I note down the occurrences of a whole week. I received, among other
letters, one from Sniatynski. The honest fellow is so concerned about
the turn my affair with Aniela has taken that he does not even abuse
me. He tells me, though, that his wife is angry past forgiveness, and
does not allow my name to be mentioned in her presence,--considers me
a perfect monster, who finds his only delight in gloating over fresh
victims. For once I am a good Christian, and not only do not bear
malice to the little woman, but feel very friendly towards her. What a
warm, generous heart hers is! Sniatynski evidently thinks the question
finally settled; for he refrains from advice, and only expresses
sorrow.
"God grant," he writes, "you may find another like her." Strange, when
I come to think of it! It seems to me that I do not want another like
Aniela, or a better one either,--I want her. I say it seems to me;
for it is a feeling without any definite shape. I carry within me
something like an entangled skein; I weary myself, and yet am not able
to reduce it to any kind of order. In spite of all my self-knowledge,
I cannot quite make out what it is that makes me feel sad. Is it
because I find I love her, or is it because I feel I could love her
very much? Sniatynski unconsciously replies to this question in these
words: "I have heard or read that gold nuggets have sometimes a large
admixture of quartz, which must be crushed in order to get at the
gold. I suppose your heart is thus covered with an incrustation, that
only partly melted while you were staying at Ploszow. You did not
remain long enough, and simply had no time to let your love grow
sufficiently strong. You have, maybe, energy enough to act, but not
enough to decide; but you would have found the energy if the feeling
had been powerful enough. You went away, and according to your custom,
began to ponder, to think it over; and it came to pass, as I was
afraid it would, that you philosophized away your own happiness and
that of another." What strikes me most in Sniatynski's words is
that they are almost a repetition of what my father said to me. But
Sniatynski penetrates deeper; for he adds almost immediately: "It is
the old story,--he who inquires too deeply into his own mind ends by
disagreeing with himself; and who disagrees with himself is incapable
of any decision. Truly times must be out of joint, when only asses
have any power of action left, and those who have a little more
intelligence use it to doubt everything, and to persuade themselves
that it is not worth while to attempt anything." I have read similar
observations in one of the French authors; and by Jove! he is right.
I almost wish Sniatynski had given me a downright scolding, instead of
larding his letter with sentences like this "In spite of all your good
qualities it will come to this, that you will always be a cause of
suffering and anxiety to those who love you." He brings it home with a
vengeance. I have caused suffering to Aniela, her mother, and my-aunt,
and to myself also. I feel inclined to laugh a little as I read
further: "According to the laws of nature, there is always something
growing within us; beware, lest it be a poisonous weed that will
destroy your whole existence!" No,--I am not afraid of that. There
is some mould sown by Laura's fair hands, but it grows only on the
outward crust of which Sniatynski speaks, and has not struck any
roots. There is no need of uprooting anything; it is as easily wiped
off as dust. Sniatynski is more reasonable when he is himself again,
and steps forth with his pet dogma that lies always close to his
heart: "If you consider yourself a superior type, or even if you be
such, let me tell you that the sum total of such superiority, is
socially, a minus quantity."
I am far from considering myself a superior type, unless it be in
comparison to such as Kromitzki; but Sniatynski is right. Men like me
escape being minus quantities in society only when they are men of
science or great artists,--not artists without portfolios. Often they
take the part of great reformers. As to myself I could only be a
reformer as regards my own person. I went about with that thought all
the day.
It is surpassing strange that, knowing my own short-comings so well, I
do not make any attempt to mend matters. For instance, after debating
for half a day whether to go out or not, ought I not to take myself by
the collar and thrust myself into the street? I am a sceptic?--very
well! Could I not act for once as if I were not a sceptic? A little
more or less conviction, what does it matter? What ought I to do now?
Pack up my things and go straight to Ploszow. I could do it easily
enough. What the result of such a step would be, I do not know, but at
any rate it would be doing something. Then Sniatynski writes: "That
ape is now every day at Ploszow, keeping watch over the ladies, who,
without that additional trouble, are worn to shadows."
Perhaps it is too late. Sniatynski does not say when he was last at
Ploszow, perhaps a week ago or maybe two; since then things may have
gone much farther. Yes, but I do not know anything for certain, and
when all is said how can it be worse than it is already? I feel that
anybody with a little more energy in his composition would go at once,
and I should feel more respect for myself if I brought myself to do
it, especially as Sniatynski, who is usually so enterprising, does not
urge me. The very thought brightens me up, and in this brightness I
see a beloved face which at this moment is dearer to me than anything
else in the world, and--per Baccho! I shall most probably do it.