The days flow now very evenly. I think much and I rest. My thoughts
are often sad, at times not without bitterness, but my soul was so
weary that I find this restfulness very soothing. It makes me feel
conscious how much better off I am than I used to be. I am mostly
with Aniela; we read together, and then discuss what we have read.
Everything I say to her is only a definition, a development of love;
everything tends in that direction; but strange to say I notice that
now I never speak of it directly, as if that feminine objection to
calling things by their proper names had also infected me. I do not
know why this is so, but it is a fact. And it grieves me,--sometimes
grieves me very much; and it pleases me, because I see that Aniela is
pleased, and what is more, loves me for it. In order to cement the
union of our souls, I have begun to speak much about myself so as not
to have any secrets from her. I am reticent only about such things as
might offend her delicacy of feeling or the purity of her thoughts.
I tried to initiate her into the workings of a spirit undermined by
scepticism and the want of a basis in life. I told her openly that I
had nothing to live for except her; told her also what was going on
within me after her marriage, what shocks had passed through my heart
and brain since my return to Ploszow; I spoke of this all the more
eagerly, as it was like a series of confessions, as it all meant:
"I loved you then, as I love you now, beyond expression." She was
deceived as to the meaning of these confidences and listened to them
as if there had been no question about her, with emotion, sympathy,
and possibly unconscious delight. I saw tears gathering in her eyes,
her breast heaved as if her whole spiritual being went out to me with
open arms saying: "Come to me; you have suffered enough and deserve
some happiness." And I reply with my eyes: "I do not ask, do not
remind you of anything; I am altogether at your mercy."
I made those confidences also for another reason, namely, to introduce
the habit of mutual confidence between us, and make her tell me what
was going on in her mind at the same time. But I could not manage
it. I tried to ask, but the words seemed to come from her with such
difficulty, there was such evident constraint and uneasiness, that I
left off asking. To be quite open with me, she would have to reveal
all she felt for me and what was her relation to her husband. I wanted
her to come to that; but her modesty and her loyalty for the absent
husband would not permit her to speak.
I understood all perfectly, but I could not help feeling very sore,
and my pessimism says: "It is you who pay the score; you give
everything, without getting anything in return; you are deceived in
thinking her soul belongs to you; even that soul remains a blank to
you; then what do you possess?"
I admit the truthfulness of the utterance, but still I count upon the
future.