Never in my life have I passed a more terrible night. I had a
sensation of terror, as if I descended by endless steps into deeper
and deeper darkness, full of horrible, indefined, moving shapes. I
made up my mind to leave Berlin; I cannot breathe under that heavy,
leaden sky. I will go back to Rome, to my house on the Babuino, and
settle there for good. I think my accounts with Aniela and the world
in general may be considered as closed, and henceforth I will quietly
vegetate at Rome until my time comes. Anything for tranquillity!
Yesterday's visit to Clara convinced me that even if I wished it, I
cannot live with others, since I have nothing wherewith to repay their
kindness. I am excluded from general life and stand outside, and
though I am conscious of the indescribable solitude, I have no wish to
go back. The idea of Rome and my hermitage on the Babuino smiles upon
me; it is a pale, sorrowful smile, but I prefer it to anything else.
There I spread my wings to fly out into the world, and thither I go
back with broken wings,--to wait for the end.
I am writing mostly in the morning, for at night I always descend
to those dark regions wherein fear dwells. To-day I shall go to the
concert and say good-by to Clara. To-morrow I depart. On the way I may
stop at Vienna, perhaps see Angeli, but am not certain. I am never
certain how I shall feel, or what I shall do the next day.
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