I never was so amazed in my life as to-day, in regard to Lukomski. We
went together to the museum on the Capitol. When near the Venus,
he surprised me by saying he preferred the Neapolitan Psyche by
Praxiteles, as being more spiritual. A strange confession from a
sculptor like him; but a greater surprise was in store for me near
"The Dying Gladiator." Lukomski looked at him for nearly half an hour,
then said, through clenched teeth, as he does when deeply moved,--"I
have heard it said a hundred times that he has a Slavonic face, but
really the likeness is wonderful. My brother has a farm,--Koslowka,
near Sierpiec. There was one of the laborers, Michna, who was drowned
driving horses through the water. I tell you it is exactly the same
face. I come here very often for an hour, because I feel a longing to
look at it."
I could not believe my ears, and was surprised the roof of the Capitol
did not come down on our heads. Sierpiec, Koslowka, Michna, here in
the world of the antique, of classic forms! and from whose lips?--from
those of Lukomski! I saw at once, peeping out from beneath the
sculptor, the man. And that is the artist, I thought,--that the Roman,
the Greek! You come here to look at the Gladiator, not so much for the
sake of the form, as because he reminds you of Michna from Koslowka.
I begin to understand now the taciturnity and melancholy. Lukomski
evidently guessed my thoughts; for, the mystic eyes looking straight
before him, he began in a broken voice to reply to my unuttered words:
"Rome is well enough,--to live in, but not to die in! I am getting on
fairly well,--no right to complain. I remain here because I must; but
the longing for the old place tears me like all the devils. When the
dogs bark at night in the garden, I fancy the sound comes from the
village; and I feel as if I could scratch the walls. I should go mad
if I did not go there once a year. I am going now, shortly, because I
cannot breathe here any longer."
He put his hand to his throat, and screwed up his mouth as if
to whistle, to hide the trembling of the lips. It was almost an
explosion,--the more astounding, as it was so unexpected. A sudden
emotion seized me at the thought of the vast difference between me and
such men as he and Sniatynski. Even now I think of it with a certain
apprehension. There are vast horizons out of my reach. What an
intensity of feeling there is in those men! They may be happy or
wretched with it; but how immeasurably richer they are than I!
There is no danger of life becoming to them a desert and a barren
wilderness. In each of them there is life enough for ten. I too feel
conscious of ties to my country; but the consciousness is not so
pressing, does not burn with the same steady light, and is not part
of myself. My existence does not depend upon any Koslowka, Michna, or
Ploszow. Where men such as Sniatynski or Lukomski find live springs
from which they draw their motive vigor, I find dry sand. And yet, if
they had not this basis, there remains still, for one his sculpture,
for the other his literature. It seems incredible that a man
possessing so many conditions of happiness should be not only so
little happy, but clearly does not see the reason why he should exist
at all.
It is doubtless my bringing up which has something to do with
it,--those Metzes, Romes, Paris; I have always been as a tree taken
from its soil and not firmly planted in another. Partly it is my own
fault; because I am putting points of interrogation all along the road
of life, and philosophize where others love only. The consequence is
that philosophy, instead of giving me anything, has eaten my heart
away.