Formerly the conditions of life and a differently constituted community summoned us, and in a way forced us, into action.  Now, in these antihygienic times, when we have nothing to do with public life, and are poisoned by philosophy and doubts, our disease has grown more acute.  We have come to this at last, that we are not capable of sustained action, that our vitality shows itself only in sudden leaps and bounds, and consequently the most gifted among us always end in some kind of madness.  Of all that constitutes life there is only woman left for us; and we either fritter and squander ourselves away in licentiousness or cling to one love as to a branch that overhangs a precipice.  As it is mostly an unlawful love we cling to, it carries within itself the elements of a tragedy.  I know that my love for Aniela must end badly; and therefore I do not even try to defend myself from it.  Besides, whether I resist or submit, it means ruin either way.

28 June.

The baths and especially the cool, bracing air are improving Pani Celina’s health, and she is growing stronger day by day.  I surround her with every care and think of her comforts as if she were my own mother.  She is grateful for it, and seems to be growing very fond of me.  Aniela notices it, and cannot help feeling a certain regret at this vision of happiness that might have been ours if things had turned out differently.  I am quite certain now that she does not love Kromitzki.  She is and will be faithful to him; but when I see them together I notice in her face a certain constraint and humiliation.  I see it every time when he, whether really in love or only showing himself off as a doting husband, fondles her hands, smoothes her hair or kisses her brow.  She would rather hide herself in the very earth than be forced to submit to these endearments in my and other people’s presence.  Nevertheless she submits, with a forced smile.  I smile too, but as a diversion I mentally plunge my hands into my vitals and tear them to pieces.  At times the thought crosses my mind that this priestess of Diana is more at ease and less reticent when alone with her husband.  But I do not often indulge in thoughts like these, for I feel that one drop more and I shall lose my self-control altogether.

My relation to Aniela is terrible for me as well as for her.  My love shows itself in the guise of hatred, scorn, and irony.  It frightens Aniela and hurts her.  She looks at me now and then, and her pleading eyes say, “Is it my fault?” And I repeat to myself, “It is not her fault;” but I cannot, God help me, I cannot be different to her.  The more I see her oppressed and hurt, the fiercer becomes my resentment towards her, towards Kromitzki, myself, and the whole world.  And yet I pity her from my whole heart, for she is as unhappy as I am.  But as water, instead of subduing a conflagration, makes it rage all the fiercer, so my feelings are rendered fiercer by despair.  I treat the dearest being with scorn, anger, and irony, and thereby hurt myself far more than I hurt her; for she is capable of forgiveness, but I shall never be able to forgive myself.