m
to her so-called "principles." But enough of this; my brain cannot
stand it,--let me at least be ill in peace.

20 October.

They cannot let me alone,--found me even here. Again for two days I
had no peace; again I press both hands against my head to stop that
whirring sound in my brain. I think again of Ploszow and of her,
and of the solitude that is awaiting me. It is a fearful thing
when suddenly something goes out of our life for which we lived
exclusively. I do not know whether illness has weakened my brain, but
I simply cannot understand various phenomena that I perceive within
myself. It seems as if jealousy had outlived my love.

It is a twofold jealousy,--a jealousy not only of facts, but of
feelings. I am torn by the thought that the child which is to be born
will take Aniela's heart from me, and what is more, and concerns me
most, it will bring her closer to Kromitzki. I would not have her now
if she were free; but I cannot bear the thought of her loving her
husband. I would give all that remains of life if nobody would love
her, and she not love anybody any more. Under such conditions life
might be endurable still.

21 October.

If what is now in my mind does not save me, I shall again fall ill, or
perhaps go mad. I am making up my accounts. Is there anything owing to
me from life? Nothing. What is awaiting me in the future? Nothing. If
so, there is no reason why I should not make a present of myself
to somebody whom that present would make happy. For my life, my
intellect, my abilities,--for the whole of my own self I would not
give a stiver. Moreover, I do not love Clara; but if she loves me, and
sees her happiness in me, it would be cruel to refuse her what I hold
so very cheap. I should consider it my duty to tell her what she is
taking; worse for her if it does not discourage her,--but that will be
her concern.

This plan attracts me chiefly for one reason,--namely, it widens the
gulf that separates me from the other one. I will prove to her that,
as she has taken her own way, I am able to take mine. Then there will
be an end of it. But I am thinking of her still! I notice it, and
it puts me into a rage. Perhaps it is hatred now; but it is not
indifference.

Pani Kromitzka probably fancied that I tore myself away forced by
circumstances; she will see now that it was also my wish. And the
thicker the wall I raise up between us, the sooner I shall be able to
banish her from my mind. As to