I possess so much control over my thoughts, such a consciousness of self that it seems to me impossible that I could ever lose my reason.  I cannot even imagine it; but at moments I feel as if my nerves could not bear the strain any longer.

I am sorry Clara is gone.  I have seen but little of her lately; but I liked to know that she was not far off; now Aniela will absorb me altogether, because I give to her that power which rules our likings, and makes us conscious of friendship.

When I returned home, I found there young Chwastowski, who had come to town in order to consult with his brother, the bookseller.  They have some scheme in hand about selling elementary books.  They are always scheming something, always busy, and that fills their life.  I have come to such a pass that I rejoiced to see him as a child that is afraid of ghosts is glad to see somebody coming into the room.  His spiritual healthiness seems to brace me.  He said that Pani Celina was so much better that within a week she would be able to bear the journey to Gastein.  Oh yes! yes!  Anything for a change!  I shall push that plan with all my powers.  I will persuade my aunt to go too.  She will do it for my sake, and in that case nobody will be astonished at my going.  There is at least something I desire, and desire very much.  I shall have so many chances of taking care of Aniela, and shall be nearer to her than at Ploszow.  I feel somewhat relieved; but it has been a terrible day, and nothing oppresses me so much as dark, rainy weather.  I still hear the drops falling from the waterspouts; but there is a rift in the clouds, and a few stars are visible.

12 June.

Kromitzki arrived to-day.

Gastein, 23 June.

We arrived at Gastein a week ago,—­the whole family:  Aniela, my aunt, Pani Celina, Kromitzki, and myself.  I interrupted my diary for some time, not because I had lost the zest for it, nor because I did not feel the necessity for writing, but simply because I was in a state of mind which words cannot express.  As long as a man tries to resist his fate, and wages war against the forces that crush him, he has neither brains nor time for anything else.  I was like the prisoner in Sansson’s memoirs, who when they tore his flesh and poured molten lead into the wounds shouted in nervous ecstasy, “Encore! encore!” until he fainted.  I have fainted too, which means that I am exhausted and resigned.

A great hand seems to weigh upon me, as immense as the mountains that loom up before me.  What can I do against it?  Nothing but submit and remain passive while it crushes me.  I did not know that one could find, if not comfort, at least some kind of peace in this consciousness of impotence and the looking straight at one’s misery.

If only I could keep from struggling against it, and not disturb this state of quiescence.  I could write then about things that happen to me as if they had happened to somebody else.  But I know from experience that one day does not resemble another, and I am afraid of what the morrow will bring forth.