As Hamlet of yore, I
might have handed him a pipe and said, "Do you think I am easier to be
played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you
can fret me, yet you cannot play upon me."
I had been reading Hamlet the night before, as I have read it many a
time, and involuntarily these words came into my mind. It seems to
me surpassing strange that a man of my time, in whatever position or
complicated trouble of soul, should find so much analogy to himself
as I find in this drama, based upon Holinshed's sanguinary and gross
legend. Hamlet is the human soul as it was, as it is, and as it will
be. In conceiving this drama, Shakspeare overstepped the limit fixed
even for genius. I can understand Homer and Dante, studied by the
light of their epoch. I can comprehend that they could do what they
did; but how an Englishman of the seventeenth century could foreknow
psychosis, a science of recent growth, will be to me, in spite of my
study of Hamlet, an everlasting mystery.
Having mentally handed over to Sniatynski Hamlet's pipe, I recommended
to his care Miss Hilst, and then began to discuss his pet theories.
Upon his wanting to know what brought me back, I said it was the
longing for the country, and consciousness of unfulfilled duties
towards it. I said it in a careless, off-hand way, and Sniatynski
looked puzzled, not knowing whether I spoke seriously or mockingly.
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