Never since my return have I seen her
so cheerful. Formerly when I looked at her she reminded me of
Shakspeare's "Poor Tom." A nature like hers wants love, as her body
wants air to breathe. Kromitzki, occupied with speculations, does not
love her enough, perhaps does not know what love means. She might
rightly say with Shakspeare, "Poor Tom's acold." When I think of this
my heart is stirred, and I make a silent vow that she shall never feel
cold as long as I live.
If our love were wrong there could not be within us such peace. That
Aniela does not call it by its proper name means nothing; it is there
all the same. The whole day passed for us like an idyl. Formerly I
disliked Sundays; now I find that a Sunday, from morning until night,
may be like a poem, especially in the country. Soon after breakfast,
we went to church in time for the early mass. My aunt followed in our
rear; even Pani Celina, profiting by the fine weather, was wheeled
thither in her Bath chair. There were not many people in church, as
most of them go later for high mass. Sitting on the bench by Aniela's
side, I had the blissful illusion that I was sitting with my affianced
wife. From time to time I looked at the sweet, dear profile, at the
hands which were resting on the desk before her, and the concentration
in her face and bearing gradually infected me.
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