I am not blind; it tears
my heart day after day to see how her face is getting smaller, the
hands more transparent--and it makes my hair stand on end to think she
is paying out her life in this struggle. But all these are invincible
proofs. Her heart, her thoughts belong to me. For that very reason she
is unhappy--perhaps even more unhappy than I.
I read over what I wrote a moment ago,--that I did not even suppose
she would not resist. I thought so soon after my return to Ploszow,
but lately and when she was at Warsaw I fancied that I saw signs of
yielding. I was wrong. She did not give way in the least, showed no
sign of pity; my words to which she would not even listen seemed
blasphemy to her. I saw in her eyes sparks of anger and resentment;
she tore away her hands I covered with kisses, and the words: "You
insult me!" were continually on her lips. Her energy daunted me the
more as I had least expected such an explosion of wrath. Ah me! She
threatened to leave the carriage and go on foot in the pelting rain
to Ploszow. The word "divorce" acted upon her as a red-hot iron. I
obtained nothing, nothing, nothing with all my eloquence and audacity;
neither my entreaties nor my love moved her; she took everything as an
insult to her womanhood, spurned my love and trampled on it. To-day
when I see her so meek and sweet-tempered it seems like a horrid
dream, and I can scarcely believe that it is the same woman.
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