phy and doubts, our disease has grown
more acute. We have come to this at last, that we are not capable of
sustained action, that our vitality shows itself only in sudden leaps
and bounds, and consequently the most gifted among us always end in
some kind of madness. Of all that constitutes life there is only woman
left for us; and we either fritter and squander ourselves away in
licentiousness or cling to one love as to a branch that overhangs a
precipice. As it is mostly an unlawful love we cling to, it carries
within itself the elements of a tragedy. I know that my love for
Aniela must end badly; and therefore I do not even try to defend
myself from it. Besides, whether I resist or submit, it means ruin
either way.

28 June.

The baths and especially the cool, bracing air are improving Pani
Celina's health, and she is growing stronger day by day. I surround
her with every care and think of her comforts as if she were my own
mother. She is grateful for it, and seems to be growing very fond of
me. Aniela notices it, and cannot help feeling a certain regret at
this vision of happiness that might have been ours if things had
turned out differently. I am quite certain now that she does not love
Kromitzki. She is and will be faithful to him; but when I see them
together I notice in her face a certain constraint and humiliation.
I see it every time when he, whether really in love or only showing
himself off as a doting husband, fondles her hands, smoothes her hair
or kisses her brow. She would rather hide herself in the very earth
than be forced to submit to these endearments in my and other people's
presence. Nevertheless she submits, with a forced smile. I smile too,
but as a diversion I mentally plunge my hands into my vitals and
tear them to pieces. At times the thought crosses my mind that this
priestess of Diana is more at ease and less reticent when alone with
her husband. But I do not often indulge in thoughts like these, for I
feel that one drop more and I shall lose my self-control altogether.

My relation to Aniela is terrible for me as well as for her. My love
shows itself in the guise of hatred, scorn, and irony. It frightens
Aniela and hurts her. She looks at me now and then, and her pleading
eyes say, "Is it my fault?" And I repeat to myself, "It is not her
fault;" but I cannot, God help me, I cannot be different to her. The
more I see her oppressed and hurt, the fiercer becomes my resentment
towards her