kill her. Better for me to glide away
quietly, and save her this—that might kill
her too; but there would be no disgrace,
Mr. Bernard would be indulgent—as
regards his tongue at least.

O, I long to be going. I want rest—rest
—rest—for in this mind here, about this
heart, are caldrons boiling, fires raging, and
engines working: I could not go on with
that. A day or two more would be the
utmost.

. . . .  I have just counted out these
notes, about seven hundred pounds gone—
embezzled. O, demons, furies, be proud of
your work! You with the rakes and
cards are hell's own precious emissaries;
but no, this is not the time—I have done
with all that. I must look forward a day
or two, and plan a little carefully before I
go down to those who have bought my
wretched soul. O, why did I not die at
my desk and leave an innocent name to my
sweet, my lost Dora! Here is her little
picture again, her smooth hair and snowy
dress, and her shy smile, and look of
surprise. Shall I tear it, as I could tear out my
own vile heart? When you read these frantic
words, these ravings of your guilty husband,
whose vanity and folly have brought
him to this, O, I would give all the chances
of my vile soul to be released from the
fiery furnace, and standing by looking
down on you. And that prayer, which I
did say—But what use are prayers now?

. . . .  Morning—I never slept last night
. . . .  and I think sat in that place until
the grey of the morning. Then I went
out to walk; such a lovely calm sunrise, so
still and solemn and hushed, like the
morning of an execution. The honest creatures
in their blouses, who till the soil here and
bring in marketing, are asleep or just rousing
themselves. The gaudy looking hotels
are bathed in slumber. Then the sloping
Kiesleffstrasse and the balcony in which I
so often see the young and pretty girl,
decoying the doves and sparrows with crumbs.
There is the Victoria Hotel and the Russie
and the Quatre Saisons, all shut and solemn
as jails. There is the money-lender's, "a
Bank," he calls himself, and the post which
brings and carries misery, and agonised
confessions home. And there is the great
red sandstone temple of play, every stone
of which has cost hearts and lives, and
worlds of ruin and agonies. As I pass by
I leave them my last hearty Curse; on them,
their administrations, their familiars, and
their blood-won money, their works, and
their pomps. God, in his justice who has
dealt so rigorously with me, may he deal
with them, and not delay the reckoning
too late!

. . . .  As the place wakes up, I have
come in again; but I cannot sit down or
stop. I must be in motion. If I am not,
my heart and soul begin their work again,
and I shall die in agony. But I have my
own plan for dying. The poor wretch that
blew his brains out over their numbers,
must have discomposed them sorely. It
was not so bad a way to spite them. That
blood should surely call to Heaven for
vengeance.

. . . .  I have been, up the hills, out
among the woods, walking, rushing about,
flying from myself. Mr. Bernard ought
to be here by the midday train. I will
tell the other to come back at the same
time; and to them both I will make
confession of the whole. And then, after
that—However, all in good time.
Here is the packet of these fatal notes—
what remains, at least—so neatly tied up,
with a short letter. No tears and ridiculous
theatrical repentance. I am going
to pay a price sufficient for all that—a
heavy reckoning; so I may leave out all
that. Surely I am to enter on a long
eternal period of penal servitude, and with
no commutation. Everything is in order.
A letter to Dora? No, no. Better
separate all that finally from yesterday. I
am not worthy to address a line to her.
She is lost to me for ever, and ever, and
evermore! They, they—those demons—
have torn me from her!

The day is sultry hot, but not so sultry
as the furnaces inside here at my heart.
The engine is working furiously, and will
not let me rest a moment in one spot. I
must go out, and out again, into the sun,
into the raging sun. This morning is like
a dull long night, and I seem to be tossing
on a pillow. Go on, go on, move on! But
there is stolid oppressive monotony about
it. It is an hour yet from noon, when this
gambling begins.

. . . .  I have come back to my room
again, where the woman of the house comes
to persecute me. I suppose fearful about
her rent. What does she want, then?
For God's sake, then, let her go, and leave
me in peace!

This ridiculous diary, as I turn it over;
what folly, what complacency, and, O, what
happiness! And yet I meant well—at
least, I think I did. How am I to tell
now? . . . . O, hours, go by, and end
this. . . .  I shall not stay pent within
these four white walls. They seem
crushing me in—stifling. . . .  I must walk,