yond—the depths of my soul. And behold, it is an abyss more than of infinite depth.—Alas! my ponderings, imaged thus, tell me but that in such an attitude, and thus arrayed, I look very handsome!
The sun is glaring high in heaven. Floating on the bright sea-waves is a light bark, with the prow shaped like a swan's neck; and Witold is sitting in the bark. He smiles as he floats so lightly—floats on the sea of life. And I—I remain aimlessly gazing into those depths of my own being. …
"Witold, you know that all this sort of thing must, sooner or later, come to an end?"
"How should I know that?"
"Not by experience?"
"Ah! Janka, my dearest, how often have I entreated you!" Then, in a gayer tone: "I am not an experimentalist in any sense of the word. And it is thus that I know to-day just as much as I did yesterday; and I cling to my illusions as I did of old times."
"But why will you never consider this question with your eyes open and face to face? Why are you for ever afraid of it? Why must the dreadful burden of seeing things clearly always be borne by me? Oh, Witold!"
