Without Dogma | Page 4

His genius is analytic, but also imaginative and
constructive; it is not forever going upon botanizing excursions. He
paints things and thoughts human.
The greatest genius assimilates unconsciously the best with which it
comes in contact, and by a subtle chemistry of its own makes new
combinations. Shakespeare, Dante, Goethe, and the realists, as well as
all the forces of nature, have helped to make Henryk Sienkiewicz; yet
he is not any one of them. He is never merely imitative. Originality and
imaginative fire, a style vivid and strong, large humor, a profound
pathos, a strong feeling for nature, and a deep reverence for the forms
and the spirit of religion, the breath of the true cosmopolitan united
with the intense patriotism of the Pole, a great creative genius,--these
are the most striking qualities of the work of this modern novelist, who
has married Romance to Realism.
* * * * *

WITHOUT DOGMA.
ROME, 9 January.
Some months ago I met my old friend and school-fellow, Jozef
Sniatynski, who for the last few years has occupied a prominent place
among our literary men. In a discussion about literature Sniatynski
spoke about diaries. He said that a man who leaves memoirs, whether
well or badly written, provided they be sincere, renders a service to
future psychologists and writers, giving them not only a faithful picture
of the times, but likewise human documents that can be relied upon. He
seemed to think that most likely the novel of the future would take the
form of diary; finally he asserted that anybody who keeps a diary works
for the common good, and does a meritorious thing.
I am thirty-five, and do not remember ever having done anything for
my country, for the reason, maybe, that after leaving the University, my
life, with slight intervals, was spent abroad. This fact, so lightly
touched upon, has given me, in spite of all my scepticism, many a bitter
pang; therefore I resolved to follow my friend's advice. If this indeed
means work, with some kind of merit in it, I will try to be of some use
in this way.
I intend to be perfectly sincere. I enter upon the task, not only because
of the above-mentioned reasons, but also because the idea pleases me.
Sniatynski says that if a man gets accustomed to put down his thoughts
and impressions it becomes gradually one of the most delightful
occupations of his life. If it should prove the contrary, then the Lord
have mercy on my diary; it would snap asunder like a string too tightly
drawn. I am ready to do much for my community; but to bore myself
for its sake, oh, no! I could not do it.
Nevertheless, I am resolved not to be discouraged by first difficulties,
and shall give it a fair trial. "Do not adopt any style; do not write from a
literary point of view," says Sniatynski. Easier said than done. I fully
understand that the greater the writer, the less he writes in a purely
literary style; but I am a dilettante, and have no command over any
style. I know from experience that to one who thinks much and feels
deeply, it often seems that he has only to put down his thoughts and
feelings in order to produce something altogether out of the common;
yet as soon as he sets to work he falls into a certain mannerism of style
and common phraseology; his thoughts do not come spontaneously,

and one might almost say that it is not the mind that directs the pen, but
the pen leads the mind into common, empty artificiality. I am afraid of
this for myself, for if I am wanting in eloquence, literary simplicity, or
picturesqueness, I am not wanting in good taste, and my own style
might become distasteful to myself, and thereby render my task
impossible. But this I shall see later on. I begin my diary with a short
introductory autobiography.
My name is Leon Ploszowski, and I am, as I said before, thirty-five
years of age. I come from a wealthy family which has been able to
preserve its fortune. As to myself I shall not increase it, and at the same
time I am not likely to squander it. My position is such that there is no
necessity for me to enter into competition with struggling humanity. As
to expensive and ruinous pleasures, I am a sceptic who knows how
much they are worth, or rather, knows that they are not worth anything.
My mother died a week after I was born. My father, who loved her
more than his life, became affected with melancholia. Even after he
recovered from this, at Vienna, he did not wish to return to his estates,
as the memories associated with