That woman, though unconsciously, has wrought me such irreparable harm that I ought to hate her, but cannot,—­first, because I am conscious that, had she never crossed my path, I should have probably found some other means to wreck my happiness; secondly, as Satan is a fallen angel, so hatred is degenerated love, and I never loved Laura.  There is a little contempt for her, a little dislike, and she returns the feeling undoubtedly a hundredfold.

As to Clara’s feelings, Laura may be right.  To-day I saw it clearer than ever.  If that be the case, I am grateful to her.  For the first time in my life I long for the pure friendship of a woman.  A soul so restless as mine will find solace and comfort in such a friendship.

We conversed together to-day, Clara and I, like old friends.  Her intelligence is not large, but clear and discerning between bad and good, ugly and what she considers beautiful; consequently her judgment is not shifty, but calm and serene.  She has that kind of spiritual healthiness often met with in Germans.  Coming across them now and then I observe that the type I belong to is very rare among them.  The Germans and the English are generally positive and know what they want.  They too are sounding the fathomless depth of doubt, but they do it methodically as scientists, not as sensitive geniuses without portfolio like me; in consequence of which their recent transcendental philosophy, their present scientific pessimism, and their poetic Weltschmerz have only a theoretical meaning.  Their everyday practice consists in adapting themselves to the rules of life.  According to Hartmann, the more humanity gains in intensity and consciousness.  The more unhappy it grows.  The same Hartmann, with the calmness of a German Cultur-traeger, becomes practical when he raises his voice in favor of suppressing the Polish element as detrimental to German supremacy.  But, putting aside this incident, which belongs to the category of human villanies, Germans do not take theories seriously, and therefore are always calm and capable of action.  This same calmness Clara possesses.  Things which rend and trouble human souls must have come near her some time or other, but if so they left no trace and were not absorbed by her; thus she never lost faith in truth and in her art.  If she has any deeper feeling for me than mere friendship, the feeling is unconscious and does not ask for anything in return.  If it were otherwise, it would be the beginning of her tragedy, as I could not return her love and might make her unhappy.  I am not so conceited as to think that no woman could resist me, but I am of the opinion that no woman can resist the man she truly loves.  It is a trite saying that “a fortress besieged is a fortress surrendered,” but there is some truth in it when adapted to woman, especially when behind the entrenchment of her virtues she harbors such a traitor as her own heart.  But Clara may rest tranquil.  We shall travel peacefully together:  she, her old relative, myself, and the dumb piano.