My aunt is giving an entertainment in honor of Aniela.  I am paying visits and leaving cards right and left.  I called upon the Sniatynskis, and sat with them for a long time, because I feel there at home.  Sniatynski and his wife are always wrangling with each other, but their life is different from that of most other married people.  As a rule, it happens when there is one cloak, each tries to get possession of it; these two dispute because he wishes her to have it, and she wants it all for him.  I like them immensely,—­it is so refreshing to see there is still happiness out of novels.  With all that, he is so clever; as sensitive as a Stradivarius violin, and quite conscious of his happiness.  He wanted it, and has got it.  I envy him.  I always used to like his conversation.  They offered me some black coffee; it is only at literary people’s houses one can get such coffee.  He asked me what I thought of Warsaw after so long an absence.  There was also some talk about the ball, especially from the lady’s part.  She seems to guess something about my aunt’s plans, and wants to have one of her rosy fingers in the pie,—­especially as she comes from the same part of the country as Aniela.

We touched personal matter very slightly, but had a lively discussion about society in general.  I told him what I thought about its refinement; and as Sniatynski, though he criticises it himself mercilessly, is always greedy to hear its praises sung, it put him into capital spirits.

“I like to hear you say so,” he remarked, “as you have so many chances to make comparisons, and are rather inclined to look at the world from a pessimist’s point of view.”

“I do not know whether what I just said does not lean that way.”

“How do you prove that?” asked Sniatynski, quickly.

“You see, refined culture might be compared to cases with glass and china, upon which is written, ‘Fragile.’  For you, a spiritual son of Athens, for me and a few others, it is pleasant to be in touch with it; but if you want to build anything on such foundation, you will find the beams coming down on your head.  Don’t you think those refined dilettanti of life are bound to get the worst in a struggle with a people of strong nerves, a tough skin, and iron muscles?”

Sniatynski, who is very lively, jumped up and walked about the room, then rushed at me impetuously.  “You have seen only one side of the picture, and not the best one, either; do not think there is nothing more to be seen.  You come from abroad, and pronounce judgment upon us as if you had lived here all your life.”

“I do not know what else there may be, but I know that nowhere in the world is there such a vast difference between the classes.  On one side, the most refined culture,—­over-refined, if anything; on the other, absolute barbarism and ignorance.”

A long discussion followed, and it was dusk before I left them.  He said if I came oftener to see them, he would show me the connecting link between the two classes, introduce me to men who were neither over-refined, ignorant, nor sickening with dilettantism, but strong men, who knew what they wanted, and were going straight for it.