concentration of the feelings. It would be the same, for instance, had
I begun some literary work, and some unfortunate accident interrupted
the even flow of my thoughts. But that is not all. Not long ago, all
the faculties of my mind were strung to their highest pitch; now,
under the influence of a heavy sorrow, a soft atmosphere, and the
gently rocking sea, they have relaxed. I live, as I said before, the
life of a plant; I rest as one rests after a long fatigue, and as if
immersed in a warm bath. Never did I feel less inclined to any kind of
exertion; the very thought of it gives me pain. If I had to choose a
watchword, it would be, "Do not wake me." What will happen when I wake
up, I do not know. I am sad now, but not unhappy; therefore I do not
want to wake up, and do not consider it my duty. It is even difficult
to me to recall the image of the Ploszowski who fancied himself bound
to Aniela. Bound,--why? by what reason? What has happened between us?

A slight, almost imperceptible kiss on the forehead,--a caress which,
among near relations, can be put down to brotherly affection. These
are ridiculous scruples. I have broken ties far different from these
without the slightest twinge of conscience. Were she not a relation,
it would be a different matter. It is true, she understood it in a
different way, and so did I at the time,--but let it pass. One prick
of conscience more or less, what does it matter? We do worse things
continually, to which the disappointment I caused Aniela is mere
childishness. Conscience that can occupy itself with such peccadilloes
must have nothing else to do. There is about the same proportion of
such kinds of crime to real ones as our conversations on the terrace
to real life.

Upon the whole, I do foresee what will happen; but I want to be left
in peace at present and not think of anything. "Do not wake me."