The telegram has come. It contains these words: "It is of no
use,--pull yourself together and travel." Yes, I will do it. Oh,
Aniela!
Paris, 2 April.
It is some ten months since I put down anything in my journal; it had
become such a familiar friend that I missed it. But I said to myself:
what is the use of it? If I put down on paper thoughts worthy of a
Pascal; deeper than the ocean depth; loftier than the Alps,--it would
not change the simple fact that she is married. With that fact staring
at me, my hands dropped powerless. Sometimes life concentrates itself
in one object, not necessarily an important one; but if that fails us
we seem at a loss what to do with ourselves. It is strange,--almost
laughable,--but for a long time I remained in a state of mind in which
the most commonplace functions of life seemed irksome and useless,
and it took me some time to remember that I used to go to clubs and
theatres, shaved, dressed, and dined before I knew her. The first
months I travelled a great deal, straying as far as Iceland. The sight
of Swedish lakes, Norwegian fiords, and Icelandic geysers conveyed to
me no direct impressions; I only tried to imagine what Aniela would
have felt or said to such a view,--in short, I saw with her eyes,
thought her thoughts, and felt with her heart. And when presently I
remembered that she was Aniela no longer, but Pani Kromitzka, I went
straight to the nearest railway station or ship to go somewhere else,
as what I looked upon had ceased to interest me. It did not matter
to me in the least that I played a part in one of the so commonly
ridiculed dramas where thousands of fools have played the same parts
before. And death is a drama; and those who are entering its gates
think the world is coming to an end; and so it is,--for them.
I do not know, and will not enter into it now, whether my feeling
the first few months was one of fathomless despair. Everything is
relative. I know only that my whole being was absorbed by one woman,
and I understood for the first time the void created by the death of a
dearly loved being.
But gradually the habit--not the zest--of life recovered its vital
power. This is a common enough fact. I have known people, inwardly
intensely sad, without a grain of cheerfulness in their souls, yet
keep up an appearance of cheerfulness because they had once been
cheerful, and the habit clung to them. And time dulls the pain, and I
found an antidote to the poison. I read once, in a book of travels by
Farini, that the Caffres, when stung by a scorpion, cure themselves
by letting the scorpion sting them in the same place. Such a
scorpion,--such an antidote,--was for me, and is generally for most
people, the word, "It is done; there is no help for it."
It is done, therefore I suffer; it is done, and I feel relieved.
There is an anodyne in the consciousness that it cannot be helped. It
reminds me of the Indian carried away by the Niagara: he struggled
at first with all his strength against the current; but seeing the
hopelessness of his efforts, threw away his oar, laid himself down in
the bottom of the canoe, and began to sing. I am ready to sing now.
The Niagara Falls have that advantage--they crush the life out of a
man; there are others that throw him on a lonely barren shore without
water. This has happened to me.
The evil genius bent upon wrecking my life had not taken in account
one thing: a man crushed and utterly wretched cares less for himself
than a happy one. In presence of that indifference fate becomes more
or less powerless. I was and am still in that frame of mind that, if
angry Fortuna came to me in person, and said: "Go to perdition," I
should reply calmly: "Be it so,"--not out of sorrow for the loss of
Aniela, but from mere indifference to everything within or without me.
This is a special kind of armor which not only protects the man
himself, but also makes him dangerous to others. It is clear that
he who does not spare himself will not spare others. Even God's
commandment does not say: "Love thy neighbor more than thyself." It
does not follow that I mean to cut somebody's throat one of these
days. What I said has merely a theoretical bearing upon life in
general; nobody will be any the worse for it; for if indifference
diminishes altruism, it also lessens egoism. If I were to sleep
with my neighbor under the, same cloak, I should not surrender it
altogether; neither should I take it all to myself.
Dangerous, and even very dangerous, such a man as I am may become
when at length he is aroused from his lethargy, drawn forth from the
seclusion of his egotism, and forced into definite action. He then
acquires the precision of motion, and also the merciless power, of
an engine, I have gained that mechanical power. For some time I have
noticed that I impress others by my way of thinking and my will more
strongly than formerly, though I have not sought it in the least. The
everlasting source of weakness is love of self, vanity, and coquetry
in regard to others. Almost unconsciously everybody tries to please,
to gain sympathy; and towards that end often sacrifices his own
opinions and convictions. At present this coquetry, if not altogether
gone, is greatly diminished; and the indifference as to whether I
please or not gives me a kind of superiority over others. I have
noticed that during my travels, and especially now at Paris. There are
many here who at one time had an ascendency over me; now I have the
ascendency, for the very reason that I care less for it.
In a general way I look upon myself as a man who could be energetic
if he wished to exert himself; but the will acts in proportion to the
passions, and mine are in the passive state.
As the habit of giving an account to myself for my thoughts and
actions still remains with me, I explain in this way that in certain
conditions of life we may as strongly desire not to live, as in others
we should wish the contrary. Most likely my indifference springs from
this dislike of life. It is this which renders it different from the
apathy of such men as Davis.
It is quite certain that I have grown more independent than formerly,
and might say with Hamlet that there is something dangerous in
me. Fortunately nobody crosses my path. Everybody is as supremely
indifferent and cool towards me as I am in regard to them. Only my
aunt in far-away Ploszow loves me as of old; but I suppose even
her love has lost its active character, and there will be no more
match-making in my behalf.