Life with such a chaos of
thoughts is impossible.
30 October.
With my returning health I am gradually drifting back into the magic
circle. The doctor says that in a few days I shall be able to travel.
I will go hence, for it is too near Warsaw and Ploszow. It may be one
of my nervous whims, but I feel I shall be better and more at rest in
Rome on the Babuino. I do not promise myself to forget the past; on
the contrary, I shall think of it from morning until night, but the
thoughts will be like unto meditations behind cloister walls. Besides,
what can I know of how it will be? All I know is that I cannot remain
here any longer. I shall call upon Angeli by the way; I must have her
portrait at Rome.
2 November.
I leave Berlin, I renounce Rome, and go back to Ploszow. I wrote some
time ago that Aniela is not only the beloved woman, but the very
crown of my head. Yes, it is a fact; let it be called by any
name,--neurosis, or an old man's madness; I have got it in my blood
and in my soul.
I am going to Ploszow. I will serve her, take care of her, do for her
what I can; and for all reward let me be able to look at her. I wonder
at myself that I fancied I should be able to live without seeing her.
One letter from my aunt brought out all that was buried within me. My
aunt says:--
"I did not write much about us, because I had nothing cheerful to tell
you; and as I am not clever at disguising things, I feared I should
make you uneasy, knowing that you were not well.
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