feeling had been powerful enough.  You went away, and according to your custom, began to ponder, to think it over; and it came to pass, as I was afraid it would, that you philosophized away your own happiness and that of another.”  What strikes me most in Sniatynski’s words is that they are almost a repetition of what my father said to me.  But Sniatynski penetrates deeper; for he adds almost immediately:  “It is the old story,—­he who inquires too deeply into his own mind ends by disagreeing with himself; and who disagrees with himself is incapable of any decision.  Truly times must be out of joint, when only asses have any power of action left, and those who have a little more intelligence use it to doubt everything, and to persuade themselves that it is not worth while to attempt anything.”  I have read similar observations in one of the French authors; and by Jove! he is right.

I almost wish Sniatynski had given me a downright scolding, instead of larding his letter with sentences like this “In spite of all your good qualities it will come to this, that you will always be a cause of suffering and anxiety to those who love you.”  He brings it home with a vengeance.  I have caused suffering to Aniela, her mother, and my-aunt, and to myself also.  I feel inclined to laugh a little as I read further:  “According to the laws of nature, there is always something growing within us; beware, lest it be a poisonous weed that will destroy your whole existence!” No,—­I am not afraid of that.  There is some mould sown by Laura’s fair hands, but it grows only on the outward crust of which Sniatynski speaks, and has not struck any roots.  There is no need of uprooting anything; it is as easily wiped off as dust.  Sniatynski is more reasonable when he is himself again, and steps forth with his pet dogma that lies always close to his heart:  “If you consider yourself a superior type, or even if you be such, let me tell you that the sum total of such superiority, is socially, a minus quantity.”

I am far from considering myself a superior type, unless it be in comparison to such as Kromitzki; but Sniatynski is right.  Men like me escape being minus quantities in society only when they are men of science or great artists,—­not artists without portfolios.  Often they take the part of great reformers.  As to myself I could only be a reformer as regards my own person.  I went about with that thought all the day.

It is surpassing strange that, knowing my own short-comings so well, I do not make any attempt to mend matters.  For instance, after debating for half a day whether to go out or not, ought I not to take myself by the collar and thrust myself into the street?  I am a sceptic?—­very well!  Could I not act for once as if I were not a sceptic?  A little more or less conviction, what does it matter?  What ought I to do now?  Pack up my things and go straight to Ploszow.  I could do it easily enough.  What the result of such a step would be, I do not know, but at any rate it would be doing something.  Then Sniatynski writes:  “That ape is now every day at Ploszow, keeping watch over the ladies, who, without that additional trouble, are worn to shadows.”