I have received another letter from Clara Hilst. She must have divined
something; there is much pity and sympathy in her words, as if she
knew how wretched I am. I do not know and do not want to know, whether
she loves me as a sister or otherwise, I only feel that she loves me.
I answered her letter in the same hearty spirit, grateful for her
friendliness. She is going to Berlin now, and promises her appearance
in Warsaw for the winter. She wants me to come to Berlin, if only for
a few days. I will not go to Berlin, will not part from my troubles,
but shall be glad to see her again at Warsaw. With Aniela I speak only
of indifferent subjects, so as not to draw the attention of the elder
ladies to the state of things between us. When alone we are both
silent. I noticed several times that she was about to say something,
but seemed afraid; as regards myself I could only say, "I love you;"
and even that seems inadequate to express my feelings.
There is now resentment in my love. The thought is troubling my mind
that she has a narrow heart, and that in this lies the secret of her
unyieldingness. To-day, when I come to think it over more calmly, I go
back to the conviction that she has some feeling for me, composed of
gratitude, pity, and memories of the past; but it has no active power,
cannot rise above prejudice,--even to the avowal of its existence.
It does not respect itself, hides, is ashamed of itself, and in
comparison with mine is as the mustard-seed to those Alps which
surround us. From Aniela one may expect that she will restrict it
rather than let it grow. It is of no use to hope or watch for anything
from her; that conviction makes me very wretched.