4 August.

Some time ago I had a faint hope that under the influence of indignation against her husband, Aniela might come to me and say:  “Since you have paid for me, I am yours.”  Another of my delusions.  Any other woman, with exalted notions fed upon French novels, might have acted thus; or one who wanted only a pretext to throw herself into a lover’s arms.  No; Aniela will never do that, and if such a thought came into my mind at all it is because I too have been fed upon those pseudo-dramas of the feminine soul, which at bottom illustrate only the desire to cast virtue adrift.  There is but one thing which would push Aniela into my arms, and that is her heart; but no artificial scenes, no phrases or false pathos.  There is not the slightest possibility of her yielding to these.

If it be a great misfortune to love another man’s wife, be she ever so commonplace, it is an infinitely greater misfortune to love a virtuous woman.  There is something in my relations to Aniela of which I never heard or read; there is no getting out of it, no end.  A solution, whether it be a calamity or the fulfilment of desire, is something, but this is only an enchanted circle.  If she remain immovable and I do not cease loving her, it will be an everlasting torment, and nothing else.  And I have the despairing conviction that neither of us will give way.

If she has a narrow heart it will not trouble her very much.  As to myself I desire nothing more ardently than to get free from bondage; but I cannot get free.  I say to myself, over and over again, that it must be done; and I put forth all my strength, as the drowning man does to save himself.  At times I fancy that I have achieved some kind of victory, when lo!  I see her passing under my window, my eyes rest upon her, and I experience a shock in my heart; the whole depth of my feeling is revealed, as the flash of lightning tears asunder the clouds and shows the depth of the sky.  Ah me! what torture to have to deal with virtue, cold and merciless as the letter of the law!  Even if Aniela had no heart I should still love her, as a mother would love a child though it were deformed.  Pity then grows all the stronger,—­and so does pain.

5 August.

What an inadequate, mean standard is human intellect when it comes to measure anything great, awesome, or very lofty.  Reason, which serves well enough in the everyday conditions of life, becomes a drivelling fool, like Polonius, in exceptional cases.  It seems to me that the usual ethical code cannot be considered a standard by which to measure great passions.  To see in an immense feeling like mine only the infringement of this or that law, not to see anything else, not to see that it is an element and part of those higher forces that mock at empty rules, a godlike, immeasurable, creative power on which rests the All-Life, is a kind of blindness and littleness.  Alas, Aniela thus looks upon my love!  I suppose she often thinks I must respect her for her conduct; while I—­God knows, I do not say it because it concerns my own fate, but judging her quite impartially—­despise her, or at least try not to despise her for it, and say to her inwardly:  “I should respect you and worship you a thousandfold if you could look upon the matter differently, not as regards our relations, but as regards love in general.”