'Night. Alas: nothing is of any avail--nothing gives me one hour, one
minute, one second's respite. Nothing can ever cure me, no dream of my
mind can ever efface the dream of my heart.--All has been in vain; this
anguish is killing me. I feel that my hurt is mortal, my heart pains me
as if some one were actually crushing it, were tearing it to pieces. My
agony of mind is so great that it has become a physical
torment--atrocious, unbearable. I know perfectly well that I am
overwrought, nervous--the victim of a sort of madness; but I cannot get
the upper hand over myself, cannot pull myself together, cannot regain
control of my reason. I cannot--I simply cannot!
'So this, then, is love!
'He went off somewhere this morning on horseback accompanied by a
servant before I saw him, and I spent the whole morning in the chapel.
When lunch time came he had not returned. His absence caused me such
misery that I myself was astonished at the violence of my pain. I came
up to my room afterwards, and to ease my heart I wrote a page of my
journal, a devotional page, seeking to revive my fainting spirit at the
glowing memory of my girlhood's faith. Then I read a few pieces, here
and there, of Shelley's _Epipsychidion_, after which I went down into
the park looking for Delfina. But no matter what I did, the thought of
him was ever present with me, held me captive and tortured me
relentlessly.
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