Alas! that indifference I compared to pure water without taste or
color is only apparently colorless. Looking more closely I perceive
tiny bubbles which dim its purity. They are my idiosyncrasies.
Everything else has left me and they remained. I do not love anybody,
have no active hatred towards any one, but am full of aversions in
regard to various people. One of these is Kromitzki. I do not hate him
because he has taken Aniela from me; I dislike him for his long, flat
feet, his thick knees, lank figure, and that voice like a coffee-mill.
He was always repulsive to me, and I mention the fact now because that
aversion has such a strange vitality in me. I cannot help thinking of
people who jar upon my nerves. If only Kromitzki and Pani Celina came
under that category, I might think those antipathies were hatred in
the disguise of aversion. But it is not so. There are others who have
roused at some time or other an aversion in me that clings quite as
perversely to my memory. As I cannot ascribe it to the state of my
health,--I never felt better in my life,--I explain it in this way:
The world has robbed me of my love, time has dried up hatred, and as
the living individual must feel something, I live upon what remains to
me. I must also say that he who feels and lives thus does not get a
surfeit of happiness.
My former sympathies have cooled down very considerably. To Sniatynski
I have taken a dislike which no reasoning on my part can overcome.
Sniatynski has many grand qualities and is pleasantly conscious of
them, which gives him, as painters express it, a certain mannerism. I
suppose it is exceedingly rare that a man who sees that his individual
characteristics impress people favorably does not fall in love with
his own type, and end by exaggerating it. Sniatynski consequently has
grown artificial, and for the sake of the pose sacrifices his innate
delicacy; as in case of the abrupt telegram he sent to Cracow, after
his mission with Aniela had failed,--his advice to travel, which I
should have done without it,--and I received another letter from him
at Christiania soon after Aniela's wedding, written in a friendly
spirit, but very abrupt and artificial. I might give its substance as
follows: "Panna Aniela is now Pani Kromitzka,--the thing is done; I am
sorry for you; do not think the bottom is falling out of the universe;
there are other things in the world of more importance, the deuce take
it. Norway must be splendid just now. Come back soon and set to work.
Good-by," and so forth. I do not repeat it word for word, but such was
the gist of the letter. It impressed me unpleasantly, first because
I had not asked Sniatynski to lend me his yard-measure to measure my
sorrow with; secondly, I had thought him a sensible man, and supposed
he understood that his "more important things" are merely empty words
unless they imply feelings and inclinations that existed before. I
wanted to write to him there and then and ask him to release me from
his spiritual tutelage, but thinking better of it did not answer
at all,--I fancy that is the easiest way of breaking off a
correspondence. Entering more minutely into the matter, I find that
neither his telegram nor his letter have caused my dislike. Properly
speaking, I cannot forgive him that for which I ought to feel
grateful,--his mediation between me and Aniela. I myself implored him
to undertake it, but exactly because I implored him, entrusted him
with my fate, confessed to him my weaknesses, and made him in a way my
protector, and because the humiliation and sorrow which overwhelmed me
passed through his hands,--this, perhaps, explains my dislike towards
him. I felt angry with myself, and angry with Sniatynski as having
a part in it. It is unjust, I know, but I cannot help it, and my
friendship for him has burned out like a candle.
Besides, I have never been quick in forming ties of friendship. With
Sniatynski my relations were closer than with anybody else, perhaps
because we lived each of us in a different part of Europe. I had no
other friends. I belong in general to the class of persons called
singles. I remember there was a time when I considered this a sign
of strength. In the animal world, for instance, the weak ones mostly
cling together, and those whom nature has endowed with powerful claws
and teeth go single, because they suffice unto themselves. This
principle can be applied to human beings only in exceptional cases.
Incapacity for friendship proves mostly dryness of heart, not strength
of character. As to myself, the cause of it was a certain shyness and
sensitiveness. My heart is like that plant which closes its leaves at
the slightest touch. That I never formed ties of friendship with a
woman is a different thing altogether. I had a desire for friendship
in regard to those from whom I expected more. I feigned it sometimes,
as the fox makes believe to be dead in order to secure the rooks. It
does not follow that I disbelieve in friendship between man and woman.
I am not a fool who measures the world according to his own standard,
or a churl who is for ever suspecting evil; besides, various
observations have proved to me that such a friendship is quite
possible. As there exists the relation of brother and sister, the same
feeling may exist between two persons who feel as brother and sister
towards each other. Moreover, the capacity for that kind of friendship
belongs to the choicer spirits who have a natural inclination for
Platonic feasts, such as poets, artists, philosophers, and generally,
people who cannot be measured by the common standard. If this be a
proof that I was not made of the stuff artists, poets, and great men
are made of,--the worse for me. Most likely it is so, since I am
nothing but Leon Ploszowski. There was a time when I felt that if
Aniela had become my wife, she would not only have been my love, but
also my dearest friend. But I prefer not to think of it. Ghosts of
this kind visit me far too often, and I shall never have any peace
until I banish them altogether.