We have our own house on the Babuino, called Casa Osoria, from our coat of arms.  It looks more like a museum than anything else, as my father possesses no mean collections, especially from the early Christian times.  In these collections his whole life is now absorbed.  As a young man, he was very brilliant in appearance as well as in mind; his wealth and name added to this, all roads were open to him, and consequently great things were expected from him.  I know this from his fellow-students at Berlin.  He was deeply absorbed in the study of philosophy, and it was generally believed his name would rank with such as Cieszkowski, Libelt, and others.  Society, and his being a favorite in female circles, diverted him somewhat from scientific studies.  In society he was known by the nickname of “Leon l’Invincible.”  In spite of his social success he did not neglect his philosophical researches, and everybody expected that some day he would electrify the world with a great work, and make his name illustrious.  They were disappointed in their expectations.

Of the once so beautiful appearance there still remains up to this day one of the finest and noblest heads.  Artists are of the same opinion, and not long ago one of them remarked that it would be difficult to find a more perfect type of a patrician head.  As to his scientific career, my father is and remains a cultured and gifted nobleman-dilettante.  I almost believe dilettantism to be the fate of all Ploszowskis, to which I will refer later on, when I come to write about myself.  As to my father, there is in his desk a yellow manuscript about Triplicity in Nature.  I perused it, and it did not interest me.  I only remember a comparison between the transcendental belief of Christianity in the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, and the natural triplicity of oxygen, hydrogen, and ozone, with many other analogous triplicities from absolute truth, goodness, and beauty, to the syllogism of the minor premise, the major premise, and the conclusion,—­a quaint mixture of Hegel and Hoene-Wronski, and utterly useless.  I am quite convinced that my father did not intend to have it published, if only for the reason that speculative philosophy had failed in him even before it was set aside by the world.  The reason for this failure was the death of my mother.  My father, who in spite of his nickname, “Leon l’Invincible,” and reputation of conqueror of hearts, was a man of deep feelings and simply worshipped my mother, put many terrible questions to his philosophy, and not obtaining either answer or comfort, recognized its utter emptiness in the presence of a great sorrow.  This must have been an awful tragedy of his life, since it almost shattered its foundations,—­the brain and heart.  His mind became affected, as I said before, and when he recovered he went back to his religious convictions.  I was told that at one time he prayed night and day, knelt down in the street when he passed a church, and was carried