From the Other Shore

XIII

million people from the liberating humanity, blocking the last light that had scantily fallen upon a small number of them with its black, iron hand, upon which Polish blood has dried. No, my friends, I cannot cross the frontier of this kingdom of darkness, of arbitrary power, of silent extinction, of deaths without trace, of tortures with a gag in one's mouth. I will wait until the time when the exhausted power, weakened by unsuccessful efforts and aroused counteraction, recognizes something in the Russian man as worthy of respect!

Please do not be mistaken; it is not joy, not distraction, not rest, nor even personal safety that I have found here; and indeed, I do not know who can find joy and rest in Europe now, rest during an earthquake, joy during a desperate struggle. You saw sadness in every line of my letters; life here is very difficult, poisonous malice is mixed with love, bile with tears, and feverish anxiety gnaws at the entire organism. The time of former deceptions and expectations has passed. I believe in nothing here, except for a handful of people, a small number of thoughts, and the impossibility of stopping the movement; I see the inevitable ruin of old Europe and I regret nothing of what exists, neither its peak education nor its institutions . . . I love nothing in this world except what it persecutes, I respect nothing except what it executes—and I remain . . . I remain to suffer doubly, to suffer from