in subdued tones about art, love, and woman, and look at the divine
profile of such a woman as Mrs. Davis.


10 March.

Mountains, towers, rocks, the further they recede from our view,
appear as a mere outline through a veil of blue haze. There is a kind
of psychical blue haze that enfolds those who are removed from us.
Death itself is a removal, but the chasm is so wide that the beloved
ones who have crossed it disappear within the haze and become as
beloved shadows. The Greek genius understood this when he peopled the
Elysian fields with shadows.

But I will not enlarge upon these mournful comparisons, especially
when I want to write about Aniela. I am quite certain my feelings
towards her have not changed, but I seem to see her a long distance
off, shrouded in a blue haze and less real than at Ploszow. I do not
feel her through my senses. When I compare my present feelings with
those I had at Ploszow, she is more of a beloved spirit than a desired
woman. From a certain point of view it is better, as a desired woman
might be even such a woman as Mrs. Davis; but on the other hand this
is not one of the reasons that have prevented me from writing to
Aniela. Doubtless that profile of Mrs. Davis which I still see before
me is a mere passing impression. When I compare these two women my
feeling for the other becomes very tender; and yet I leave her in
cruel suspense and uncertainty.

To-day my father wrote to my aunt, setting her mind at rest as to his
health, and I added a postscript from myself, sending kind regards