But I am like the chickens when asked in what sauce they would like to be served; I do not want to be dished up at all.  Now, to return to my grievance against you, dear ladies, you are before everything in love with love, and not with the lover.  Every one of you is a queen in her own rights, and in this you differ from other women; every one seems to confer a boon and a favor in permitting herself to be loved; none agrees to be only an addition or completion of a man’s life, who, besides matrimony, has some other aims in life.  You want us to live for you, instead of living for us.  Last, but not least, you love your children more than your husband.  His final fate is that of a satellite turning forever round in the same orbit.  I have seen this and noticed it very often in a general way; but now and then there happens to be found a pure diamond too among the chaff.  No, my queens and princesses, permit me to worship you from a safe distance.

Fancy putting aside all other aims, all ideals, in order to burn incense every day at the shrine of a woman, and that woman one’s own wife.  No, dear ladies, that is not sufficient to fill a man’s life.

Nevertheless, that second self sometimes mutters, “And what else is there for you to do?  If, anybody it is you who are fittest for the sacrifice, for what are your aims or your intentions?  No! the deuce and all!  To change the whole tenor of one’s life, renounce old habits, comforts, pleasures, it must be a great love, indeed, that could induce me to such a venture.  Marriage means a most amazing act of faith in a woman, I could never summon courage enough to commit.  No, most decidedly, I do not wish to be served up in any sauce whatever.”

WARSAW, 21 January.

I arrived here to-day.  I broke my journey at Vienna which made it less tiring, but my nerves do not let me sleep, so I take up my journal which has grown as a friend to me.  What joy there was in the house at my arrival, and what a dear, kind soul that aunt of mine is!  I do believe she is awake now for very joy.  She could scarcely eat any dinner.  When in the country at Ploszow, she is continually wrangling with her land-agent, Pan Chwastowski, a burly old nobleman who does not give in to her one whit.  Sometimes their disputes reach to such a pitch that a catastrophe seems imminent; then suddenly my aunt relaxes, falls to with an appetite and eats her dinner with a certain determination.  To-day she had only the servants to scold, and that was not sufficient to give her an appetite.  She was in capital spirits though, and the loving glances she bestowed on me beggar description.  In intimate circles I am called my aunt’s fetich, which makes her very angry.

Of course my fears and presentiments have not deceived me.  There are not only plans, but also a definite object.  After dinner my aunt is in the habit of walking up and down the room, and often thinks aloud.  Therefore, in spite of the mystery she deems fit to surround herself with, I heard the following monologue:—­