I am ill.  I have seen very little of Aniela lately,—­partly by reason of my headaches, that kept me confined to my room, and partly because I wished to let her feel how deeply she had injured and grieved me.  Not to see her cost me great self-denial, for my eyes want her as they want the light.  I have already mentioned that with all her inflexibility, she has a certain weakness:  she cannot bear that anybody should be angry with her; it frightens her, and she tries her best to conciliate those that are angry.  She is then meek, sweet tempered, and looks into one’s eyes with the pleading expression of a child who is afraid to be punished.  This always moved me deeply and was my delight, as it kept up the delusion that I had only to open my arms and she would fall upon my neck, if only to soften my resentment.  I cannot get rid altogether of this delusion, although convinced of its futility; and even now I cherish some hope in a corner of my heart that when we come to make it up, something will happen between us,—­she will make a kind of submission and will draw closer to me.  On the other hand I see in this mutual irritation a tacit acknowledgment on the part of Aniela that I have the right to love her; for if she admits the resentment springing from love, she must admit the love itself.  It is a shadowy right, dim and vague as a dream, without shape or substance; yet I cling to it, for it saves me from utter apathy and hopelessness.

2 August.

I have received another letter from Clara Hilst.  She must have divined something; there is much pity and sympathy in her words, as if she knew how wretched I am.  I do not know and do not want to know, whether she loves me as a sister or otherwise, I only feel that she loves me.  I answered her letter in the same hearty spirit, grateful for her friendliness.  She is going to Berlin now, and promises her appearance in Warsaw for the winter.  She wants me to come to Berlin, if only for a few days.  I will not go to Berlin, will not part from my troubles, but shall be glad to see her again at Warsaw.  With Aniela I speak only of indifferent subjects, so as not to draw the attention of the elder ladies to the state of things between us.  When alone we are both silent.  I noticed several times that she was about to say something, but seemed afraid; as regards myself I could only say, “I love you;” and even that seems inadequate to express my feelings.

There is now resentment in my love.  The thought is troubling my mind that she has a narrow heart, and that in this lies the secret of her unyieldingness.  To-day, when I come to think it over more calmly, I go back to the conviction that she has some feeling for me, composed of gratitude, pity, and memories of the past; but it has no active power, cannot rise above prejudice,—­even to the avowal of its existence.  It does not respect itself, hides, is ashamed of itself, and in comparison with mine is as the mustard-seed to those Alps which surround us.  From Aniela one may expect that she will restrict it rather than let it grow.  It is of no use to hope or watch for anything from her; that conviction makes me very wretched.