Diary 1912-1914

See notes about this project and the translations on the Diaries home page.

Warsaw, Thursday, June 25 [1914]

Almost an entire week has passed, and I haven’t seen him. I leave for Łódź tomorrow, and once again, this whole matter concerning him remains in limbo. I have the feeling that even if he hasn’t actually seen me, he already knows of my presence in Warsaw—and who knows if he isn’t seeking an opportunity to meet just as eagerly as I am. Yet, it seems some cruel fate has intervened. ‘

I worry that, in the end, I have gained absolutely nothing from this entire stay. I didn’t speak with Skibniewski about the play, and I didn’t see *him*. So, once again, the question looms before me: Warsaw or Munich? I know that were it not for him, Warsaw would simply cease to exist for me, and Munich would be the ideal place to be—yet, as it stands, something keeps drawing me back to this Warsaw, even though, rationally, I see no benefit for myself in remaining here.

My relationship with people remains the same wherever I go—be it in Łódź, Berlin, or Paris: I lack people close to me. I seem unable to truly bond with others—and perhaps that is precisely where everything with K. also broke down. Everywhere, the same root cause lies behind the same misfortunes. Oh, poor me!

Sunday, June 28 [1914]

I was supposed to go home on Friday, but at the very last minute, I felt—rather foolishly—that after spending two weeks in Warsaw, I hadn't met him even once. I felt I ought to meet him face-to-face now. So, all those "honeymoon" trips with Fajans and the others came to mind—and so, I stayed.

However, I have a feeling that he actually left town for these very two days; he wasn't at Udziałowa[1] last night, nor were there any lights in his windows today until evening. Wednesday is my absolute deadline for leaving—will I see him before then?

A strange thing, though: ever since I stayed behind for his sake on Friday, he seems to have somehow completely diminished in my mind again—faded away. On Friday afternoon, I was practically howling with longing for him; yet the moment I decided to stay, I suddenly stopped caring about him altogether. How am I to make sense of that?

Today, Lauterbach told me that his mother had mentioned to him that I was engaged to Horowicz. I told him that I had broken off the engagement. Somehow, I just couldn't bring myself to say anything negative about H. in front of other people—even though I am becoming increasingly convinced of what a scoundrel he truly was. God, though—how happy we could have been together!

Notes:

[1] A café popular among artists and intellectuals that operated in Warsaw from 1884 until WWI, officially the Pierwsza Warszawska Mleczarnia Działowa (First Warsaw Shareholder Dairy).

Tuesday, June 30 [1914]

On Friday and Saturday, I somehow managed to calm down and didn’t think at all about running into him—though I did everything I could to avoid being home in the evenings. Today, finally, with a certain determination—albeit without hope—I stepped out onto the street. I was walking along Nowy Świat.[1] Suddenly, in a flash, I realized it was him; I saw him lazily—or perhaps nonchalantly, or maybe just shyly—lifting his hat. In any case, it was barely a tip of the hat—and I, of course, offered no acknowledgment in return. At first, I felt nothing at all; then, a sudden flush of heat rushed over me. I am convinced that he turned around.

I was left with a visual image—of something very pleasant. He looked handsome—very handsome, in fact... And then I was overcome by a terrible sense of pity. God, what an utter monstrosity this is. After all, things could have been so infinitely good for us.

In the evening, I went to the Udziałowa, and—unless my eyes deceived me—he was there; he walked right past me and offered no greeting. A moment of satisfaction.

Throughout the night and into the early hours of this morning, I felt an immense pity for him and reproached myself. Besides, I told myself that such behavior was highly impractical. After all, I *do* find him incredibly attractive—so why do something that gives him a completely false impression of my feelings? But later—somehow, and especially after I had another run-in with him regarding money...—I no longer felt sorry for him, and I even laughed a little, imagining how annoyed he must be that I hadn't returned his greeting. And yet... I would give anything for him to be mine.

Notes:

[1] “New World Street”—one of the main historic thoroughfares in Warsaw. Udziałowa was on Nowy Świat.

Warsaw, July 4 [1914]

I realize perfectly well that I acted very wrongly by failing to return his bow—but what’s done is done. He is evidently avoiding an encounter with me, for despite my daily visits to the Udziałowa, I haven’t caught a glimpse of him even once. (I have my doubts as to whether he was actually in the confectionery shop this Tuesday—perhaps I only imagined it.) By failing to return his greeting, I have, of course, effectively blocked any path for him to draw closer to me; and who knows—I may even have extinguished any desire he might have had to do so. Today, I am utterly indifferent to the fact that nothing will come of this; and whereas at the beginning of my stay I felt a strong urge to remain in Warsaw for the winter, I now rationally conclude that—from an academic standpoint—Warsaw has nothing to offer me, as I won’t be able to complete any scholarly work here. The social scene here isn’t particularly good, either—I would have to start down the lecture circuit path all over again... in short, the prospects here are hardly golden. The only thing drawing me to Warsaw now is a vague, intuitive premonition—a sense that, as far as the "Country" is concerned, I may well be lost forever.

It is strange how, today, Łódź simply ceases to exist for me. I have quite simply forgotten that I was ever there, that I ever *existed* there; there is absolutely nothing left to bind me to that place. And perhaps, for that matter, the same will eventually hold true for the "Country."

It is a pity—a very great pity, in fact—that I treated K. the way I did. Now he will retreat into the shell of his wounded pride. Judging by the fact that there are no lights on in his window in the evenings, and that he is nowhere to be found in the café, one might infer that he has struck up a flirtation with someone over there. Who knows who he is gallivanting about with?

I shall have to work incredibly hard in Sopot if I am to manage to leave for Munich this winter!

Warsaw, July 6 1914

It seems I saw him again on Saturday, riding in a cab. It seems that, after I had walked a little way, he turned around to look after me. Yesterday, however, he was not home all day—the blinds in the bedroom were drawn.

Yesterday—since I went nowhere and saw no one—I found myself thinking about him constantly once more, with terrible despair. I told myself that there should be no pride in love; that I should not have waited for a chance encounter, but ought to have at least written to him—that I cannot go on living like this without him, and so on. That would have been the most logical course; it was what I should have done immediately upon my arrival. (It did me a great disservice that I did not go to Łukasiewicza Street back then.) Only now—at the very moment I am leaving Warsaw—have I realized what a terrible mistake my entire conduct has been. How foolish I am! How utterly, monstrously foolish… What happens next? What am I to do now? Oh God, have mercy on me, just this once!

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