think only of that. My mind is always straining to reach that end, and I cannot help you in any way. It is the feeling of my utter helplessness which hurts me most.
I try hard to read, but while my eyes follow the lines my thoughts wander.
And now, immediately, my darling, I am to have the joy of seeing you!
Waiting for that moment, I pace my cell like a lion in its cage.
14 January, 1895, 1 o'clock.
The time drags slowly; the minutes are hours. How can I use up my energy! How can I restrain my heart! Sometimes I lose my patience. It is not the courage, the energy that I lack—you know it well—and my conscience gives me superhuman force, but it is this terrible idleness, this longing to be able to help you to pursue the only object of my life, to discover the wretch who has stolen my honor; this is what burns in my blood. Ah, I would rather mount alone to the assault of ten redoubts than be here powerless, inactive, waiting passively for the truth to be revealed! I envy the man who breaks stones on the highway, absorbed in his mechanical labor. But, my darling, I shall soon see you now, and you will give me back my patience.
3 o'clock.
Already the time has passed as in a dream, . . . and I had so many things to tell you, . . . and then when I am
