ROME, 9 January.
Some months ago I met my old friend and school-fellow, Jozef
Sniatynski, who for the last few years has occupied a prominent place
among our literary men. In a discussion about literature Sniatynski
spoke about diaries. He said that a man who leaves memoirs, whether
well or badly written, provided they be sincere, renders a service
to future psychologists and writers, giving them not only a faithful
picture of the times, but likewise human documents that can be relied
upon. He seemed to think that most likely the novel of the future
would take the form of diary; finally he asserted that anybody who
keeps a diary works for the common good, and does a meritorious thing.
I am thirty-five, and do not remember ever having done anything for my
country, for the reason, maybe, that after leaving the University, my
life, with slight intervals, was spent abroad. This fact, so lightly
touched upon, has given me, in spite of all my scepticism, many a
bitter pang; therefore I resolved to follow my friend's advice. If
this indeed means work, with some kind of merit in it, I will try to
be of some use in this way.
I intend to be perfectly sincere. I enter upon the task, not only
because of the above-mentioned reasons, but also because the idea
pleases me. Sniatynski says that if a man gets accustomed to put down
his thoughts and impressions it becomes gradually one of the most
delightful occupations of his life. If it should prove the contrary,
then the Lord have mercy on my diary; it would snap asunder like a
string too tightly drawn. I am ready to do much for my community; but
to bore myself for its sake, oh, no! I could not do it.
Nevertheless, I am resolved not to be discouraged by first
difficulties, and shall give it a fair trial. "Do not adopt any style;
do not write from a literary point of view," says Sniatynski. Easier
said than done. I fully understand that the greater the writer, the
less he writes in a purely literary style; but I am a _dilettante_,
and have no command over any style. I know from experience that to one
who thinks much and feels deeply, it often seems that he has only
to put down his thoughts and feelings in order to produce something
altogether out of the common; yet as soon as he sets to work he falls
into a certain mannerism of style and common phraseology; his thoughts
do not come spontaneously, and one might almost say that it is not the
mind that directs the pen, but the pen leads the mind into common,
empty artificiality. I am afraid of this for myself, for if I am
wanting in eloquence, literary simplicity, or picturesqueness, I am
not wanting in good taste, and my own style might become distasteful
to myself, and thereby render my task impossible. But this I shall see
later on. I begin my diary with a short introductory autobiography.
My name is Leon Ploszowski, and I am, as I said before, thirty-five
years of age. I come from a wealthy family which has been able to
preserve its fortune. As to myself I shall not increase it, and at the
same time I am not likely to squander it. My position is such that
there is no necessity for me to enter into competition with struggling
humanity. As to expensive and ruinous pleasures, I am a sceptic who
knows how much they are worth, or rather, knows that they are not
worth anything.
My mother died a week after I was born. My father, who loved her
more than his life, became affected with melancholia. Even after he
recovered from this, at Vienna, he did not wish to return to his
estates, as the memories associated with them rent his very soul; he
left Ploszow under the care of his sister, my aunt, and betook himself
in the year 1848 to Rome, which, during thirty-odd years, he never
left once, so as to be near my mother's tomb. I forgot to mention that
he brought her remains to Rome, and buried her on the Campo Santo.
We have our own house on the Babuino, called Casa Osoria, from our
coat of arms. It looks more like a museum than anything else, as
my father possesses no mean collections, especially from the early
Christian times. In these collections his whole life is now absorbed.
As a young man, he was very brilliant in appearance as well as in
mind; his wealth and name added to this, all roads were open to him,
and consequently great things were expected from him. I know this from
his fellow-students at Berlin. He was deeply absorbed in the study of
philosophy, and it was generally believed his name would rank with
such as Cieszkowski, Libelt, and others. Society, and his being a
favorite in female circles, diverted him somewhat from scientific
studies. In society he was known by the nickname of "Leon
l'Invincible." In spite of his social success he did not neglect his
philosophical researches, and everybody expected that some day he
would electrify the world with a great work, and make his name
illustrious. They were disappointed in their expectations.
Of the once so beautiful appearance there still remains up to this day
one of the finest and noblest heads. Artists are of the same opinion,
and not long ago one of them remarked that it would be difficult to
find a more perfect type of a patrician head. As to his
scientific career, my father is and remains a cultured and gifted
nobleman-dilettante. I almost believe dilettantism to be the fate of
all Ploszowskis, to which I will refer later on, when I come to
write about myself. As to my father, there is in his desk a yellow
manuscript about Triplicity in Nature. I perused it, and it did not
interest me. I only remember a comparison between the transcendental
belief of Christianity in the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, and
the natural triplicity of oxygen, hydrogen, and ozone, with many other
analogous triplicities from absolute truth, goodness, and beauty,
to the syllogism of the minor premise, the major premise, and the
conclusion,--a quaint mixture of Hegel and Hoene-Wronski, and utterly
useless. I am quite convinced that my father did not intend to have
it published, if only for the reason that speculative philosophy had
failed in him even before it was set aside by the world. The reason
for this failure was the death of my mother. My father, who in spite
of his nickname, "Leon l'Invincible," and reputation of conqueror of
hearts, was a man of deep feelings and simply worshipped my mother,
put many terrible questions to his philosophy, and not obtaining
either answer or comfort, recognized its utter emptiness in the
presence of a great sorrow. This must have been an awful tragedy of
his life, since it almost shattered its foundations,--the brain
and heart. His mind became affected, as I said before, and when he
recovered he went back to his religious convictions. I was told that
at one time he prayed night and day, knelt down in the street when he
passed a church, and was carried away by his religious fervor to such
an extent that he was looked upon by some as a madman, by others as a
saint. It was evident he found more consolation in this than in his
philosophical triplicities, for he gradually calmed down and began
to lead a more rational life. His heart, with all his power for
affection, turned towards me, and his aesthetic bent found employment
in the study of early Christianity. The lofty, restless mind wanted
nourishment. After his first year in Rome he took up archaeology, and
by dint of hard study acquired a thorough knowledge of the antique.
Father Calvi, my first tutor and at the same time a great judge of
Roman antiquities, gave him the final impulse towards investigation of
the Eternal City. Some fifteen years ago my father became acquainted
and subsequently on terms of friendship with the great Rossi, in
whose company he spent whole days in the catacombs. Thanks to his
extraordinary gifts he soon acquired such consummate knowledge of Rome
as to astonish Rossi himself. Several times he began writing treatises
on the subject, but never finished what he had begun. Maybe the
completion of his collections took up too much of his time, but most
likely the reason he will not leave anything behind him except his
collections is that he did not confine himself to one epoch or any
specialty in his researches. Gradually mediaeval Rome began to
fascinate him as much as the first era of Christianity. There was a
time when his mind was full of Orsinis and Colonnas; after that he
approached the Renaissance, and was fairly captivated by it. From
inscriptions, tombs, and the first traces of Christian architecture he
passed to nearer times; from the Byzantine paintings to Fiesole
and Giotto, from these to artists of the fourteenth and fifteenth
centuries, and so on; he fell in love with statues and pictures; his
collections certainly increased, but the great work in Polish
about the three Romes remained forever in the land of unfulfilled
intentions.
As to these collections my father has a singular idea. He wants to
bequeath them to Rome under the condition they should be placed in
a separate gallery named after him, "Museum Osoria Ploszowski." Of
course his wishes will be respected. I only wonder why my father
believes that in doing this he will be more useful to his community
than by sending them to his own country.
Not long ago he said to me: "You perceive that scarcely anybody there
would see them, and very few derive any benefit, whereas here the
whole world can study them, and every individual that benefits thereby
carries the benefit to other communities." It does not befit me to
analyze how much family pride and the thought of having his name
engraved in marble in the Eternal City has to do with the whole
scheme. I almost think that such must be the case. As to myself, I
am perfectly indifferent where the collections are to remain. But my
aunt, to whom by the bye I am shortly going to pay a visit at Warsaw,
is very indignant at the idea of leaving the collections out of the
country, and as, with her, thought and speech go always together, she
expresses her indignation in every letter. Some years ago she was at
Rome, and they wrangled every day over the matter, and would have
quarrelled outright had not the affection she has towards me subdued
her temper.
My aunt is older than my father by several years. When my father,
after his great sorrow, left the country, he gave up the Ploszow
estate to her, and took instead the ready capital. My aunt has managed
the property for thirty years, and manages it perfectly. She is of a
rather uncommon character, therefore I will devote to her a few lines.
At the age of twenty she was betrothed to a young man who died in
exile just when my aunt was about to follow him abroad. From that time
forth she refused all offers of marriage and remained an old maid.
After my mother's death she went with my father to Vienna and
Rome, where she lived with him, surrounding him with the tenderest
affections, which she subsequently transferred to me. She is, in the
full meaning of the word, _une grande dame_, somewhat of an autocrat,
haughty and outspoken, with that self-possession wealth and a high
position give, but withal the very essence of goodness and kindliness.
Under the cover of abrupt manners she has an excellent and lenient
disposition, loving not only her own family, as for instance my father
and myself and her own household, but mankind in general. She is so
virtuous that really I do not know whether there be any merit in
it, as she could not be otherwise if she tried. Her charities are
proverbial. She orders poor people about like a constable, and tends
them like a Saint Vincent de Paul. She is very religious. No doubts
whatever assail her mind. What she does, she does from unshaken
principles, and therefore never hesitates in the choice of ways and
means. Therefore she is always at peace with herself and very happy.
At Warsaw they call my aunt, on account of her abrupt manners, _le
bourreau bienfaisant_. Some people, especially among women, dislike
her, but generally speaking she lives in peace with all classes.
Ploszow is not far from Warsaw, where my aunt owns a house in which
she spends the winter. Every winter she tries to inveigle me there in
the hope to see me married. Even now I received a mysteriously worded
missive adjuring me to come at once. I shall have to go, as I have not
seen her for some time. She writes that she is getting old and wishes
to see me before she dies. I confess I do not always feel inclined to
go. I know that my aunt's dearest wish is to see me married, therefore
every visit brings her a cruel disappointment. The very idea of such a
decisive step frightens me. To begin a new life when I am so tired
of the old one! Finally, there is another vexatious element in my
relations with my aunt. As formerly my father's friends looked upon
him as a genius, so she persists in regarding me as one exceptionally
gifted, from whom great things are to be expected. To allow her to
remain of this opinion seems an abuse of her good faith; to tell
her that nothing is to be expected from me would be a more likely
conclusion, but at the same time inflict upon the dear old lady a
cruel blow.
To my misfortune many of those near me share my aunt's opinion, and
this brings me to the point of drawing a sketch of my own character,
which is by no means an easy task, as my nature is rather a
complicated one.
I brought with me into the world very sensitive nerves, nerves
perfected by the culture of generations. During the first years of my
childhood I remained under the care of my aunt; after her departure,
according to the custom of our country, a nursery governess was
engaged for me. As we lived in Rome, among foreign surroundings, and
my father wished me to be well grounded in my own language, he engaged
a Polish governess. She is still with us as housekeeper at Babuino.
My father also bestowed some pains upon me, especially after my fifth
year. I used to go to his room to talk with him, and this developed my
mind prodigiously, too much so perhaps for my age. Later on, when his
studies and archaeologic researches took up his whole time, he engaged
a tutor, Father Calvi. This was an old man, with a mind and faith
exceedingly serene. He loved art beyond everything. I believe religion
even reacted upon him through its beauty. In the galleries before the
old masters, or listening to the music in the Sistine Chapel, he lost
himself altogether. There was nothing pagan in these feelings, as they
were not based upon sybaritism or sensual enjoyment. Father Calvi
loved art with the pure, serene feeling as maybe a Da Fiesole, a
Cimabue, or Giotto loved it. And he loved in all humility, as he
himself had no gifts that way. I could not say which of the fine arts
he loved best, but I believe he leaned mostly towards harmony, which
responded to the harmony of his own mind.
Whenever I think of Father Calvi, I am reminded at the same time of
the old man that stands beside Raphael's Saint Cecilia listening
intently to the music of the spheres.
Between my father and the priest sprang up a friendship which lasted
unto the latter's death. It was he who confirmed my father in his
archaeologic researches, especially about Rome. There was another
bond between these two,--their love for me. Both considered me as an
exceptionally gifted child, and of a God knows what promising future.
It strikes me at times that I formed for them a kind of harmony,--a
rounding of and completion to the world in which they lived; and they
loved me with the same absorbing passion with which they loved Rome
and its antiquities. Such an atmosphere, such surroundings, could not
fail to impress my mind. I was brought up in an original way. With
my tutor,--sometimes with my father,--I visited galleries, museums,
villas, ruins, catacombs, and the environs of Rome. Father Calvi was
equally sensitive to the beauties of nature and to those of art, and
taught me at an early age to understand poetic melancholy. The Roman
Campagna, the harmony of the arch-line on the sky of the arches in the
ruined aqueducts, the fine tracery of the pines,--I understood all
this before I could read or had mastered the first rudiments of
arithmetic. I was able to set English tourists right to whom the names
of Carracci and Caravaggio caused confusion. I learned Latin early and
without effort, from being familiar with the Italian language. I
gave my opinion about Italian and foreign masters,--which, however
unsophisticated, made both my father and my tutor look at each other
in astonishment. I did not like Ribera,--there was too great a
contrast of color in his pictures, and he frightened me a little; but
I liked Carlo Dolce. In short, my tutor, my father, and his friends
considered me a very prodigy; I heard myself praised, and it flattered
my vanity. But, all the same, it was not the healthiest of educations;
and my nervous system, developed too early, always remained very
sensitive. It seems strange that these influences were neither so deep
nor so lasting as might have been expected. That I did not become an
artist is owing, may be, to a lack of gifts that way,--although my
drawing and music masters opined differently; but how was it that
neither my father nor the priest was able to imbue me with that
love of art for art's sake? Have I a feeling for art? Yes. Is art a
necessity of my life? Yes, again. But they loved it; I only feel it as
a _dilettante_; it is a necessity in so far as it complements every
kind of pleasant and delightful sensation. It is one of my delights,
but not an all-absorbing passion; I should not like to live without
it, but could not devote my whole life to it.
As the schools at Rome left much to be desired, my father sent me to
a college in Metz, where I carried off honors and prizes with very
little effort. A year before the last term, I ran away to join Don
Carlos, and with Tristan's detachment wandered for some time about
the Pyrenees; until my father, with the help of the consul in Burgos,
found me, and I was sent back to Metz to be duly punished. The penalty
was not a heavy one, as my father and the teachers were secretly proud
of my escapade. A brilliant success at the examinations quickly earned
me a full absolution.
Among my schoolfellows, whose sympathies were naturally with Don
Carlos, I henceforth passed as a hero; and as I was at the same time
one of the foremost pupils, my position as the first at school was
beyond dispute. I was growing up with the conviction that later on, in
a larger sphere, it would be the same. This opinion was shared by
my teachers and schoolfellows; and yet the fact is that many of my
schoolfellows who at one time would not have dreamed of competing with
me, occupy to-day in France high places in literary, scientific, and
political spheres; whereas I, had I to choose a profession, should
feel considerably perplexed. My social position is excellent. I
possess independent means from my mother's side, shall inherit my
father's fortune in time to come, and administer the Ploszow estate
more or less wisely, as the case may be; but the very limitation
of the work excludes all hope of distinguishing myself in life, or
playing any prominent part in it.
I shall never be a great administrator or agriculturist; for though I
do not mean to shirk my duties, I could not devote my whole life to
them,--for the simple reason that my aspirations aim much higher.
Sometimes I ask myself whether we Ploszowskis do not delude ourselves
as to our abilities. But if such were the case, the delusion would be
only personal; other people, strangers, could not be deceived in the
same way. Besides, I know that my father is an extraordinarily gifted
man. As to myself, I will not enter more fully on the subject, as it
might appear mere boastfulness; nevertheless I have the conviction
that I could be something infinitely greater than I am.
For instance, at Warsaw (my father and my aunt wished me to enter the
university there) Sniatynski and I were fellow-students. We both were
drawn towards literature, and tried our hand at it. I do not say I was
looked upon as the more gifted of the two, but the truth is that my
work then was considered better and more promising than Sniatynski's.
Sniatynski has for some years past occupied a prominent position in
literature, and I am still the greatly promising Pan Ploszowski, of
whom here and there people are wont to say: "If he would only take up
something!"
Ah! there is the rub,--"if he would!" But they do not seem to take it
into account that one has to know how to will. I thought sometimes
that if I had no means of subsistence I should have to work. Certainly
I should have to do something in order to earn my bread; but even
then I am firmly convinced I should not derive the twentieth part of
advantage from my capacities. Besides, such men as Darwin or Buckle
were rich; Sir John Lubbock is a banker; most of the known men in
France are in easy circumstances. This proves that wealth is not a
hindrance, but rather a help towards attaining a proper standing in
the chosen field of labor. I confess that, as far as I am concerned,
it has done me some service, as it preserved my character from many a
crookedness poverty might have exposed it to. I do not mean by this
that I have a weak character,--although struggle for existence might
have made it stronger; but still I maintain that the less stony the
road, the less chance of a fall. It is not owing to constitutional
laziness, either, that I am a nullity. I possess alike a great
facility for acquiring knowledge, and a desire for it; I read much,
and have a good memory. Perhaps I could not summon energy enough for a
long, slow work, but the greater facility ought to serve instead; and
besides, there is no urgent necessity for me to write encyclopedias,
like Littré. He who cannot shine with the steady light of a sun
might at least dazzle as a meteor. But oh! that nothingness of the
past,--the most probable nothingness of the future! I am growing
peevish--and tired; and will leave off writing for to-day.
ROME, 10 January.
Last night, at Count Malatesta's reception, I heard by chance these
two words: "l'improductivité Slave." I experienced the same relief as
does a nervous patient when the physician tells him that his symptoms
are common enough, and that many others suffer from the same disease.
I have many fellow-sufferers, not only among other Slavs, a race which
I know but imperfectly, but in my own country. I thought about that
"improductivité Slave" all night. He had his wits about him who summed
the thing up in two words. There is something in us,--an incapacity to
give forth all that is in us. One might say, God has given us bow and
arrow, but refused us the power to string the bow and send the arrow
straight to its aim. I should like to discuss it with my father, but
am afraid to touch a sore point. Instead of this, I will discuss it
with my diary. Perhaps it will be just the thing to give it any value.
Besides, what can be more natural than to write about what interests
me? Everybody carries within him his tragedy. Mine is this same
"improductivité slave" of the Ploszowskis. Not long ago, when
romanticism flourished in hearts and poetry, everybody carried his
tragedy draped around him as a picturesque cloak; now it is carried
still, but as a jaegervest next to the skin. But with a diary it is
different; with a diary one may be sincere.
ROME, 11 January.
The few days which remain to me before my departure I will use in
retrospects of the past, until I come to note down day after day the
events of my present life. As I said before, I do not intend to
write an autobiography; who and what I am, my future life will show
sufficiently. I should not like to enter into minute details of the
past,--it is a kind of adding number to number, and a summing up. I
always hated the four rules of arithmetic, and especially the first.
But I want to have a general idea of the total, so as to have a
clearer view of myself. Therefore I go on with the mere outline.
After having finished my studies at the university I went to an
agricultural school in France. The work there was easy enough, but it
had no special attraction for me. I did it as one who knows that this
special branch of knowledge will be useful to him, but at the same
time feels that he lowers himself to it and that it does not respond
either to his ambition or his faculties. I derived a twofold gain from
my sojourn there. Agriculture became to me familiar enough to protect
me from being cheated by any agents or bailiffs, and it strengthened
my frame so that it could withstand the life I later on led in Paris.
The years following I spent either in Koine or in Paris, not to
mention short stays at Warsaw, where my aunt summoned me now and then
in order to introduce me to some special favorite of hers with a view
to matrimony.
Paris and its life attracted me greatly. With the truly excellent
opinion I had then of myself, with more confidence in my intelligence
and the self-possession an independent position gives, I still played
a very unsophisticated part on this scene of the world. I began by
falling desperately in love with Mademoiselle Richemberg of the
Comédie Française, and absolutely insisted upon marrying her. I will
not dwell now upon the many tragicomic imbroglios, as I am partly
ashamed of those times, and partly inclined to laugh at them. Still
later on it happened that I took counterfeits for pure gold. The
French women, and for the matter of that, my own countrywomen, of
whatever class and in spite of all their virtues when young, remind me
of my fencing lessons. As the fencer has his hour of practice with the
foils so as to keep his hand in, so women practise with sentimental
foils. As a mere youth, fairly good looking, I was sometimes invited
to a passage of arms, and as I took the matter seriously, received
many a scratch. They were not mortal wounds and healed quickly.
Besides, everybody has to pay for his apprenticeship in this
world, especially in a world like that. My time of probation was,
comparatively speaking, a short one. Then came a period one might call
"la revanche." I paid back in the same coin, and if now and then I was
still taken in, it was with my eyes open to the fact.
Myself of a good social standing, I came to know all shades of
society, from the old legitimist circles, where I was not a little
bored, to the new aristocracy created by the Bonapartes and the
Orléanists, representing the society, perhaps not of Paris, but let
us say, of _Nice_. Dumas the Younger, Sardou, and others, take
thence their counts, marquises, and princes, who, without historical
traditions, have titles and money in plenty, and whose principal aim
is to enjoy life. I frequented their salons mostly for the sake of
their female element. They are very subtle, the women there, with
highly strung nerves always in search for new pleasures, fresh
sensations, and truly void of any idealism. They are often as corrupt
as the novels they are reading, because their morality finds no
support either in religion or tradition. But it is a brilliant world
all the same. The hours of practice with the foils are so long
there that they look more like days and nights, and the weapons are
dangerous sometimes, as they are not blunted. There too I received a
few painful lessons until I got my hand in. It would be a sign of mere
vanity and still more of bad taste to write about my successes, and
I will only say this, that I tried to keep alive the tradition of my
father's youth.
The lowest circles of this world slightly merge into the higher sphere
of the great _demi-monde._ This _demi-monde_ is far more dangerous
than appears on the surface because it is not in the least
commonplace. Its cynicism has a certain air of refinement and art. If
I did not leave many feathers there it must be because my beak had
acquired a certain curve and my claws had grown. Generally speaking of
the life in Paris, a man who has passed through that mill feels rather
exhausted, and what then of such as I, who leave only to go back
again? It is only later on in life we begin to understand that
triumphs like these are somewhat like the victories of Pyrrhus. My
naturally strong constitution withstood this life, but my nerves are
somewhat shattered.
Paris, though, possesses one superiority over other centres of
civilization. I do not know of any other city in the world where the
elements of art, science, and all kinds of human ideas seem to float
in the air to be assimilated by the human brain. Almost unconsciously
it imbibes not only the newest ideas in the sphere of intellect,
but also loses some of its onesidedness, broadens out, becomes more
civilized. I say again, civilized, because in Italy, Germany, and
Poland, I met with brains and powerful brains too, but who would not
recognize any light but their own, so onesided and barbarian that for
one who did not want to sacrifice his own opinions, intercourse from
an intellectual point of view was simply impossible.
In France and still more in Paris, similar manifestations have no
existence. As a running stream smoothes and polishes the pebbles,
rubbing them against each other, so the swift current of life rubs
off the angles from the human mind. It is obvious that under such
influences my mind became that of a civilized being, that can make due
allowance for other people's opinions; I do not utter peacock cries
when I hear of anything opposed to my views or something utterly new.
It may be that such leniency and tolerance of all opinions leads
finally to indifferentism and weakens the active principle in the
human mind, but I could not be different now.
A certain mental current got hold of me and carried me along. If the
social circles, salons, boudoirs, and clubs took up a considerable
part of my time, they did not occupy it altogether. I made many
acquaintances in the literary and artistic world, and lived their
life, or rather I live it still. Prompted by innate curiosity I read
very much, and as I have the faculty of assimilating what I read, I
may say that I derived considerable benefit from it and am able to
keep step with every intellectual movement of the time.
My consciousness of self is highly developed. At times I feel inclined
to send that second self to the devil, that self which does not permit
yielding to any sensation, but is always there, searching, criticising
every action, feeling, delight, or passion. "Know thyself" may be a
wise maxim, but to carry about one's self an ever watchful critic
deadens the feeling, dividing as it were your soul in two parts. To
exist in a state of mind like this is about as easy as for the bird
to fly with one wing. Besides, selfconsciousness too much developed
weakens the power of action. But for this, Hamlet would have made a
hole in his uncle in the first act, and with the greatest composure
taken possession of the throne.
As far as I am concerned, it sometimes protects me or saves me
from heedless slips, yet more often tires me, preventing absolute
concentration upon one point of action. I carry within me two
beings,--the one that protests and criticises, the other leading only
half a life, losing gradually all power of decision. I am afraid I
shall never free myself from that yoke; on the contrary, the more my
mind expands, the more minute will be the knowledge of self, and even
on my deathbed I shall not leave off criticising the dying Ploszowski
unless disease has fogged my brain.
I must have inherited from my father a synthetic mind, because I
always try to generalize matters, and for that reason science attracts
me more than philosophy. In my father's time philosophy embraced no
more nor less than the whole universe and all being; consequently
it had a ready answer for all questions. In our times it has become
rational in so far as to confess that it has ceased to exist in the
old meaning of the word and remains only as a philosophy of special
scientific branches. Truly, when I come to think of it it seems that
the human mind too has its tragedies, and it began by confessing its
own powerlessness. As I write a personal diary I will treat these
matters from a personal point of view. I am not a professed
philosopher, because I am nothing by profession; but as a thinking
being I am interested in the new philosophic movement; I have been
and am under its influence, and have a full right to speak about what
entered the composition, and contributed to the creation, of my moral
and intellectual being.
To begin with, I note down that my religious belief I carried still
intact with me from Metz did not withstand the study of natural
philosophy. It does not follow that I am an atheist. Oh, no! This was
good enough in former times, when he who did not believe in spirit,
said to himself, "Matter," and that settled for him the question.
Nowadays only provincial philosophers cling to that worn-out creed.
Philosophy of our times does not pronounce upon the matter; to all
such questions it says, "I do not know!" and that "I do not know"
sinks into and permeates the mind. Nowadays psychology occupies itself
with close analysis and researches 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."