of it, I am too much of a sceptic in regard to both parties to belong to either.  Democracy, by which I mean patented democrats, not people of humble extraction, acts upon my nerves.  As to aristocracy, methinks that if their raison d’etre is based upon services rendered to the country by their ancestors, those services have often been such that the sooner their descendants don the hair shirt and cover their heads with ashes the better.  Besides, these two parties, with the exception of a few foolish individuals, do not really believe in themselves.  Some feign sincerity in order to serve their own ends, and as I never feign anything, it is clear that to take part in such struggles is not the work for me.  Then there are those of the Sniatynski order who stand above both parties, but are always ready to drown both in their synthesis.  They are, as a rule, strong men; but even if I could agree with them I should have to do something,—­mere consciousness of duty is not work.  Sniatynski writes plays.  Truly, when I look things straight in the face, I find that I am outside the parenthesis, and do not see my way to get inside.  It is strange that a man who has considerable means, culture, certain capacities, and a wish for something to do, should find nothing he can put his hands to.  Again I feel inclined to swear, as it is all owing to that intellectual splitting of hairs.  They ought to make a diagnosis upon me, as to the disease of Time’s old age, which in me has reached the acute stage.  He who is a sceptic in regard to faith, in regard to science, conservatism, progress, and so on, has indeed difficulty in finding anything to do.

In addition to all that, my aspirations are far greater than the possibility of satisfying them.  Life rests upon work; and therefore, here people work at something or other.  But it is the work of a dray-horse, carting grain to the granary.  I could not do it even if I wished.  I am a high-stepper, fit only for a carriage, and of no use on sandy, rutty roads, where common horses do the work better and more steadily.  At the building of a house I could not carry the bricks, but might do something in the ornamental line, but where it is a question of four simple walls and a sound roof, artisans such as I are not wanted.  If at least I had a mighty impulse towards work, I still might be able to force myself to do something.  But in the main, it is only a question of appearances.  I wish to work in order to please the woman I love.  Aniela in regard to that has exalted notions, and it would certainly please her.  Moreover, for that very reason my vanity and also my calculations urge me to bid for a prominent position, which would raise my value in her eyes.  I will see what can be done, and in the meanwhile my purse will do the work for me.  I shall have the collection sent over, support various institutions, and give money where it is wanted.

What a strange power there is in woman!  She comes in contact with a genius without portfolio, an exceptionally useless implement like me, and then, without any preaching on her part, he feels himself in duty bound to do all sorts of things he never dreamed of doing before.