den and a dead weight upon you. I have
loved you from the first time we met, therefore it is nothing new
to me; and I have got used to the sorrow which is the inevitable
consequence of separation and the hopeless certainty that my love will
never be returned. But even if my life be sad, I can weep either with
tears in the usual woman-fashion, or through my music as an artist. I
shall always have that comfort at least, that when you think of me it
will be as a dear friend or sister. With this I can live. But if I
were your wife and came to see that you regretted your impulsiveness,
were not happy, perhaps learned to hate me, I should certainly
die. Besides, I say to myself: "What have you done to deserve such
happiness?" It is almost impossible to imagine perfect happiness. Can
you understand that one may love somebody with all one's heart in a
humble spirit? I can understand it, for I love thus.

What I am going to say seems to me overbold, yet I do not feel it in
my heart to give up hope altogether. Do not be angry with me; God is
merciful, and the human soul is so athirst for happiness that it would
fain leave a door open for it to enter. If you ask me again in half a
year, a year, or any time in life the same question, I shall consider
myself rewarded for all I have suffered, and for the tears I am
shedding even at this moment.

Clara.

There is within me something that is keenly conscious and can
appreciate every word of this noble letter. Not a syllable is lost to
me, and I say to myself: "All the more reason for asking her again;
she is so honest, simple, and loving." But there is also that other
self, very tired, who had all the strength taken out of him, who can
give sympathy but no love; because he has staked his all upon one
feeling, and sees clearly that for him there is no return.

28 October.

I am quite certain that Clara will not come back to Berlin; and what
is more, that when she went away it was with the intention of not
coming back again. She wanted to avoid my gratitude. I think of her
gratefully and sadly, and am sorry she did not meet a different man
from me. There is such an irony of fate in this! But what is the use
of deceiving myself? I am still yoked to my memories. I see before me
Aniela, as she appeared to me at Warsaw, as I saw her at Ploszow and
Gastein; and I cannot tear myself away from the past. Besides, it has
absorbed so much of my strength and life that I am not surprised a