The very remembrance of it gives me a creepy
sensation. I can understand an elegy over a broken pitcher when you
behold the shards for the first time; but to go on with the same
pathos over a much mended pitcher, looks more like a comic opera. A
pleasant role that of the listener, whom courtesy bids to take it
seriously.
Strange, fantastic women with fiery imagination and cold temperaments!
In their sentiments there is neither cheerfulness nor even simplicity.
They are in love with the outward forms of love, caring less for
its intrinsic value. With French or Italian women after the first
skirmishes, you may be sure of your "ergo." With a Pole it is
different. Somebody said that if a man is mistaken and says two and
two makes five, you may be able to set him right; a woman says two and
two is a lamp, and you come against a blank wall. In a Polish woman's
logic two and two may be not four, but a lamp, love, hatred, a cat,
tears, duty, scorn; in brief, you cannot foresee anything, calculate
upon anything, or guard against anything. It may be, after all,
because of these very pitfalls that their virtue is better guarded
than that of other women, if only for the reason that the beleaguering
forces get mortally tired. But what struck me, and what I resented
most, is that those pitfalls, barricades, and the whole array of
defence are not so much erected for the repulse of the enemy as to
give them the sensation of warfare.
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