has a greater power of recuperation. There is a legend about the rose
of Jericho, which, though dry to the core, revives and brings forth
leaves when touched by a drop of dew. I have noticed that the male
nature has more elasticity than the female. A man steeped in such
utter corruption that half of its venom would cover the woman with
moral leprosy is able to throw off the contagion, and recover easily
not only his moral freshness, but even a certain virginity of heart.
It is the same with the affections. I have known women whose hearts
were so used up that they lost every capacity of loving, even of
respecting anything or anybody. I have never known men like that.
Decidedly, love cleanses our hearts. Definitions like these sound
strange from a sceptic's pen; but in the first place I have no more
belief in my doubts than I have in any other kind of assertions,
axioms, and observations which serve general humanity as a basis of
life. I am ready to admit at any moment that my doubts are as far
removed from the essence of things as are these axioms. Secondly, I
am writing now under the influence of my love for Aniela, who, maybe,
does not know herself how wisely she is acting, and how by that very
trust in me she has secured a powerful hold on my affections. Lastly,
whenever I speak of love, or any other principle of life, I speak and
write of it as it appears to me in the present. What my opinion about
it will be to-morrow, I do not know. Ah, if I but knew that whatever
view I take or principle I confess would withstand the blasting
scepticism of to-morrow or the days following, I would make it my
canon of life, and float along with sails unfurled, like Sniatynski,
in the light, instead of groping my way in darkness and solitude.

But I do not intend to go back now to my inner tragedy. As to love in
general, from the standpoint of a sceptic in regard to the world and
its manifestations, I might say with Solomon, "Vanitas vanitatum;"