ers, since I have nothing wherewith to repay their
kindness. I am excluded from general life and stand outside, and
though I am conscious of the indescribable solitude, I have no wish to
go back. The idea of Rome and my hermitage on the Babuino smiles upon
me; it is a pale, sorrowful smile, but I prefer it to anything else.
There I spread my wings to fly out into the world, and thither I go
back with broken wings,--to wait for the end.

I am writing mostly in the morning, for at night I always descend
to those dark regions wherein fear dwells. To-day I shall go to the
concert and say good-by to Clara. To-morrow I depart. On the way I may
stop at Vienna, perhaps see Angeli, but am not certain. I am never
certain how I shall feel, or what I shall do the next day.

I received to-day a note from Clara, in which she asks me to come and
see her after the concert. I shall go to the concert because there are
so many healthy-minded people there that I feel safer in their midst;
and they do not tire me, as they are personally unknown to me; I see
only the crowd. But I shall not go to Clara. She is too kind. It is
said of persons dying from starvation that for some time before their
death they cannot bear the sight of food. In the same way my spiritual
organism cannot stand sympathy and kindness. It cannot bear memories
either. It is a very small thing, but I know now why that visit to
Clara was such a trial to my nerves. She uses the same scent I brought
from Vienna for Aniela. I have noticed the same thing before, that
nothing recalls to the mind a certain person so distinctly as when one
inhales the perfume she is in the habit of using.

22 September.

I have broken down at last. I caught a chill yesterday coming from
the concert-room, where the air was very close. I did not put on my
overcoat, and when I arrived at the hotel I was chilled to the bone.
Every breath I draw gives me a sensation as if my lungs in
expanding came in contact with two rows of needles hidden under the
shoulder-blade. I feel alternately very hot and very cold. I am
continually thirsty. At times I feel so weak that I could not go
downstairs. There is no question now about going away; I could not get
into the carriage without help. While writing I hear my own breath
coming three times as quick and loud as usual. I am quite certain that
but for my nerves the sudden chill would not have done me any harm,
but in my present state of nervous prostration