I replied that I was not going to stay there at all. I had thought of
that during the journey and came to the conclusion that it would be
better to have my headquarters at Warsaw. Ploszow is only six miles
from here, and I can go there in the morning and stay as long as I
like. It is indifferent to me where I live, and my living here will
prevent people talking. Besides, I do not want Pani Kromitzka to think
I am anxious to dwell under the same roof with her. I spoke of this to
Sniatynski, and saw that he fully agreed with me; he seemed anxious to
discuss Aniela with me. Sniatynski is a very intelligent man, but he
does not seem to understand that changed circumstances mean changed
relations, even between the best of friends. He came to me as if I
were the same Leon Ploszowski who, shaking in every limb, asked for
his help at Cracow; he approached me with the same abrupt sincerity,
desiring to plunge his hand up to his elbow under my ribs. I pulled
him up sharply, and he seemed surprised and somewhat angry. Presently
he fell in with my humor, and we talked together as if the last
meeting at Cracow had never taken place. I noticed, nevertheless,
that he watched me furtively, and not being able to make me out tried
indirect inquiry, with all the clumsiness of an author who is a
deep psychologist and reader of the human mind at his desk, and as
unsophisticated as any student in practical life. As Hamlet of yore, I
might have handed him a pipe and said, "Do you think I am easier to be
played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you
can fret me, yet you cannot play upon me."
I had been reading Hamlet the night before, as I have read it many a
time, and involuntarily these words came into my mind. It seems to
me surpassing strange that a man of my time, in whatever position or
complicated trouble of soul, should find so much analogy to himself
as I find in this drama, based upon Holinshed's sanguinary and gross
legend. Hamlet is the human soul as it was, as it is, and as it will
be. In conceiving this drama, Shakspeare overstepped the limit fixed
even for genius. I can understand Homer and Dante, studied by the
light of their epoch. I can comprehend that they could do what they
did; but how an Englishman of the seventeenth century could foreknow
psychosis, a science of recent growth, will be to me, in spite of my
study of Hamlet, an everlasting mystery.
Having mentally handed over to Sniatynski Hamlet's pipe, I recommended
to his care Miss Hilst, and then began to discuss his pet theories.
Upon his wanting to know what brought me back, I said it was the
longing for the country, and consciousness of unfulfilled duties
towards it. I said it in a careless, off-hand way, and Sniatynski
looked puzzled, not knowing whether I spoke seriously or mockingly.
And again the same phenomenon of which I spoke in Paris repeated
itself here. The moral ascendency he had gained over me gradually
disappeared. He did not know himself what to think, but he saw the
old key would not serve any longer. When he said good-by I again
recommended to him Miss Hilst. He looked at me keenly.
"Do you attach much importance to her success?"
"Yes, very much. She is a person I hold in great esteem, and have much
friendship for."
In this way I centred all his attention on Miss Hilst. Most likely he
thought I had fallen in love with her. He went away angry, and could
not disguise his feelings. He shut the door sharply; and when I
accompanied him as far as the staircase, and turned back to the
anteroom, I heard him descending the staircase, taking four steps at
once, and whistling,--which he always does when angry. Besides, it was
quite true, what I said about Miss Hilst. I wrote to-day to Clara,
explaining why I had not been to see her, and received a reply at
once. She is delighted with Warsaw, and especially its inhabitants.
All the musical world has called upon her, and they are vying with
each other in politeness and offers of help. Whether they would
be quite as enthusiastic had she come to settle here, is another
question; but Clara has the gift to win friends wherever she goes. She
has already seen something of the town, and was much charmed with the
Sazienki Park and Palace. I am glad she likes it,--the more so as
the country, soon after crossing the frontier, seemed to her rather
depressing. Truly, only those born on the soil can find any charm in
the vast solitary plains, where the eye finds very little to rest
upon. Clara, looking through the carriage window, said more than once:
"Ah! I can understand Chopin now!" She is utterly mistaken,--she does
not understand Chopin and his feelings, any more than she is in touch
with his native land. I, though a cosmopolitan by education, by
atavism understand our nature, and am surprised myself at the spell
a Polish spring casts upon me, and it seems as if I could never
feel tired of it. Properly speaking, what does the view consist of?
Sometimes, on purpose, I put myself into a stranger's place,--a
painter's, having no preconceived ideas about it, and look at it with
his eyes. The landscape then makes upon me the impression as if a
child had drawn it, or a savage, who had no notion about drawing. Flat
fallow-land, wet meadows, huts with their rectangular outline, the
straight poplars around country-seats on the distant horizon, a broad,
flat plain, finished off with a belt of woods,--that "ten miles of
nothing," as the Germans call it; all this reminds me of a first
attempt at drawing landscape. There is scarcely enough for a
background. From the moment I cease looking upon it with a stranger's
eyes, I begin to feel the simplicity of the view, incorporate myself
with that immense breadth, where every outlined object melts into the
far distance, as a soul in Nirvana; it has not only the artistic
charm of primitiveness, but it acts soothingly upon me. I admire the
Apennines; but my spirit is not in touch with them, and sooner or
later they become wearisome. The human being finds a resting-place
only where he is in harmony with his surroundings; and is reminded
that his soul and the soul of nature are of the same organization.
Homesickness springs from the isolation of the soul from its
surroundings. It appears to me that the principle of psychical
relationship could be applied in a still wider sense. It may seem
strange that I, brought up in foreign lands, permeated by their
culture, should harbor such views; but I go farther still, and say
a foreign woman, even the most beautiful, appears to me more as a
species of the female kind than a soul.
I remember what I wrote at one time concerning Polish women, but one
statement does not contradict the other; I may perceive their faults,
and yet feel myself nearer to them than to strangers. Besides, my old
opinions--at least, the greater part of them--are now in tatters, like
a worn-out garment.
But enough of this! I notice with a certain shame and surprise
that all I have been writing has been done in order to distract my
thoughts. Yes, that is true. I speak about landscapes, homesickness,
and so forth, while all my thoughts are at Ploszow. I did not want to
acknowledge it, even to myself. I feel restless, and something seems
to weigh me down. It is very probable that my going there and the
getting over the first meeting will be easier and far simpler than I
imagine. Expectancy of anything is always oppressive. When a young
lad, I had a duel; and on the eve of the day I felt troubled. Then,
too, I tried to think of something else, and could not manage it.
My thoughts are not at all tender, not even friendly, towards Pani
Kromitzka; but they swarm around me like angry bees, and I cannot
drive them away.