What a
good day it has been!
My aunt came back towards evening, and announced visitors. To-morrow
both the Sniatynskis are coming, and Clara Hilst.
It is very late, but I do not want to sleep, for I am loathe to part
with the memories of the day. Sleep cannot be more beautiful. The park
is literally alive with the song of the nightingales, and there is
still in me a great deal of the old romanticist. The night is clear
and limpid, and the sky full of stars. Thinking of Aniela, I say a
hundred times good-night to her. I see that side by side with the
_improductivite Slave_, there is in me a great deal of purely Polish
sentimentality. I had not known myself in that capacity before. But
what does it matter? I love her very much.
13 May.
Clara and the Sniatynskis have not arrived. Instead of this, there
came a letter, informing us they would come to-morrow, the weather
permitting. To-day we had a thunder-storm, the like of which they have
not experienced here for a long time. About ten o'clock in the morning
a hot wind rose, which smothered everything in clouds of dust. The
wind fell at times, and then rose again with such fury that it seemed
to lay the trees flat. Our beautiful park was filled with the sound of
crashing branches, and clouds of dust mingled with torn-off leaves and
twigs. The great lime-tree close to the pavilion, where young Latysz
died, was split in two.
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