The road to Hofgastein, hewn out of the rocks, skirting the precipices, winds and twists around the mountain slopes.  The light of the moon shone alternately on our faces and those of the ladies opposite, according to the varying directions of the road.  In Aniela’s face I saw nothing but a sweet sadness, and I took courage from the fact that it was neither stern nor forbidding.  I did not obtain a single glance, but I comforted myself by the thought that when concealed in the shadow, she would perhaps look at me and say to herself:  “Nobody loves me as he does, and nobody can be at the same time more unhappy than he,”—­which is true.  We were both silent.  Only Kromitzki kept on talking; his voice mingled with the rush of the waters below the rocks and the creaking of the brake, which the driver often applied.  This creaking irritated my nerves very much, but the warm, transparent night lulled them into restfulness again.  It was, as I said before, full moon; the bright orb had risen above the mountains, and sailing through space illumined the tops of Bocksteinkogl, the Tischlkar glaciers, and the precipitous slopes of the Graukogl.  The snow on the heights shone with a pale-green, metallic lustre, and as the mountain sides below were shrouded in darkness, the snowy sheen seemed to float in mid air, as if not belonging to the earth.  There was such a charm, such peace and restfulness in these sleeping mountains, that involuntarily the words of the poet came into mind:—­

  “At such a moment, alas! two hearts are grieving. 
  What there is to forgive, they are forgiving;
  What was to be forgot, they dismiss to oblivion.”

And yet what is there to forgive?  That I kissed her feet?  If she were a sacred statue she could not be offended by such an act of reverence.  I thought if it came to an explanation between us I would tell her that.

I often think that Aniela does me a great wrong, not to say that she calls things by wrong names.  She considers my love a mere earthly feeling, an infatuation of the senses.  I do not deny that it is composed of various threads, but there are among them some as purely ideal as if spun of poetry.  Very often my senses are lulled to sleep, and I love her as one loves only in early youth.  Then the second self within me mocks, and says derisively:  “I had no idea you could love like a schoolboy or a romanticist!” Yet such is the fact.  I may be ridiculous, but I love her thus, and it is not an artificial feeling.  It is this which makes my love so complete, and at the same time so sad; for Aniela misconstrues it and cannot enter into its spirit.  Even now I inwardly spoke to her thus:  “Do you think there are no ideal chords in my soul?  At this moment I love you in such a way that you may accept my love without fear.  It would be a pity to spurn so much feeling; it would cost you nothing, and it would be my salvation.  I could then say to myself:  ’This is my whole world; within its boundaries I am allowed to live.  It would be something at least.  I would try to change my nature, try to believe in what you believe, and hold fast to it all my life.’”