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.
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