to do to further your plans;” and that promises a transition from utter passiveness to a feverish activity.  I must be doing something; it is a question of not losing control over my senses.  I pledged my word to Aniela not to attempt my life, and I cannot go on living as I do.  If the road I am taking be ignominious, the ignominy will be for Kromitzki more than for me.  I must and will separate them, not only for my own sake but also for Aniela’s sake.  I am really feverish.  Everybody seems to derive some benefit from the bathing except me.

10 July.

There are some hot days even in Gastein.  What heat!  Aniela is dressed in white soft flannel, such as English girls wear for lawn-tennis.  We have our breakfast in the open air.  She comes from her bath as bright and fresh as the snow at sunrise.  The supple figure shows to great advantage in the graceful dress.  The morning light falls upon her and shows distinctly every hair on the eyebrows, lashes, and the delicate down on either side of her face.  The hair is glistening with moisture and looks fairer in this light, and the eyelids are almost transparent.  How young she is, and how intoxicating her appearance!  In her, then, is my life, in her everything I want.  I will not go away, I cannot.  Looking at her I seem to lose my senses from intoxication, and at the same time from pain; for close by her side sits he who is her husband.  It cannot continue thus; let her belong to no one provided she be not his.  She understands to a certain extent what I suffer, but not altogether.  She does not love her husband, but considers it her duty to live with him.  I gnash my teeth at the very thought, for in admitting his rights she degrades herself; and that is not allowed, even to her.  Far better she were dead.  Then she will be mine; because the lawful husband will remain behind, but not I. By this token I am more lawfully hers than he is.

There is something very strange going on within me at times.  For instance, when I am very tired or when my mind is concentrated upon one point I seem to look into the future, into far-away space which remains invisible to me in a normal state.  Then there comes to me such a conviction that Aniela belongs to me—­that in some way she is or will be mine—­that when I wake up I have to remind myself that there exists such a man as Kromitzki.  Maybe in moments like those I cross the boundary which separates the living from the dead, and have a vision of things more perfect, such as the ideals we dream about, as they might shape themselves in outward form.  Why is it these two worlds are not more in touch with each other?  As often as I try to solve this problem I lose myself; I cannot understand this want of harmony, but feel dimly that therein lie our imperfection and our misery.  The thought comforts me, for in the ideal world Aniela could not belong to a man like Kromitzki.

11 July.

Another disappointment, another plan shattered, but I have still hope that all is not lost.  I spoke to-day with Kromitzki about the Boyar who sold his wife, and invented a whole story in order to discover his real feelings.  We met the Englishman with his purchased wife near the Cascades.  I began by praising her beauty, and then remarked:—­