Of course one may suffer.  With these few words she had crushed my arguments and filled my heart with reverence for her.  In moments like these I am happy and unhappy, as again it seems to me that she loves me as I love her, but will remain pure before God, and men, and herself.  And I shall not be able to shake that temple.  When all is said and done this analysis of her heart and feelings does not lead to any certainty.  I am always walking in the dark.  To my philosophical and social “I do not know” there is now added a personal consideration, far more serious; for this “I do not know” threatens my very life.

I forged myself the chain which binds me to Aniela, and there is no hope whatever that it ever will be broken.  I love her despairingly, and it is a question whether my love be not a disease.  If I were younger, less shattered in mind and nerves,—­in short, of a more normal disposition,—­I might, seeing the hopelessness, try to break that chain.  As it is, I do not make even an effort.  I love as a man with diseased nerves, a man who is close upon mania; love as old men do, clinging to love with all their might, as it is for them a question of life.  Thus one may cling to a branch overhanging a precipice.

This one thing has blossomed in my life, consequently its growth is so out of all proportion.  A phenomenon like this is easy to understand and will repeat itself the oftener, the more people there are like me; that is, hyper-analytical sceptics inclined to hysteria, with a great nothingness in their souls, and a strong neurosis in their veins.  This modern product of our epoch, drawing to its end, may not love at all, or may look upon love as mere licentiousness; but if it happen that all the forces of one’s life centre in one feeling, and come under the sway of his neurosis, the predilection will become as ineradicable as any other chronic disease.  Physiologists have not fully understood this, still less novelists, who occupy themselves with the analysis of the modern human soul.

Vienna, 25 August.

We arrived to-day at Vienna.  On the way I listened to a conversation between my aunt and Pani Celina, of which I took note, as it seemed to make an extraordinary impression upon Aniela.  We four were alone in the railway carriage; we were discussing the portrait, and especially the question whether the white dress would not have to be abandoned, as the making of it would take up too much time.  Suddenly Pani Celina, whose mind is full of reminiscences and dates, which she quotes in and out of season, turned to Aniela and said:—­

“It is just two months to-day since your husband arrived at Ploszow, is it not?”

“I believe so,” replied Aniela.