My aunt is giving an entertainment in honor of Aniela. I am
paying visits and leaving cards right and left. I called upon the
Sniatynskis, and sat with them for a long time, because I feel there
at home. Sniatynski and his wife are always wrangling with each other,
but their life is different from that of most other married people.
As a rule, it happens when there is one cloak, each tries to get
possession of it; these two dispute because he wishes her to have
it, and she wants it all for him. I like them immensely,--it is so
refreshing to see there is still happiness out of novels. With all
that, he is so clever; as sensitive as a Stradivarius violin, and
quite conscious of his happiness. He wanted it, and has got it. I envy
him. I always used to like his conversation. They offered me some
black coffee; it is only at literary people's houses one can get such
coffee. He asked me what I thought of Warsaw after so long an absence.
There was also some talk about the ball, especially from the lady's
part. She seems to guess something about my aunt's plans, and wants to
have one of her rosy fingers in the pie,--especially as she comes from
the same part of the country as Aniela.
We touched personal matter very slightly, but had a lively discussion
about society in general. I told him what I thought about its
refinement; and as Sniatynski, though he criticises it himself
mercilessly, is always greedy to hear its praises sung, it put him
into capital spirits.
"I like to hear you say so," he remarked, "as you have so many chances
to make comparisons, and are rather inclined to look at the world from
a pessimist's point of view."
"I do not know whether what I just said does not lean that way."
"How do you prove that?" asked Sniatynski, quickly.
"You see, refined culture might be compared to cases with glass and
china, upon which is written, 'Fragile.' For you, a spiritual son of
Athens, for me and a few others, it is pleasant to be in touch with
it; but if you want to build anything on such foundation, you will
find the beams coming down on your head. Don't you think those refined
_dilettanti_ of life are bound to get the worst in a struggle with a
people of strong nerves, a tough skin, and iron muscles?"
Sniatynski, who is very lively, jumped up and walked about the room,
then rushed at me impetuously. "You have seen only one side of the
picture, and not the best one, either; do not think there is nothing
more to be seen. You come from abroad, and pronounce judgment upon us
as if you had lived here all your life."
"I do not know what else there may be, but I know that nowhere in the
world is there such a vast difference between the classes. On one
side, the most refined culture,--over-refined, if anything; on the
other, absolute barbarism and ignorance."
A long discussion followed, and it was dusk before I left them. He
said if I came oftener to see them, he would show me the connecting
link between the two classes, introduce me to men who were neither
over-refined, ignorant, nor sickening with dilettantism, but strong
men, who knew what they wanted, and were going straight for it.
When I was going away, Sniatynski called out after me:
"From such as you nothing good will come, but your children may
be men; but you and such like must lose every penny you possess,
otherwise even your grandchildren will do nothing useful."
I still think that on the whole I was right. I have taken special
notice of this conversation, as this discrepancy has occupied my
thoughts ever since my arrival. The fact is that between the classes
there is a vast gulf that precludes all mutual understanding, and
makes simultaneous efforts simply impossible. At least, I look upon
it in that light. Sèvres china and common clay,--nothing between; one
_très fragile_, the other, Ovidius's "rudis indigestaque moles." Of
course Sèvres china sooner or later breaks, and from the clay the
future may mould anything it likes.