14 September.

They must have gone back to Ploszow by this time.  I still think of Aniela very often, for we cannot wipe out the past; especially when we have nothing to look for in the future; and I have nothing, nothing at all.  If I had faith I might become a priest; if I were a man who denies the existence of God I might become a convert.  But within me the organs with which we believe are withered, as sometimes a limb withers.  I do not know anything except that in my sorrows I do not find comfort in religion.

When Aniela married Kromitzki, I thought everything between us was over.  I was mistaken.  It is only now I have the full conviction that everything is over; for now we are divided not only by our will and my departure, but by something that is beyond us, by forces of nature independent of us.  We are like two parallel lines that can never meet, though we wish for it ever so much.  On Aniela’s line there will be suffering, but there will be also new worlds, a new life; on mine there is nothing but solitude.  She doubtless understands that as well as I. I wonder whether sometimes she says to herself:  “It is I who, without intending it, have ruined that man.”  It does not matter much to me, and yet I should like to know that she is sorry for me.  Maybe she will feel a little sorry until her child is born.  After that all her feelings will flow into one channel, and, for her, I shall not exist any longer.  That also is a law of nature,—­an excellent law.

16 September.

I saw to-day on an advertisement in big letters the name of Clara Hilst.  I now remembered that she had told me in her last letter that she was going to Berlin.  She is here, and she is going to give several concerts.  At the time, the news neither pleased nor displeased me.  Now, in proportion as my nervous restlessness increases, the sensation grows more distinct, and takes a twofold shape:  the thought that she is near acts soothingly on me, but the thought is sufficient, and I would rather not see her; and when I say to myself that I ought to call on her it gives me an unpleasant sensation.  Clara has that inquisitive solicitude that wants to know everything and asks questions.  She has a strong leaning towards romantic situations, and the firm belief that friendship is a remedy for all evils.  For me to make confidences is simply impossible.  I often, lack the strength even to think of what has happened.

17 September.

Why do I wake up in the morning?  Why do I exist?  And what do I care for acquaintances or people in general?  I did not go to see Clara, because she can have nothing to say to me that could possibly interest me, and it wearies me beforehand.  The whole world is as entirely indifferent to me as I am to the world.

18 September.

I did well to write to my aunt.  If I had not done so she would have come here.  She writes thus:—­