ed morally. I refrain from killing him because some
remnants of chivalric tradition bar my way; because my refined nerves
would not permit me to commit a brutal deed; in short, I am too far
removed from primitive man to be physically competent to the task,
though morally I slay him every day. And now I ask myself whether, in
presence of a higher judgment, I should be held responsible, as if I
had committed the deed.

It may be that if one could lay open the human brain, as I said
before, in the most virtuous individual thoughts would be found to
make our hair stand on end. I remember that, when a little boy, there
came upon me a period of such religious fervor that I prayed from
morning until night; and at the same time, in the midst of my pious
transports, there came into my mind blasphemous thoughts, as if an
evil wind had blown them thither, or a demon whispered them into my
ear. In the same way I had irreverent thoughts about persons whom
I loved with all my heart and for whom I would have given my life
without a moment's hesitation. I remember that this, which I might
call a tragedy of childhood, cost me a great deal of anguish. But I
will not dwell upon that now. Going back to blasphemous or criminal
thoughts, I do not think we are responsible for them, as they come
from the knowledge of evil, not from an evil growing within the
organism itself; and for the very reason that it is outward to
ourselves we fancy an evil spirit suggesting the thoughts. Man listens
to it, and being averse to evil, spurns it; and there may be some
merit in this. But with me it is different. The thought of getting rid
of Kromitzki does not come from the outside, but springs from me and
exists within me. I have come down to that morally, and if I do not
commit the deed it is a mere matter of nerves. The part of my inward
Mephistopheles is confined to mocking and whispering into my ear that
the deed would only prove my energy, and not be much of a crime.

These are the crossways on which I never dreamed of finding myself.
I look into the depths of my own self with amazement. I do not know
whether my exceptional troubles will partly atone for my errors, but
one thing I know, namely: that he whose life cannot find room in
the simple code Aniela and others like her cling to, if his soul is
brimming over and breaks its bounds it must mix with dust and be
polluted in the mud.

9 July.

To-day in the reading-room Kromitzki pointed out to