appetite. As the dinner goes on she gradually brightens up and
recovers her usual spirits. After dinner, I offer my arm to Aniela's
mother, my aunt accepts Pan Chwastowski's, and presently they sip
their black coffee in peace and perfect amity. My aunt inquires after
his sons, and he kisses her hands. I saw those sons of his when they
were at the university, and I hear they are promising young men, but
great radicals.

Aniela used to get frightened at first at these prandial disputes,
until I gave her the clue to the real state of things. So now when
the first signal of battle is given, she looks at me slyly from under
those long lashes, and there is a little smile lurking in the corners
of her mouth. She is so pretty then I feel tempted to take her in
my arms. I have never met a woman with such delicate veins on her
temples.


12 February.

Truly a metamorphosis of Ovidius on the earth and within me! The frost
has gone, the fine weather vanished, and there is Egyptian darkness. I
cannot describe it better than by saying the weather is foul. What an
abominable climate! In Rome, at the worst, the sun shines at intervals
half a dozen times a day; here lamps ought to be lit these two days.
The black, heavy mist seems to permeate one's thoughts, and paint them
a uniform gray. My aunt and Pan Chwastowski were more intent than
usual upon warfare. He maintained that my aunt, by not allowing the
woods to be touched, causes the timber to spoil; my aunt replied that
others did their best to cut down all the timber, and not a bit of
forest would soon be left in the country. "I am getting old; let