27/02/2014 17:26
There is something in us,--an incapacity to give forth all that is in us. One might say, God has
given us bow and arrow, but refused us the power to string the bow
and send the arrow straight to its aim.
It is obvious that under such influences my mind became that of a civilized being,
that can make due allowance for other people's opinions; I do not utter peacock cries
when I hear of anything opposed to my views or something utterly new. It may be that such leniency
and tolerance of all opinions leads finally to indifferentism and weakens
the active principle in the human mind, but I could not be different now.
And now it will be easier to describe the state of my mind.
It all lies in these words: I do not know.
In this--in the acknowledged impotence of the human mind--lies the tragedy.
Not to mention the fact that humanity always has asked, and always will ask, for an answer,
they are truly questions of more importance than anything else in the world.
If there be something on the other side, and that something an eternal life,
then misfortunes and losses on this side are as nothing.
Philosophy, I am struck by your common sense, admire your close analysis;
but with all that, you have made me supremely wretched. By your own confession
you have no answer for a question, to me of the greatest importance, and yet
you had power enough to destroy that faith which not only cleared up all doubts,
but soothed and comforted the soul. And do not say that, since you do not lay down the law,
you permit me to adhere to my old beliefs. It is not true!
Your method, your soul, your very essence is doubt and criticism.
This, your scientific method, this scepticism, this criticism you have implanted in the soul
till they have become a second nature. As with lunar caustic, you have deadened the spiritual
nerves by the help of which one believes simply and without question,
so that even if I would believe I have lost the power.
You permit me to go to church if I like; but you have poisoned me with scepticism to such a degree
that I have grown sceptical even with regard to you,--sceptical in regard to my own scepticism;
and I do not know, I do not know. I torture myself, and am maddened by the darkness.
Life carries me along, and although in the main I know what to think of its hollow pleasures,
I give myself up to it altogether, and then the moral "to be, or not to be" has no meaning for me.
Tenderness grows on the soil of attraction by the senses, as quick as flowers after a warm rain.
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The human being, like the sea, has his ebb and flood tides. To-day my will, my energy,
the very action of life are at a very low tide. It came upon me without warning, a mere matter of nerves.
Have I a right to marry her,--to link that fresh budding life, full of simple faith in God and the world,
to my doubts, my spiritual impotence, my hopeless scepticism, my criticism and nerves?
What will be the result of it for her? I cannot regain another spiritual youth,
and even at her side cannot find my old self; my brains cannot change,
or my nerves grow more vigorous,--and what then? Is she to wither at my side?
It would be simply monstrous. I to play the part of a polypus that sucks the life-blood
of its victims in order to renew its own life! A heavy cloud weighs on my brain.
But if such be the case why did I allow it to go so far?
What have I been doing ever since I met Aniela?
Playing on her very heartstrings to bring forth sweet music.
And yet, what for me was "Quasi una fantasia" may prove to her "Quasi un dolore."
Yes, I have played on that sensitive instrument from morning until night;
and what is more, I feel that in spite of my self-upbraidings, I shall do the same
to-morrow and the days following, for I cannot help it; she attracts me more than any woman I ever met,
I desire her above all things--I love her!
Why delude myself any longer?--I love her.
I feel like a man who shuts his eyes and ears before taking the final plunge.
But I really think it is a costly pearl I shall find at the bottom of the deep.
Mountains, towers, rocks, the further they recede from our view,
appear as a mere outline through a veil of blue haze.
There is a kind of psychical blue haze that enfolds those who are removed from us.
Death itself is a removal, but the chasm is so wide that the beloved ones who have crossed it
disappear within the haze and become as beloved shadows.
The Greek genius understood this when he peopled the Elysian fields with shadows.
Death is such a gulf, and though we know that all have to go thither,
yet when it swallows up one of our dear ones, we who remain on the brink are torn with fear,
sorrow, and despair. On that brink all reasoning leaves us, and we only cry out for help
which cannot come from anywhere. The only solace and comfort lies in faith,
but he who is deprived of that light gets well-nigh maddened by the impenetrable darkness.
To-day I thought a great deal about Aniela. I have a strange feeling, as if lands and seas divided us.
It seems to me as if Ploszow were a Hyperborean island somewhere
at the confines of the world. We have delusions of that kind when personal impression
takes the place of tangible reality. It is not Aniela who is far from me,
it is I who go farther and farther away from the Leon whose heart and thoughts were once so full of her.
The house of cards has tumbled down. I received a letter from my aunt.
Aniela is engaged to Kromitzki, and the marriage will take place in a few weeks.
