I would not give it up for
anything in the world. If this were taken from me, I should have
nothing to live for any more.
12 June.
I am at Warsaw in consequence of the letter from Sniatynski, received
the day before yesterday, in which he asked me to take part in a
farewell dinner in honor of Clara Hilst. I did not go to the dinner,
which took place yesterday, but said good-by to Clara at the station.
I have just returned thence. The good soul was going away, most likely
disappointed, and with some resentment against me in her heart, but
upon seeing me, forgave me everything, and we parted the best of
friends. I felt too that I should miss her, and that the loneliness
around me would be greater still. On my mystic fields there will be
no farewells. This one was truly sad,--in addition to it the sky was
overcast, and there was a drizzling rain that looked as if it would
last for days. In spite of that a great many people had come to see
the last of the celebrated artist. Her sleeping-car was filled with
bouquets and wreaths like a hearse; she will have to discard them
unless she lets herself be suffocated. Clara, at the moment of
departure, without taking into account what people might think or say,
devoted herself to me as much as the bustle of the place would permit.
I went into her carriage, and we conversed together like two old
friends, not paying any attention to the old and always silent
relative, or to the other people, who at last retired discreetly into
the corridor.
Pages:
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393