Perhaps this is only a momentary relief, for I understand well that Neo-Vitalism does not form an epoch in science; maybe to-morrow I shall go back to prison,—­I do not know.  In the meantime the breath of air did me good.  I said to myself over and over again:  “If it be possible that by way of scepticism one can arrive at the undoubted certainty of another world, mocking at mechanical explanation, being absolutely beyond all physico-chemical elucidation, then everything is possible,—­every creed, every dogma, every mysticism!  It is permissible then to think that, as there is infinite Space, there is also infinite Reason, infinite Good, enfolding the whole universe as in a vast cloak, under which we may find rest and shelter and protection.  And if so, all is well!  I shall know at least why I live and why I suffer.  What an immense relief!”

I repeat once more that I am not obliged to be timid and wary in my deductions, and, as I said before, no one is so near mysticism as the sceptic.  I realized it once more in myself when I began spreading my wings, like the bird which has been caged and delights in its new freedom.  I saw before me endless space covered with new life.  I did not know whether it was on another planet or farther still, beyond the planetary sphere,—­enough that the space was different from ours, the light brighter and softer, the air cool and full of sweetness; the difference consisted mainly in the closer union of the individual spirit with the spirit of the universe; it was so close that it was difficult to understand where the individual ceased and the universe began.  I felt at the same time it was upon that very dimness of the boundary that the happiness of this other life rested, as the being did not live in opposition or exclusion but in harmony with his surroundings, and thus lived with the whole power of universal life.

I do not say it was a vision; it was only a crossing of the narrow boundary beyond which reasoning leaves off and conscious feeling begins,—­a feeling which as yet is only a conclusion of former premises, but carried so far as to be difficult to grasp, as a golden thread spun out to its utmost length.  Moreover, I did not know how to incorporate myself with that new life and new space,—­how to melt in it my own self.  I had kept to a certain extent my own individuality, and there was something wanting near me,—­something I searched for.  Suddenly I became aware it was Aniela I was searching for.  Of course, only her and always her.  What could another life matter to me without her?  I found her at last, and we roamed about together like the shadow of Paolo with the shadow of Francesca di Rimini.  I write this down because I see in it an almost terrifying proof how far my whole being has been absorbed by this love.

What connection is there between Bunge’s Neo-Vitalism and Aniela?  Nevertheless, even when thinking of things far removed, it all brings me back to her.  Science, art, nature, life,—­all are carried back to the same denominator.  It is the axis around which turns my world.