To-day I received two letters,--one from my lawyer in Rome, the other
from Sniatynski. The lawyer informs me that the difficulties the
Italian government usually raises at the exportation of art treasures
can be got over, my father's collections being private property and as
such not under government control, and that they could be transported
simply as furniture.
I shall have to see to the arrangement of the house, which I do
unwillingly, as my heart is not any more in the scheme. What does it
matter to me now, and what is the use of it? If I do not give it up
altogether, it is only because I spread the news about it myself, and
cannot possibly draw back. I have fallen back into that state of mind
which possessed me during my wanderings after Aniela's marriage. Again
I understand nothing, cannot act or look upon anything that has no
direct bearing upon Aniela. The thoughts in which I do not see her
image at the bottom are meaningless to me. It is a proof how far a man
may sink his own self. I read this morning a lecture by Bunge called
"Vitality and Mechanism," and I perused it with exceptional interest.
He demonstrates scientifically that which has been in my mind more
as a dim, shapeless idea than a definite conviction. Here science
confesses scepticism in regard to itself, and, moreover, not only
confirms its own impotence but clearly points to the existence of
another world which is something more than matter and motion, which
cannot be explained either physically or chemically. It does not
concern me in the least whether that world be above matter or subject
to it. It is a mere play of words! I am not a scientist; I am not
bound to be careful in my deductions; therefore I throw myself
headforemost into that open door, and let science prate and say a
hundred times over that all is dark there. I feel it will be lighter
than here. I read with almost feverish eagerness and great relief.
Only fools do not acknowledge how materialism wearies and oppresses
us, what secret fear lurks in the mind lest their science should prove
true, what a dreary waiting for new scientific evolutions, and joy of
the prisoners when they see a small door ajar through which they
may escape into the open air. The worst of it is that the spirit is
already so oppressed that it dares not breathe freely or believe
in its own happiness. But I dared, and had a sensation as if I had
escaped from a stifling cellar.
Perhaps this is only a momentary relief, for I understand well that
Neo-Vitalism does not form an epoch in science; maybe to-morrow I
shall go back to prison,--I do not know. In the meantime the breath
of air did me good. I said to myself over and over again: "If it be
possible that by way of scepticism one can arrive at the undoubted
certainty of another world, mocking at mechanical explanation, being
absolutely beyond all physico-chemical elucidation, then everything
is possible,--every creed, every dogma, every mysticism! It is
permissible then to think that, as there is infinite Space, there is
also infinite Reason, infinite Good, enfolding the whole universe
as in a vast cloak, under which we may find rest and shelter and
protection. And if so, all is well! I shall know at least why I live
and why I suffer. What an immense relief!"
I repeat once more that I am not obliged to be timid and wary in my
deductions, and, as I said before, no one is so near mysticism as the
sceptic. I realized it once more in myself when I began spreading my
wings, like the bird which has been caged and delights in its new
freedom. I saw before me endless space covered with new life. I did
not know whether it was on another planet or farther still, beyond the
planetary sphere,--enough that the space was different from ours, the
light brighter and softer, the air cool and full of sweetness; the
difference consisted mainly in the closer union of the individual
spirit with the spirit of the universe; it was so close that it was
difficult to understand where the individual ceased and the universe
began. I felt at the same time it was upon that very dimness of the
boundary that the happiness of this other life rested, as the being
did not live in opposition or exclusion but in harmony with his
surroundings, and thus lived with the whole power of universal life.
I do not say it was a vision; it was only a crossing of the narrow
boundary beyond which reasoning leaves off and conscious feeling
begins,--a feeling which as yet is only a conclusion of former
premises, but carried so far as to be difficult to grasp, as a golden
thread spun out to its utmost length. Moreover, I did not know how to
incorporate myself with that new life and new space,--how to melt in
it my own self. I had kept to a certain extent my own individuality,
and there was something wanting near me,--something I searched for.
Suddenly I became aware it was Aniela I was searching for. Of course,
only her and always her. What could another life matter to me without
her? I found her at last, and we roamed about together like the shadow
of Paolo with the shadow of Francesca di Rimini. I write this down
because I see in it an almost terrifying proof how far my whole being
has been absorbed by this love.
What connection is there between Bunge's Neo-Vitalism and Aniela?
Nevertheless, even when thinking of things far removed, it all brings
me back to her. Science, art, nature, life,--all are carried back to
the same denominator. It is the axis around which turns my world.
This is of great importance to me, for, in presence of all this, is it
possible that I should ever listen to the advice of reason and that
inward monitor that bids me to go away?
I know it all will end in ruin. But how can I go away; how summon
strength and will and energy when all these have been taken from me?
Tell a man deprived of his legs to go and walk about. On what? And
from myself I add: "Why? whereto? My life is here."
Sometimes I feel tempted to let Aniela read this diary, but do not
intend to do so. Her pity for me might be increased, but not her love.
If Aniela be ever mine, she will want to look up to me for support,
peace, and immovable faith for both; that is how it ought to be
where happiness is at stake. Here she would find nothing but doubts.
Supposing even she could understand all that has been and is going on
in my mind, there are many things she could not sympathize with. We
are too different from each other. For instance, when I plunge into
mysticism, when I say to myself that everything is possible, even a
future life, I do not shape it according to generally admitted ideas,
and if those general ideas may be called a normal point of view, mine
must needs be an abnormal one. Why? If everything is possible, then
why not a hell, a purgatory, a heaven, or my subplanetary spaces,--and
Dante's vision, which is far greater and more magnificent than mine?
Then why? For a twofold reason. First, because my scepticism, which
poisons itself by its own doubts, as the scorpion poisons itself with
its own venom, is nevertheless strong enough to exclude the most
simple and generally accepted ideas; secondly, I cannot fancy myself
in the Dantean divisions with Aniela,--I do not desire such a life.
It is only part of myself that writes and thinks, the greater part is
always with Aniela. At this moment I see a streak of light from her
window resting on the barberry bushes. My poor love has sleepless
nights too. I saw her dozing over her needle-work to-day. Seated in
a deep armchair she looked to me so small, and she drew such a long
breath as if from weariness. I had a feeling for her as if she were my
child.