to see Clara,
because she can have nothing to say to me that could possibly interest
me, and it wearies me beforehand. The whole world is as entirely
indifferent to me as I am to the world.

18 September.

I did well to write to my aunt. If I had not done so she would have
come here. She writes thus:--

"Your letter came to hand the same day that Celina and Aniela arrived.
How are you now, my dearest boy? You say that you are all right, but
is that really and truly so? What did the doctors in Berlin say, and
how long do you think of remaining there? Send me a telegram whether
you are still there, and I will come to you at once. Celina says you
went away so suddenly that she and Aniela were terribly frightened. If
you had not mentioned that the doctor most likely will advise a sea
voyage, I should have started off at once after receiving your letter.
It is only some fifteen hours by rail, and I feel stronger than ever.
The congestions I used to have have not returned. I am very anxious
about you, and do not like the idea of the sea at all. You are used to
that sort of thing, but I shudder at the thought of ships and storms.
Celina is quite well, and Aniela fairly so. I hear that you have been
told the news. Before leaving Vienna they consulted a specialist, and
he said there was no doubt whatever about Aniela's state. Celina is
overjoyed, and I too am glad. Perhaps this will induce Kromitzki
to give up his speculations and settle at home. Aniela will now be
altogether happy, having an aim in life. She looked rather tired
and as if oppressed when she came back, but that may be only the
consequence of the journey.

"Sniatynski's child has been very bad with croup, but is better now."

Reading my aunt's letter gave me the impression that there is no room
for me among them, especially near Aniela. Even my memory will soon
become unpleasant to her.

19 September.

I cannot imagine myself as living a year or two hence. What shall I
do? Such utter aimlessness ought to debar one from life. Properly
speaking, there is no room for me anywhere.

I did not go to see Clara, but met her in the Friedrichsstrasse.
Seeing me she grew pale from joy and emotion, and greeted me with
such effusion that it pleased and pained me at the same time. I was
conscious that my cordiality towards her was a mere outward form, and
that I did not derive any pleasure from the meeting. When she had
recovered from the surprise at meeting me