"
3 May.
I was thinking whether my aunt's allusion to Kromitzki was but a piece
of female diplomacy in order to bring me to book. If so, she is to be
congratulated upon her skill and knowledge of human nature.
10 May.
A week has passed. I have not written because I feel half suffocated,
torn by doubts, sorrow, and anxiety. Aniela has never been, and is not
indifferent to me. The words of Hamlet recur to me:--
"I loved Ophelia; forty thousand brothers
Could not, with all their quantity of love,
Make up my sum."
I should only have to change the outcry:--
"I loved Aniela; forty thousand Lauras could not make up my sum."
And needs must be that with my own hands I wrought the evil. There is
a glimmer of comfort in the thought that to be united to a man like me
might be a worse fate for her,--but it is not so. If she were mine I
would be true to her. Then again it rankles in my mind that perhaps
a Kromitzki is sufficient to her happiness. When I think of this
everything seethes within me, and I feel ready to send off another
such letter.
It is done with! that is the only comfort for people like me, for then
they can fold their hands and idle away their time as before. Perhaps
it is a sign of exceptional weakness, but I find some comfort in it.
Now I can think in peace.
I put to myself the question, "How is it that a man who not only
boasts of a thorough knowledge of self, but also possesses it, has for
some time almost blindly followed his instinctive impulses?" Of what
use is self-knowledge if at the first commotion of the nerves it hides
in a remote nook of the brain and remains there, a passive witness to
impulsive acts? To investigate things _post factum?_ I do not know of
what use this can be to me, but as I have nothing else to do, let us
investigate.
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