Truly, something strange is
going on with me. A terrible gravity has suddenly fallen upon me, as
if up to this moment I had only been a child,--and such a terrible
sadness. Am I going to be ill? I made Sniatynski promise to send me a
telegram. No message has as yet arrived, though, properly speaking, it
will not tell me anything new.
29 June.
The telegram has come. It contains these words: "It is of no
use,--pull yourself together and travel." Yes, I will do it. Oh,
Aniela!
Paris, 2 April.
It is some ten months since I put down anything in my journal; it had
become such a familiar friend that I missed it. But I said to myself:
what is the use of it? If I put down on paper thoughts worthy of a
Pascal; deeper than the ocean depth; loftier than the Alps,--it would
not change the simple fact that she is married. With that fact staring
at me, my hands dropped powerless. Sometimes life concentrates itself
in one object, not necessarily an important one; but if that fails us
we seem at a loss what to do with ourselves. It is strange,--almost
laughable,--but for a long time I remained in a state of mind in which
the most commonplace functions of life seemed irksome and useless,
and it took me some time to remember that I used to go to clubs and
theatres, shaved, dressed, and dined before I knew her. The first
months I travelled a great deal, straying as far as Iceland.
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