And I kissed again her hand, both hands in fact.  All this could be still put down to cousinly affection,—­human nature is so mean that the consciousness that there was still a door through which I could escape lent me courage.  I call this feeling mean for the very reason that I am not responsible to anybody except to myself, and myself I cannot deceive.  Yet I feel that even to myself I shall not give a strict account, because in so far as my relations to Aniela are concerned I am carried away by my sensations.  I still feel on my lips the touch of her hand,—­and my desires are simply without limit.  Sooner or later I shall myself close that door through which I could still escape.  But could I still escape?  Yes, if some extraneous circumstances came to my aid.

In the meanwhile she loves me, and everything draws me towards her.  To-day I asked myself, “If it is to be, why put it off?” I found a ready answer:  “Because I do not want to lose any of my present sensations; the sudden thrills, the charm of the words unspoken, the questioning glances, the expectations.  I wish to spin out the romance to the very end.  I found fault with women that they preferred the semblance of love to love itself, and now I am quite as anxious not to lose any of its outward manifestations.  But as one gets more advanced in years one attaches greater importance to these things; and besides, I am an Epicurean in my sensations.”

After the above conversation with Aniela, we both recovered our spirits.  During evening I helped her in the cutting out of lampshades, which gave me the opportunity to touch her hands and dress.  I hindered her with the work and she became as gay as a child, and in a child’s quick, plaintive voice called out, “Aunty, Leon is very naughty.”

14 February.

Ill luck would have it that I accepted an invitation to attend a meeting at Councillor S.’s, who always tries to bring together representatives of all shades and opinions, and over a cup of tea and a sandwich to bring about a mutual understanding.  As a man almost continually living abroad, I came to this meeting to find out what was going on in the minds of my countrymen and listen to their reasonings.  The crush was very great, which made me feel uncomfortable, and at the same time happened what usually happens at large gatherings.  Those of the same shade of opinion congregated in separate rooms to pay each other compliments and so forth.  I was made acquainted with various councillors and representatives of the press.  In other countries, there is a considerable difference between writers and journalists.  The first is considered an artist and a thinker, the latter, a mere paragraph-monger—­I cannot find a better word.  Here there is no such distinction, and men of both occupations are known under the same collective name as literary men.  The greater part of them follow both avocations, literature and journalism.  Personally, they are more refined than the journalists