am 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. The sight
of Swedish lakes, Norwegian fiords, and Icelandic geysers conveyed to
me no direct impressions; I only tried to imagine what Aniela would
have felt or said to such a view,--in short, I saw with her eyes,
thought her thoughts, and felt with her heart. And when presently I
remembered that she was Aniela no longer, but Pani Kromitzka, I went
straight to the nearest railway station or ship to go somewhere else,
as what I looked upon had ceased to interest me. It did not matter
to me in the least that I played a part in one of the so commonly
ridiculed dramas where thousands of fools have played the same parts
before. And death is a drama; and those who are entering its gates
think the world is coming to an end; and so it is,--for them.

I do not know, and will not enter into it now, whether my feeling
the first few months was one of fathomless despair. Everything is
relative. I know only that my whole being was absorbed by one woman,
and I understood for the first time the void created by the death of a
dearly loved being.

But gradually the habit--not the zest--of life recovered its vital
power. This is a common enough fact. I have known people, inwardly
intensely sad, without a grain of cheerfulness in their souls, yet
keep up an appearance of cheerfulness because they had once been
cheerful, and the habit clung to them. And time dulls the pain, and I
found an antidote to the poison. I read onc