One day Ostrynski informs me that he feels happy that he got a basket
from Kazia, for prospects are opening before him of which I cannot have
the least idea.
I am very glad of this, or rather, it is all one to me; I believe
meanwhile that Ostrynski will take care of himself in this life. When he
was trying for Kazia, her parents were on his side, especially Father
Suslovski; Ostrynski had even a complete preponderance over him, pushed
to the degree that that Roman lost his statuesqueness in presence of
this suitor. Kazia, however, could not endure him from the first moment
of their acquaintance. It was some unconscious repugnance; as to other
things I am perfectly sure that he did not offend her with that with
which he offends me, and all who know his nature thoroughly. He is a
wonderful man, or rather a wonderful man of letters. There are, of
course, not only among us, but in all the greater centres of literature
and art, men of whom, when you think, you ask involuntarily, Whence
comes their importance? To this category belongs my friend of "The
Kite." Who would believe that the secret of Ostrynski's significance and
the reason of his mental position is this, that he does not love and
does not respect talents,--especially literary talents,--and that he
simply lives by disregarding them? He has for them the contempt of a man
to whom regularity of life, a certain incisive quickness and great
shrewdness secure in society permanent victories over them.
One should see him at sessions, at artistic and literary meetings, at
jubilee dinners; with what condescending irony he treats men who in the
region of creativeness have ten times more power than he; how he pushes
them to the wall; how he confuses them with his logic, with his
judgment; how he overwhelms them with his literary importance!
Whenever Antek thinks of this, he calls for a slat from the bedstead
with which to crack Ostrynski's skull; but Ostrynski's preponderance
does not astonish me. People of genuine talent are frequently awkward,
timid, devoid of marked quickness and mental equilibrium. It is only
when genuine talent is alone with itself that wings grow out on its
shoulders; Ostrynski in such a position could only go to sleep, for he
has absolutely nothing to say to himself.
The future brings order, gives rank, and assigns to each man his own
proper place. Ostrynski is too clever not to know this; but in his soul
he laughs at it. For him, 'tis enough that at present he has greater
significance than others, and that people count more with him than with
men better than he.
We painters stand less in his way. Still he advertises the talents of
writers at times, but only when urged by the interest of "The Kite" and
in opposition to "The Courier." For the rest, he is a good comrade, an
agreeable person. I can say that I like the man; but--devil take
him!--we've had enough of Ostrynski.