of spiritual manifestations; but when questioned upon the immortality of the soul it says the same,—­“I do not know;” and truly it does not know, and it cannot know.  And now it will be easier to describe the state of my mind.  It all lies in these words:  I do not know.  In this—­in the acknowledged impotence of the human mind—­lies the tragedy.  Not to mention the fact that humanity always has asked, and always will ask, for an answer, they are truly questions of more importance than anything else in the world.  If there be something on the other side, and that something an eternal life, then misfortunes and losses on this side are as nothing.  In this case we might exclaim with Hamlet:  “Nay, then, let the devil wear black, for I’ll have a suit of sables.”

“I am content to die,” says Renan; “but I should like to know whether death will be of any use to me.”

And philosophy replies, “I do not know.”

And man beats against that blank wall, and like the bedridden sufferer fancies, if he could lie on this or on that side, he would feel easier.  What is to be done?  Are we to abuse philosophy that, instead of building up new systems which, like a house of cards, fall at a touch, it has confessed its impotence, and begun to search for and classify manifestations within reach of the human intellect?  Methinks that I and everybody else has a right to say:  “Philosophy, I am struck by your common sense, admire your close analysis; but with all that, you have made me supremely wretched.  By your own confession you have no answer for a question, to me of the greatest importance, and yet you had power enough to destroy that faith which not only cleared up all doubts, but soothed and comforted the soul.  And do not say that, since you do not lay down the law, you permit me to adhere to my old beliefs.  It is not true!  Your method, your soul, your very essence is doubt and criticism.  This, your scientific method, this scepticism, this criticism you have implanted in the soul till they have become a second nature.  As with lunar caustic, you have deadened the spiritual nerves by the help of which one believes simply and without question, so that even if I would believe I have lost the power.  You permit me to go to church if I like; but you have poisoned me with scepticism to such a degree that I have grown sceptical even with regard to you,—­sceptical in regard to my own scepticism; and I do not know, I do not know.  I torture myself, and am maddened by the darkness.”

Rome, 12 January.

Yesterday I allowed myself to be carried away by my writing.  But all the same it seems to me that I laid a finger upon the rottenness of my soul and that of humanity.  There are times when I am indifferent to these questions; then again they seem to tear at me without mercy; all the more as those are matters kept within the privacy of the soul.  It would be better to put them aside; but they are too important