Supposing even she could understand all that has been and is going on
in my mind, there are many things she could not sympathize with. We
are too different from each other. For instance, when I plunge into
mysticism, when I say to myself that everything is possible, even a
future life, I do not shape it according to generally admitted ideas,
and if those general ideas may be called a normal point of view, mine
must needs be an abnormal one. Why? If everything is possible, then
why not a hell, a purgatory, a heaven, or my subplanetary spaces,--and
Dante's vision, which is far greater and more magnificent than mine?
Then why? For a twofold reason. First, because my scepticism, which
poisons itself by its own doubts, as the scorpion poisons itself with
its own venom, is nevertheless strong enough to exclude the most
simple and generally accepted ideas; secondly, I cannot fancy myself
in the Dantean divisions with Aniela,--I do not desire such a life.
It is only part of myself that writes and thinks, the greater part is
always with Aniela. At this moment I see a streak of light from her
window resting on the barberry bushes. My poor love has sleepless
nights too. I saw her dozing over her needle-work to-day. Seated in
a deep armchair she looked to me so small, and she drew such a long
breath as if from weariness. I had a feeling for her as if she were my
child.
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