After the completion of Pani Celina's cure we waited for weeks till
the heat in the plains should have grown less intense, and at last the
weather broke and again delayed our journey. There has been an almost
Egyptian darkness for three days. The clouds which have been gathering
on the summits, breeding snow and rain, have descended from the
heights and enveloped Gastein as in a wet blanket. There is such a
mist that in the middle of the day I have to pick my way carefully
from Straubinger's to our villa. Everything is wrapped in a thick
veil,--the houses, the trees, the mountains, and cascades. The shapes
of things dissolve and disappear in the moist clouds that weigh upon
everything, and also upon the human mind. We light the lamps at two
o'clock in the afternoon. The ladies have finished packing, and we
should have gone in spite of the mist, but the road is torn up by the
mountain torrents beyond Hofgastein. Pani Celina again suffers from
headaches, and my aunt, after receiving a letter from Chwastowski
about the harvest, walks with heavy steps about the room, talking to
herself and scolding Chwastowski. Aniela looked pale and out of sorts
in the morning. She had a bad night and dreamed about the cretin she
had seen near the Schreckbrücke. She woke up, and could not go to
sleep again; she spent the rest of the night in nervous terror. It is
very strange what an impression the wretched cripple has made upon
her. I tried by cheerful conversation to make her forget about the
incident, in which I succeeded. Since our compact on the Schreckbrücke
she is without comparison brighter, more cheerful, and happier.
As regards myself, seeing Aniela thus contented, I cannot find it in
my heart to complain, though it often occurs to me that our relation
is mainly based upon there being no relation at all. When I entered
into the compact I knew what I was doing and what shape our feeling
would take; but now that shape seems to be getting more intangible and
undefined, and wrapped up in a mist like that which enfolds Gastein. I
have a presentiment that Aniela will not grant me what is due to
me, and I dare not remind her about anything. I dare not, because a
struggle is too exhausting, especially a struggle for the woman we
love. I have been engaged in this struggle half a year and not gained
anything; and I feel so weary that I prefer the truce, such as it is,
to a renewal of my former warfare. There is also another reason. If
this state of things does not exactly answer to my expectations, it
pleases and conciliates Aniela. She fancies I love her in a nobler
way, therefore she appreciates, I dare not say loves, me more and
more. In spite of the absence of all outward signs, I see it and it
gives me courage; I say to myself, "If her feeling increases, only
persevere, and a time may come when it will be stronger than her power
of resistance."
People generally, and women especially, fancy that the so-called
Platonic love is a peculiar species of love, very rare and very noble.
It is simply a confusion of ideas. There may be such a thing as
Platonic relations, but Platonic love is as much nonsense as dark
light. Even love for the dead consists of a longing after their bodily
presence as well as their souls. Among the living this feeling is
called resignation.
I did not want to say an untruth when I told Aniela I would love her
as if she were dead; but resignation does not exclude all hope. In
spite of all my disappointments, in spite of the consciousness that my
hopes are vain, I still nourish in a corner of my heart the hope that
the present state of affairs is only a halting-place on the way
to love. I may repeat to myself over and over again, "Delusion!
delusion!" but I cannot get rid of it until I get rid of my desire.
They are inseparable. I agreed to the compact because I could not help
myself, because I preferred this to nothing at all; but I consider it,
almost unconsciously, as a diplomatic move which aims at complete, not
half happiness. What makes me nevertheless thoughtful, surprises, and
grieves me, and what I simply cannot understand, is that on this line
even I am defeated. My victories lie in the dim, far-off future; but
in the present, in spite of all my cunning, experience of life, strong
feelings, and diplomacy, I am defeated by a being infinitely more
simple than I, less skilled in life's tactics, less cautious and
calculating in the course she takes. It is a defeat; there is no other
word for it. What is our present relation? Nothing more than the
relation of brother and sister, which she wished for and which I did
not wish. Formerly I fought with the storm and often came to grief,
but I steered my own bark. Now Aniela steers for us both; we go more
smoothly and more evenly, but I feel I am going where I did not wish
to go. I now understand why she put out her hand at once, when I
mentioned Dante's love for Beatrice. She wanted to lead me. Has she
calculated everything beforehand more carefully and profoundly than I?
No; I do not know anybody less capable of any calculation, therefore
I cannot admit the idea; yet I cannot get rid of the consciousness,
bordering upon the mystical, that some one has calculated it for her.
It is all very strange, and the strangest thing of all is that I
forged the fetters which bind me; I myself contrived to bring about
a relation so foreign to my nature, my views, and my most ardent
desires. If somebody had foretold to me, before I knew Aniela, that
I should hit upon such devices, it would have made me laugh at the
prophet and at myself. I, and Platonic relations! Even now I feel
sometimes inclined to laugh and jeer at myself. But I cannot; it is
sheer misery that has brought me to that pass.