hat is there? Nothing. Then why do I live? I do not
know. It is not out of curiosity to know whether a son or a daughter
will be born to Pan Kromitzki. I always think of it as the most
natural thing in the world, and my head seems nigh to bursting. It
is very strange! I ought to have been prepared for that, and yet the
thought never entered my head. I should have sooner expected a stroke
of lightning to fell me down. Yet Kromitzki was with her at Ploszow;
they were together in Vienna, and afterward in Gastein.

And I put it all down to her nerves, to her deep feelings! What
egregious foolishness! Since I could bear to see the two together, I
ought to be able to put up with the consequences. Alas, it is not
my reason that revolts, it is my nerves that quiver under these
consequences. There are people in whom these two forces dwell in
harmony; within me they worry each other like dogs. That is another
of my misfortunes. How is it I never thought of it? It ought to have
struck me that if there were any terrible coincidence, any blow more
painful than another, it would be reserved for me.

Sometimes it seems to me as if I were hunted by a Providence that, not
satisfied by the logic of facts that contain in themselves a Nemesis,
took a special delight in fastening personally upon me. There are
many others who love their neighbors' wives, and they do not suffer,
because they love less honestly, more thoughtlessly. Is there any
justice in that? No, it is not that. There is no self-conscious
thought in the ordering of these things; they happen by chance and by
virtue of necessity.

10 September.

The thought still pursues me that as a rule human tragedy is the
outcome of exceptional events and calamities, and mine comes from a
natural event. Really I do not know which is worst. The natural order
of things seems to me past bearing.

11 September.

I have heard that a man struck by lightning stiffens, but does not
fall down at once. I too keep up, sustained by that thunderbolt that
struck me, but I feel myself falling. As soon as it grows dark in the
evening something strange takes place within me. I feel so oppressed
that it costs me an effort even to sigh; it seems as if the air could
not get to my lungs, and that I breathe with only a part of them.
During the night, and also in the day, a sudden nameless terror seizes
me,--terror of nothing in particular. I feel as if something horrible
was going to happen, somethi