Three weeks ago few persons knew of my existence, but now I begin to
receive tens of letters, for the greater part love-letters. I may wager
that of five four begin with these words: "It may be that when you have
read this letter, you will despise the woman who, etc.--" I will not
despise the woman, on condition that she will keep away from me.
Were it not for Kazia, perhaps, to tell the truth, I shouldn't shrug my
shoulders so much at such a torrent of feeling.
How can such an "unknown" hope that a man who has never seen her will
answer the invitation of an invisible woman? This makes me specially
indignant. Remove first the curtain, O fair unknown! and when I behold
thee, I will say to thee--Oi! I will say nothing, because of Kazia.
I receive also an anonymous missive, from some gray-haired friend_ess_,
in which I am called master, and Kazia a little goose.
"Oh, master, is she a wife for thee?" inquires my gray-haired
friend_ess_. "Is that a choice worthy of him on whom the eyes of the
whole country are turned? Thou art a victim of intrigue, etc."
A wonderful supposition, and a still more wonderful demand, that I
should marry not to please my heart but the public! And poor Kazia is
already in their way!
There are greater crimes surely than anonymous letters, but there is no
greater--how can I express myself justly? But never mind!
The end of my betrothal is not fixed yet, but it will come before long.
Meanwhile I shall tell Kazia to array herself famously, and I will
escort her to the exhibition. Let the world see us together.
Antek's two corpses have come also from Paris. The picture is called
"The Last Meeting," and represents a young man and a young woman lying
on the dissecting-table. At the first glance the idea is interpreted
perfectly. It is clear that those two dead ones loved each other in
life, that misery separated and death united them.
The students bending over the corpses have come out in the picture
somewhat rigid; there are faults in the perspective of the
dissecting-room; but the "corpses" are painted superbly. Such corpses
that icy cold comes from them! The picture did not receive even mention,
perhaps for the reason that the subject is wonderfully unpleasant; but
critics praised it.
Among our "painters" there are beyond doubt many talents. For instance,
at the side of Antek's corpses Franek Tsepkovski exhibited "The Death of
Koretski." Immense strength in it, and immense individuality.
Antek calls Franek an idiot: first, because Franek has a forelock, and
wears his beard wedge-form; second, because he dresses according to the
latest fashion; and, third, because he is terribly well-bred and
ceremonious, and mentions rather frequently his high-born relatives. But
Antek is mistaken. Talent is a bird that builds its nest where it
pleases, at one time in a wild desert, at another in a trimmed garden.
I have seen, in Monachium and Paris, painters who looked like laborers
in a brewery, then others like barbers or dandies, you would not give
three coppers for the men; still one and the other beast of them had in
his soul such exaltation, such uncommon feeling of forms and colors, and
such a power of projecting that feeling out of himself onto canvas!
Ostrynski, who has a trite phrase for everything, would have written in
mentioning them in his "Kite," _spiritus flat ubi vult_ (the spirit
bloweth where it listeth).
In Antek's opinion, historical painting is "obscure barbarism." I do not
paint historical subjects, and personally the question is all one to me,
but I hear this opinion on every side as being progressive. People have
made a saw of it, and it begins to annoy me.
Our Polish painters have one defect: they become wedded to certain
doctrines touching art, live under their slippers, look at everything
with the eyes of these doctrines, force art to them, and are rather
apostles than painters. In contrast to painters mentioned above (in
connection with Monachium and Paris), I have known others whose lips
were worn off in talking of what art is, and what it should be; but when
it came to the brush they could not do anything.
More than once I have thought that a theory of art should be framed by
philosophers, and if they framed nonsense--let them answer; but painters
should paint what the heart dictates to each man, and to know how to
paint is the main thing. To my thinking, the most wretched talent is
worth more than the most splendid doctrine, and the most splendid
doctrine is not worthy to clean the boots of freedom.