might be, but never absorbed my whole being.
In the idle, aimless life we are leading, woman, perforce, occupies a
large space,--she is always before us; we bestow our attentions upon
her until we become so used to it that she counts only as a venial sin
in our lives. To disappoint a woman causes us but little trouble
of conscience, though a little more perhaps than she feels in
disappointing us. With all the sensitiveness of my nature, I have a
rather blunted conscience. Sometimes it happened I said to myself,
"Now is the time for a pathetic lecture!" but I only shrugged my
shoulders and preferred to think of something more pleasant. This time
it is altogether different. For instance, I think of something that
has no connection with it whatever; presently I am overcome by a
feeling that something is missing, a great trouble seizes me, a fear
as if I had forgotten something of great importance, not done a thing
I ought to have done; and I find out that the thought of Aniela has
percolated through every nook and cranny of the mind, and taken
possession of it. It knocks there night and day like the death-tick in
the desk of Mickiewicz's poem. When I try to lessen or to ridicule the
impression, my scepticism and irony fail me, or rather help me only
for a moment; then I go back to the enchanted circle. Strictly
speaking, it is neither a great sorrow nor a sting of conscience; it
is rather a troublesome fastening upon one subject, and a restless,
feverish curiosity as to what will happen next,--as if upon that next
my very life depended. If I analyzed myself less closely, I should say
it was an all-absorbing love that had taken possession of me; but I
notice that there is something besides Aniela that causes me anxiety.
There is no doubt as to her having made a deep impression upon me; but
Sniatynski is right,--if I had loved her as much as Sniatynski loved
his wife, I should have desired to make her my own. But I--and this is
quite a fact--do not desire her so much as I am afraid to lose her.
It is not everybody perhaps who could perceive the singular and great
difference. I feel quite convinced that but for Kromitzki and the fear
of losing Aniela, I should not feel either anxieties or trouble. My
entangled skein is gradually getting straighter, and I can see now
more clearly that it is not so much love for Aniela as fear of losing
her, and with her some future happiness, that moves me, and still more
the utter loneliness I see before me should Aniela go out from my
life.
I have noticed that the stoutest pessimists, when fate or men try to
take something out of their lives, fight tooth and nail, and cry out
as loud as the greatest optimists. I am exactly in the like position.
I do not cry out, but a terrible fear clutches at my heart, that a few
days hence I shall not know what to do with myself in this world.