May I venture to remind you that the period chosen by you, within which to give me a definite answer, will have come to an end on Monday next?
I beg to remain, Madame,
Most respectfully yours,
Janusz.
Yes, the time has come. I shall go to Obojanski’s to-night.
Here I have come, with fevered lips and ice-cold heart, only to find that Roslawski went away but a quarter of an hour ago, having to dine with some friends this evening.
I still can smell in the air the brand of cigars that he smokes.... My eyebrows and lids are twitching as if agitated by some witch’s spell.
Yet I experience not the least disappointment at not finding him here: rather a sense of relief, that I can put the affair off a little longer.
Obojanski tells me what a favourite of Roslawski I am, and goes so far as to hint—in jest—that he is in love with me. This very evening he was asking why I have paid no visit to my old Professor for such a length of time. This, for a man of his sort, must mean a great deal.
In the main, however, Obojanski is this evening in a pessimistic and quarrelsome mood. He blames me for too readily taking up with new trends of thought: which does me great harm. There is no contemporary poet equal to Homer: I ought therefore to be somewhat more deeply read in the works of the old classics, which reflect such a healthy feeling of harmony between body and mind.