Clara, I repeat that I do not love her;
but she loves me. Moreover, I owe her a debt of gratitude. During my
illness there were moments when I considered Clara's devotedness a
piece of German sentimentality, and yet the other one would not have
found courage enough for such sentimentality. It would be more in
accordance with her exalted virtue to let a man die than to see
him without his necktie; this is a freedom reserved for the lawful
husband. Clara did not care anything about such things; she gave up
for me her music, exposed herself to trouble, sleepless nights, and
possibly to the world's comments, and stood by me. I contracted
towards her a debt, and am going to pay it. I pay it badly and in
bad faith; for I offer to her what I do not value myself,--the mere
remnants of what was once a man. But if she values it, let it be hers.

To my aunt it will be a disappointment; it will hurt her family pride
and patriotic feelings. Yet, if my aunt could but know what has been
lately going on in my heart, she would prefer this matrimonial scheme
to that other love; I have not the slightest doubt as to that. What
does it matter that Clara's ancestors were most probably weavers? I
have no prejudices; I have only nerves. Any casual view I take tends
rather towards liberalism. Sometimes I fancy that people professing to
be liberals are more narrow in their views than conservatives; but, on
the other hand, liberalism itself is resting on a larger basis than
conservatism, and more in accord with Christ's teachings; but I am
wholly indifferent to both parties. It is scarcely worth speaking or
reasoning about them. Real unhappiness shows us the emptiness of mere
partisan hair-splittings. Involuntarily I fall to thinking, "How will
Aniela receive the news of my resolve?" I have been so accustomed to
feel through her that the painful habit still clings to me.

22 October.

This morning I sent the letter to Clara. To-morrow I shall have a
reply, or perhaps Clara herself will come tonight. In the afternoon
they sent me a second despatch from Kromitzki. It expresses as much
despair as a few words can contain. Things seem to have turned out
very badly, indeed; even I did not think ruin would come so quickly.
Some unexpected circumstances must have intervened that even Kromitzki
could not have foreseen. The loss I incur does not make a great
difference to me; I shall always be what I was,--but Kromitzki? Why
should I deceive myself?