We shall have to leave for Switzerland, for the heat is almost
unbearable. Besides the heat, there is the Sirocco, that comes now and
then like a hot breath from Africa. The sea-breezes somewhat mitigate
the fierceness of this visitor from the desert, but it is none the
less very disagreeable.
The Sirocco acts injuriously on Mr. Davis. The doctor watches him
closely lest he should take opium, and consequently become either very
irritable or else quite stupefied. I notice that in his greatest
fits of anger he is afraid of Laura and myself. Who knows whether a
homicidal mania is not already germinating in the half-insane brain?
or maybe he is afraid we are going to kill him. Generally speaking,
my relation with him is one of the darkest sides of the part I am
enacting. I say one of the darkest, because I am fully aware that
there is more than one. I should not be my own self if I did not
perceive that my soul not only is stagnating, but is getting swiftly
corrupted in the arms of that woman. I cannot even express what
loathing, what bitterness and pangs of conscience, it caused me at
first that I should have plunged myself into the depth of sensuous
raptures so soon after the death of my father. It was not only my
conscience, but also the delicacy of feelings which I undoubtedly
possess, that revolted against it. I felt this so deeply that I could
not write about it. I have grown more callous since. I still reproach
myself from time to time, and seriously reflect, but the feeling has
lost its poignancy.
As to Aniela, I try to forget her, because the memory is troublesome,
or rather I cannot arrive at a clear understanding as to the whole
Ploszow episode. At times I feel inclined to think that I was not
worthy of her; at others, that I made an ass of myself over a girl
like dozens of others. This irritates my vanity, and makes me feel
angry with Aniela. One moment I feel an unsavory consciousness of
guilt in regard to her, in another the offence appears to me futile
and childish. Taken altogether, I do not approve of the part I played
at Ploszow, nor do I approve of the part I am playing here. The
division between right and wrong is becoming more and more indistinct
within me, and what is more I do not care to make it clearer. This is
the result of a certain apathy of mind, which again acts as a sleeping
draught; for when the inward struggle tires me out I say to myself:
"Suppose you are worse than you were--what of that? Why should you
trouble about anything?"
Then I see another change in myself. Gradually I have got used to what
at first chafed my honor,--the insulting of the crippled man. I notice
that I permit myself hundreds of things I would not do if Davis,
instead of being physically and mentally afflicted, were an
able-bodied man capable of defending his own honor. We do not even
take the trouble of going out to sea. I never even imagined that my
sensitiveness could become so blunted. It is very easy to say to
myself: "What does the wretched Eastern matter to you?" But verily I
cannot get rid of the thought that my black-haired Juno is no Juno at
all,--that her name is Circe, and her touch changes men (as one might
say in correct mythological language) into nurslings of Eumaeus.
And when I ask myself as to the cause, the answer shatters many of my
former opinions. It is this: our love is a love of the senses, but
not of the soul. The thought again comes back that we, the outcome of
modern culture, cannot be satisfied with it. Laura and I were like
unto gods and beasts with humanity left out. In a proper sense our
feelings cannot be called love; we are desirable to each other, but
not dear. If we both were different from what we are, we might be a
hundred times more unhappy, but I should not have the consciousness
that I am drawing near the shelter of Eumaeus. I understand that love
merely spiritual remains a shadow, but love without spiritualism
becomes utter degradation. It is another matter that some people
touched by Circe's wand may find contentment in their degradation. It
seems a sad thing and very strange that I, a man of the Hellenic type,
should write thus. Scepticism even here steps in, and in regard to
Hellenism I begin to have my doubts whether life be possible with
those worn-out forms; and as I am always sincere, I write what I
think.