28 October.

I am quite certain that Clara will not come back to Berlin; and what is more, that when she went away it was with the intention of not coming back again.  She wanted to avoid my gratitude.  I think of her gratefully and sadly, and am sorry she did not meet a different man from me.  There is such an irony of fate in this!  But what is the use of deceiving myself?  I am still yoked to my memories.  I see before me Aniela, as she appeared to me at Warsaw, as I saw her at Ploszow and Gastein; and I cannot tear myself away from the past.  Besides, it has absorbed so much of my strength and life that I am not surprised at it.  The difficulty is, not to remember.  Every instant I catch myself in the act of thinking about Aniela, and I have to remind myself that she is changed now, that her feelings will be going, have gone already, into another direction, and that I am nothing to her now.

Formerly I preferred not to think of my wrecked condition, because my brain could not stand the thought; now I do it sometimes on purpose, if only to defend myself against the voice that calls out:  “Is it her fault? and how do you know what is passing in her heart?  She would not be a woman if she did not love her own child when it comes into the world, but who told you that she is not as unhappy as you are?” At times it seems to me that she is even more unhappy, and then I wish for another inflammation of the lungs.  Life with such a chaos of thoughts is impossible.

30 October.

With my returning health I am gradually drifting back into the magic circle.  The doctor says that in a few days I shall be able to travel.  I will go hence, for it is too near Warsaw and Ploszow.  It may be one of my nervous whims, but I feel I shall be better and more at rest in Rome on the Babuino.  I do not promise myself to forget the past; on the contrary, I shall think of it from morning until night, but the thoughts will be like unto meditations behind cloister walls.  Besides, what can I know of how it will be?  All I know is that I cannot remain here any longer.  I shall call upon Angeli by the way; I must have her portrait at Rome.

2 November.

I leave Berlin, I renounce Rome, and go back to Ploszow.  I wrote some time ago that Aniela is not only the beloved woman, but the very crown of my head.  Yes, it is a fact; let it be called by any name,—­neurosis, or an old man’s madness; I have got it in my blood and in my soul.

I am going to Ploszow.  I will serve her, take care of her, do for her what I can; and for all reward let me be able to look at her.  I wonder at myself that I fancied I should be able to live without seeing her.  One letter from my aunt brought out all that was buried within me.  My aunt says:—­