During supper Aniela looked at my pale face and the gray hairs.  I saw she guessed what I must have suffered.  I spoke about my Berlin experiences almost gayly.  I avoided looking at her changed appearance, so as not to let her see that I had noticed it, and that the sight moved me deeply.  Towards the end of the evening I felt faint several times, but I fought against it, and she did not see anything in my face except calmness, serenity, and boundless affection.  She is very keen-sighted; she knows, perceives, understands things very quickly; but I fairly surpassed myself,—­I was so natural and so much at my ease.  Even if there be still any lingering doubt in her mind as to my submission, she has none as to my affection and her being to me the same worshipped Aniela.

I noticed that she seemed better and evidently began to revive in the warmer atmosphere.  I had indeed reason to be proud of myself, for I brought at once an appearance of cheerfulness into a house where dulness had reigned paramount.  My aunt and Pani Celina appreciated it keenly.  The latter said frankly when I wished her good-night:—­

“Thank Heaven, you have come.  Everything looks different at once with you in the house.”

Aniela, pressing my hand, said shyly, “You will not go away soon, will you?”

“No, Aniela,” I replied; “I will not go away again.”  And I went, or rather fled, to my room, because I felt that I could bear the strain no longer.  There had been such an accumulation of misery and tears in my heart during that evening that I felt half choked.  There are small sacrifices that cost more than great ones.

8 November.

Why do I repeat to myself so often that she is as the crown of my head?  Because one must love a woman more than life, consider her as the crown of life, if he does not leave her under circumstances like these.  I am perfectly aware that mere physical repugnance would have driven me from any other woman; and since I remain here the thought occurs to me again that my love must be an aberration of the nerves, which could not exist were I a normally healthy specimen of mankind.  The modern man, who explains to himself everything by the word “neurosis,” and is conscious of all that is going on within himself, has not even the comfort which a conviction of his own faithfulness might give him.  For if he says to himself, “Your faithfulness and perseverance are signs of disease, not virtues,” it adds one bitterness the more.  If consciousness of all these things makes life so much more difficult, why do we take so much care to cultivate it.

To-day, by daylight, I noticed how much Aniela is changed, and my heart was torn at the sight.  Her mouth is swollen, and the once so pure brow has lost its purity and clearness.  My aunt was right,—­her beauty is almost gone.  But the eyes are the same as those of the former Aniela, and that is enough for me.  That changed face only increases my pity and tenderness, and she is dearer to me than ever.  If she were ten times more changed I should love her still.  If this be disease, I am sickening with it, and do not wish to get well again; I would rather die of this disease than of any other.