There are some hot days even in Gastein. What heat! Aniela is dressed
in white soft flannel, such as English girls wear for lawn-tennis. We
have our breakfast in the open air. She comes from her bath as bright
and fresh as the snow at sunrise. The supple figure shows to great
advantage in the graceful dress. The morning light falls upon her and
shows distinctly every hair on the eyebrows, lashes, and the delicate
down on either side of her face. The hair is glistening with
moisture and looks fairer in this light, and the eyelids are almost
transparent. How young she is, and how intoxicating her appearance! In
her, then, is my life, in her everything I want. I will not go away, I
cannot. Looking at her I seem to lose my senses from intoxication, and
at the same time from pain; for close by her side sits he who is her
husband. It cannot continue thus; let her belong to no one provided
she be not his. She understands to a certain extent what I suffer, but
not altogether. She does not love her husband, but considers it her
duty to live with him. I gnash my teeth at the very thought, for in
admitting his rights she degrades herself; and that is not allowed,
even to her. Far better she were dead. Then she will be mine; because
the lawful husband will remain behind, but not I. By this token I am
more lawfully hers than he is.
There is something very strange going on within me at times. For
instance, when I am very tired or when my mind is concentrated upon
one point I seem to look into the future, into far-away space which
remains invisible to me in a normal state. Then there comes to me such
a conviction that Aniela belongs to me--that in some way she is or
will be mine--that when I wake up I have to remind myself that there
exists such a man as Kromitzki. Maybe in moments like those I cross
the boundary which separates the living from the dead, and have a
vision of things more perfect, such as the ideals we dream about,
as they might shape themselves in outward form. Why is it these two
worlds are not more in touch with each other? As often as I try to
solve this problem I lose myself; I cannot understand this want of
harmony, but feel dimly that therein lie our imperfection and our
misery. The thought comforts me, for in the ideal world Aniela could
not belong to a man like Kromitzki.