This may be the case now
and then; but that in the whole of France nobody should be capable of
deeper feelings, let them tell this to somebody else. I know France
too well, and say that she is better than her literature. That running
after glaring, realistic truth makes the novel untrue to life. It is
the individual we love; and the individual is composed not only
of face, voice, shape, and expression, but also of intelligence,
character, a way of thinking,--in brief, of various intellectual and
moral elements. My relation to Laura is the best proof that a feeling
founded upon outward admiration does not deserve the name of love.
Besides, Laura is an exceptional case.
31 May.
Yesterday I lunched with Lukomski; in the evening I loitered as usual
on the Pincio. My imagination sometimes plays me strange tricks. I
fancied that Aniela was leaning on my arm. We walked together,
and talked like people who are very fond of each other. I felt so
happy,--so different from what I had felt near Laura! When the
illusion vanished I felt very lonely; I did not want to go home. That
night I could not sleep at all.
How utterly unprofitable my life is! These continual searchings of
my mind are leading me into the desert. And it might have been so
different! I am surprised that the memory of Aniela should be still so
fresh and green.
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