as perfect as the
expression.

All in the room seemed under the same spell, not excepting Clara
herself.

When she left off playing she remained for a moment with uplifted head
and eyes, lips slightly parted, and face very pale. And it was not
a mere concert effect, it was real inspiration and forgetfulness of
self.

There was a great hush in that crowd, as if they expected something,
or were benumbed by sorrow, or tried to catch the last echo of sobbing
despair, carried away by a wind from the other world.

Presently there happened what probably never happened in a concert
room before. A great tumult arose, and such an outcry as if a
catastrophe were threatening the whole audience. Several musicians
and reporters approached the platform. I saw their heads bowed over
Clara's hands, she had tears on her eyelashes, her face looked still
inspired, but calm and serene. I went with the others to press her
hands.

From the first moment of our acquaintance Clara had always addressed
me in French; now for the first time, returning the pressure of my
hand, she said in German:

"Haben Sie mich verstanden?"

"Ja," I replied, "und ich war sehr ungluecklich!" And it was true.

The continuation of the concert was one great triumph. After the
performance Sniatynski and his wife carried Clara off to their house.
I had no wish to go there. When I reached home, I felt so tired that
without undressing I threw myself upon the sofa, and remained there an
hour without moving, yet not asleep.

After a long time I became conscious that I had been thinking about
the young cleric's funeral, Aniela, and death. I rung for lights, and
then began to write.

29 April.

Kromitzki's letters have stirred me to such a degree that I cannot
get over the impression. My unreasonable resentment towards Aniela is
passing, and the more I feel how undeserved was my harshness, the more
contrite I become, and the more tenderly I think of her. Yet more
clearly than ever I see how these two are bound by the power of a
simple fact. Since yesterday I have been in the clutches of these
thoughts, and that is the reason I did not go to Ploszow. There I
am obliged to keep watch upon myself and to put on an appearance
of calmness, and at present I could not do it. Everything within
me--thoughts, feelings, nerves--has risen up in revolt against what
has been done. I do not know whether there can be a more desperate
state of mind than when we do not agree