I know to what I have pledged myself, and shall keep to it; there is nothing else to do.  In the face of Aniela’s firmness of purpose there is no room for any agreeing or disagreeing.  The fear that she may take back what she has given is enough curb for me.  I rather exaggerate my caution and wariness, so as not to frighten away the bird which I call “spiritual love,” and she calls “friendship.”  That word, which in the first moment was merely a prick, enough to make me wince, is gradually growing into a sore.  At the time it seemed to me not expressive enough, and now it appears to me too cautious, too full of conditions.  How strange that characteristic of feminine nature, not to call things by their name.  Yet I explained distinctly to Aniela what I was asking for, and she understood me fully; and nevertheless she called the feeling “friendship,” as if she wanted to veil herself with it before me, before herself and God.

Looking at it from another point, it is true that a feeling devoid of all earthly substance may be called by any name.  There is sadness and bitterness in the thought.  This caution, common to very pure-minded women, is undoubtedly the outcome of their modesty, but it does not permit them to be generous.  I might go straight to Aniela and say to her:  “I have sacrificed to you one half of my existence, and you grudgingly dole me out your words; is it right?” And I tell her so inwardly with reproachful eyes.  It is difficult to imagine love without generosity, without a desire to make some sacrifices.

To-day on Windischgraetzhoehe we conversed together like two beings closely connected by the ties of love and friendship, but there was nothing in our speech that brother and sister might not have said to each other.  If we had made such an excursion before we had entered into our compact, I should undoubtedly have taken some advantage of it, kissed her hands or feet or even tried, if only for a moment, to take her in my arms; to-day I walked quietly at her side, like one who is afraid of the slightest frown.  Partly I restrained myself on purpose, thinking that in this way I should win her confidence and favor.  By this silence I meant to say:  “You will not be disappointed in me; I will take rather less than I have a right to,—­so as not to break our compact.”

But one feels hurt all the same, when the sacrifice is accepted promptly and cheerfully as soon as it is offered.  Involuntarily one says inwardly to the beloved woman:  “Do not let yourself be outdone in generosity.”  And I said so,—­but in vain.

What is the result?  A certain disappointment for myself.  I used to think if such a compact existed between us, I should have perfect liberty within its boundaries; should be able to say, “I love you” as often as I liked, and hear the same from her lips; and that this would compensate me for all my torments, for the whole time of my suffering,—­in short that I should be king in that restricted kingdom;