I have been counting that my aunt's reply ought to have reached me by
this. Putting aside all the worst suppositions, I try to guess what
she is going to tell me. I regret, for I do not know how many times,
that my letter was not more conclusive. Yet I wrote that I would come
to Ploszow if I felt sure my presence would be acceptable to my aunt's
guests, sending them my kindest regards at the same time. I also
mentioned that during the last days of my stay at Peli I felt so
irritable that I scarcely knew what I was doing. The letter, while I
was writing it, seemed to me very clever; now it appears to me as the
height of folly. It was simply that my vanity did not permit me to
revoke clearly and decidedly what I had written previously. I counted
upon my aunt grasping at the opportunity I gave her for settling
matters, and then I meant to make my appearance as the generous
prince. Human nature is very pitiful. Nothing now remains but to hold
fast to the hope that my aunt would guess how it stood with me.
With my anxiety increasing every moment, I feel not only that I could
have loved Aniela, but that I do love her beyond expression, and also
that I might become an incomparably better man. Strictly speaking, why
do I act as if beyond nerves and egoism there were nothing else in me?
and if there be anything else, why does not my auto-analysis point it
out to me? I have the courage to draw extreme conclusions, and do not
hide the truth from myself, but I decidedly negative the notion.
Why? Because I have the unshaken conviction that I am better than my
actions. The cause of the latter is partly a certain incapacity of
life, partly the inheritance of my race and the disease of the times
in which I live, and finally that over-analysis which does not permit
me to follow the first, simple impulses of nature, but criticises
until it reduces the soul to utter impotence. When a child I used to
amuse myself by piling up coin upon coin until the column, bending
under its own weight, tumbled down into one chaotic heap. I am doing
now exactly the same with my thoughts and intentions, until they
collapse and roll over each other in a disorderly confusion. For this
very reason it has always been easier for me to play a passive part
than an active one. It appears to me that many cultured people are
attacked by the same disease. Criticism of ourselves and everything
else is corroding our active power; we have no stable basis, no point
of issue, no faith in life. Therein lies the reason why I do not care
so much to win Aniela as I am afraid of losing her. In speaking of a
disease common to our time, I will not confine myself exclusively to
my own case. That somebody takes to his bed when an epidemic disease
is raging is a very common occurrence; nowadays criticism of
everything is the epidemic spreading all over the world. The result
is that various roofs that sheltered men collapse over their heads.
Religion, the very name of which means "ties," is getting unloosened.
Faith, even in those who still believe, is getting restive. Through
the roof of what we call Fatherland social currents begin to filter.
There remains only one ideal in presence of which the most hardened
sceptic raises his hat,--the People. But on the base of this statue
mischievous spirits are beginning already to scribble more or less
ribald jokes, and, what is still more strange, the mist of unbelief is
rising from the heads of those who, in the nature of things, ought
to bow down reverently. Finally there will come a gifted sceptic, a
second Heine, to spit and trample on the idol, as in his time did
Aristophanes; he will not, however, trample on it in the name of old
ideals, but in the name of freedom of thought, in the name of freedom
of doubt; and what will happen then I do not know. Most likely on the
huge, clean-wiped slate the devil will write sonnets. Can anything
be done to prevent all this? Finally, what does it matter to me? To
attempt anything is not my business; I have been trained too carefully
as a child of my time. But if all that is thought, that is achieved
and happening, has for its ultimate aim to increase the sum of general
happiness, I permit myself a personal remark as to that happiness; by
which I do not mean material comfort, but that inward spiritual peace
in which I as well as anybody else may be wanting. Thus my grandfather
was happier than my father, my father happier than I, and as to my
son, if ever I have one, he will simply be an object of commiseration.
FLORENCE, 20 June.
The house of cards has tumbled down. I received a letter from my aunt.
Aniela is engaged to Kromitzki, and the marriage will take place in a
few weeks. She herself has fixed such a short date. After receiving
the news I took a railway ticket, with the intention of going straight
to Ploszow, conscious all the time that it was a foolish thing to do,
which could lead to nothing. But the impulse was upon me, and carried
me along; when, collecting the last remnants of common-sense and
reflection, I stuck fast here.
FLORENCE, 22 June.
Simultaneously with my aunt's letter, I received a "faire part"
addressed in a female hand. It is not Aniela's handwriting, or her
mother's; neither of them would have done it. Most likely it is Pani
Sniatynska's malicious device. Upon the whole, what does it matter? I
got a blow with a club on the head, and feel dizzy; it has shaken me
more than it has hurt. I do not know how it will be later on; they say
one does not feel a bullet wound at once. But I have not sent a bullet
through my head, I am not mad; I look at the Lung Arno; I could sit
down to a game of patience if I knew how to play; in fact, I am quite
well. It is the old story,--among sincere friends the dogs tore the
hare to pieces. My aunt considered it her Christian duty to show
Aniela the letter I had written from Peli.
FLORENCE, 23 June.
In the morning, when I wake up,--or rather, when opening my
eyes,--I am obliged to repeat to myself that Aniela is marrying
Kromitzki,--Aniela, so good, so loving, who insisted on sitting up to
take care of me when I returned from Warsaw to Ploszow; who looked
into my eyes, hung upon every word that came from my lips, and with
every glance told me she was mine. That same Aniela will not only be
Kromitzki's wife, but within a week from the wedding will not be able
to conceive how she could ever hesitate in her choice between such a
man as Ploszowski and a Jupiter like Kromitzki. Strange things happen
in this world,--so terrible and irrevocable that it takes away the
desire to live out the mean remnant of one's existence. Most likely
Pani Celina together with Pani Sniatynska make a great ado about
Kromitzki, and praise him at my expense. I hope they will leave Aniela
in peace. It is my aunt's doing; she ought not to have allowed it, if
only for Aniela's sake, as she cannot possibly be happy with him. She
herself says Aniela has accepted him out of despair.