"I loved Aniela; forty thousand Lauras could not make up my sum."
And needs must be that with my own hands I wrought the evil. There is
a glimmer of comfort in the thought that to be united to a man like me
might be a worse fate for her,--but it is not so. If she were mine I
would be true to her. Then again it rankles in my mind that perhaps
a Kromitzki is sufficient to her happiness. When I think of this
everything seethes within me, and I feel ready to send off another
such letter.
It is done with! that is the only comfort for people like me, for then
they can fold their hands and idle away their time as before. Perhaps
it is a sign of exceptional weakness, but I find some comfort in it.
Now I can think in peace.
I put to myself the question, "How is it that a man who not only
boasts of a thorough knowledge of self, but also possesses it, has for
some time almost blindly followed his instinctive impulses?" Of what
use is self-knowledge if at the first commotion of the nerves it hides
in a remote nook of the brain and remains there, a passive witness to
impulsive acts? To investigate things _post factum?_ I do not know of
what use this can be to me, but as I have nothing else to do, let us
investigate. Why did I act as I did? It must be because though I am an
intelligent man, very intelligent even (the deuce take me if I intend
to boast or flatter myself), I lack judgment. And chiefly it is the
calm, masculine judgment that is wanting. I do not control my nerves,
I am hypersensitive, and a crumpled roseleaf would irritate me.
There is something feminine in my composition. Perhaps I am not an
exception, and there are more of that type in my country, which is of
small comfort. This kind of mind may have much understanding, but is a
bad guide through life; it darts restlessly here and there, hesitates,
sifts, and filters every intention, and at last loses itself among
cross-roads. Consequently the capacity for acting gets impaired, and
finally it degenerates into a weakness of character, an innate and not
uncommon fault with us. Then I put to myself another question. Let us
say my aunt had not made any allusion to Kromitzki, would the result
have turned out differently? And truly I dare not say yes. It would
not have come so swiftly,--that is certain; but who knows whether in
the end it would have turned out more satisfactory. Weak characters
want infinite accommodations; only powerful ones are spurred on by
opposition. Laura, who in certain things is as subtle as musk, most
likely understood this and therefore showed herself so--gracious.
Finally, what is the upshot of it? Am I a milksop? Not in the least.
A man who looks straight at truth would not shrink from confessing
it,--but no. I feel that I could go on an arctic expedition without a
moment's hesitation, be a missionary in darkest Africa. I am possessed
of a certain pluck, inherited courage, which would carry me through
many bold adventures and risky enterprises. My temperament is lively;
perhaps less nimble than Sniatynski, I am yet no laggard. But when
it comes to solving any of life's problems my scepticism renders me
powerless, my intellect loses itself in observations, reasonings, the
will has nothing to rest upon, and my acts depend mainly upon external
circumstances.