We are as the
down, carried away by the wind. Scarcely do we touch ground, when the
real life pushes us back, and we draw aside; for we have no power of
resistance.
When I think of it I see nothing but contradictions in us. We consider
ourselves the outcome and highest rung of civilization, and yet have
lost faith in ourselves; only the most foolish believe in our _raison
d'etre._ We look out instinctively for places of enjoyment, gayety,
and happiness, and yet we do not believe in happiness. Though our
pessimism be wan and ephemeral as the clouds from our Havanas, it
obscures our view of wider horizons. Amidst these clouds and mists
we create for ourselves a separate world, a world torn off from the
immensity of all life, shut up within itself, a little empty and
somnolent. If this merely concerned the aristocracy, whether by
descent or wealth, the portent would be less weighty. But to this
isolated world belong more or less all those who boast of a higher
culture,--men of science, literature, and art. This world does not
dwell within the very marrow of life, but parting from it creates a
separate circle; in consequence withers within itself and does not
help in softening down the animalism of those millions which writhe
and surge below.
I do not speak as a reformer, because I lack the strength. Besides,
what matters it to me? Who can avoid the inevitable? But at times I
have the dim presentiment of a terrible danger which threatens the
cultured world.
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