22 August.

After the completion of Pani Celina’s cure we waited for weeks till the heat in the plains should have grown less intense, and at last the weather broke and again delayed our journey.  There has been an almost Egyptian darkness for three days.  The clouds which have been gathering on the summits, breeding snow and rain, have descended from the heights and enveloped Gastein as in a wet blanket.  There is such a mist that in the middle of the day I have to pick my way carefully from Straubinger’s to our villa.  Everything is wrapped in a thick veil,—­the houses, the trees, the mountains, and cascades.  The shapes of things dissolve and disappear in the moist clouds that weigh upon everything, and also upon the human mind.  We light the lamps at two o’clock in the afternoon.  The ladies have finished packing, and we should have gone in spite of the mist, but the road is torn up by the mountain torrents beyond Hofgastein.  Pani Celina again suffers from headaches, and my aunt, after receiving a letter from Chwastowski about the harvest, walks with heavy steps about the room, talking to herself and scolding Chwastowski.  Aniela looked pale and out of sorts in the morning.  She had a bad night and dreamed about the cretin she had seen near the Schreckbruecke.  She woke up, and could not go to sleep again; she spent the rest of the night in nervous terror.  It is very strange what an impression the wretched cripple has made upon her.  I tried by cheerful conversation to make her forget about the incident, in which I succeeded.  Since our compact on the Schreckbruecke she is without comparison brighter, more cheerful, and happier.

As regards myself, seeing Aniela thus contented, I cannot find it in my heart to complain, though it often occurs to me that our relation is mainly based upon there being no relation at all.  When I entered into the compact I knew what I was doing and what shape our feeling would take; but now that shape seems to be getting more intangible and undefined, and wrapped up in a mist like that which enfolds Gastein.  I have a presentiment that Aniela will not grant me what is due to me, and I dare not remind her about anything.  I dare not, because a struggle is too exhausting, especially a struggle for the woman we love.  I have been engaged in this struggle half a year and not gained anything; and I feel so weary that I prefer the truce, such as it is, to a renewal of my former warfare.  There is also another reason.  If this state of things does not exactly answer to my expectations, it pleases and conciliates Aniela.  She fancies I love her in a nobler way, therefore she appreciates, I dare not say loves, me more and more.  In spite of the absence of all outward signs, I see it and it gives me courage; I say to myself, “If her feeling increases, only persevere, and a time may come when it will be stronger than her power of resistance.”

People generally, and women especially, fancy that the so-called Platonic love is a peculiar species of love, very rare and very noble.  It is simply a confusion of ideas.  There may be such a thing as Platonic relations, but Platonic love is as much nonsense as dark light.  Even love for the dead consists of a longing after their bodily presence as well as their souls.  Among the living this feeling is called resignation.