our
last action, although it was meant to arouse me, was the act of one who
was in fetters. I now accomplish what you falteringly began. While
laboring for you, my love for you has become full and complete. You are
now near to me, and have become what you longed to be--my preserver."

*

I have at last made it a rule that the old man shall only come when I
send for him. I could not do otherwise. And this I find almost worse
than to have fixed hours for his visits, for now I am often obliged to
stop and ask myself: "Isn't it time to call the old man? He won't
disturb me now." He thus engages my thoughts more than before.

I must learn to bear with him patiently, and Jochem will surely
improve. When I say to him: "I can't talk now," he is satisfied. All
that he asks is to be permitted to sit there in silence.

*

How well one sleeps when tired with work. How good it is to have hunger
and fatigue, when one is safely able to satisfy their demands.

In the great world, they eat and sleep, but are never tired or hungry.

I never knew how much I used to talk, and how necessary conversation
had become to me. But now that I have learned how to be silent, and
live alone with my own thoughts, I do know; I now see that the presence
of others exerted an electric influence upon me, overcharging my
nature. I was never unreal, but was more than I really am. I made
others cheerful, but how rarely was I so!

*

Labor is the consoling friend and companion of solitude.

He who has not lived alone, does not know what labor is.

*

I am often reminded of Dante's: "There can be no greater suffering
than, in one's misery, to remember happier days." But why does he not
tell us what kind of happiness he means? It must always be delightful
to remember innocent joys, though the unhappiness that follows be ever
so great.

But Francesca refers to happiness allied with guilt. And I know that
she is right.

I still remember my father's parting advice: "Indulge only in such
pleasures as it will afford you pleasure to look back upon."

*

What strange, hidden springs flow through one's soul. Ever since the
sad saying of Dante's occurred to me, all my thoughts have been
translating themselves into Italian.

*

It often seems