The sixth letter to Irena Rybczyńska (also marked by the addressee with a "6" in a few notes at the sheet edges and in the middle of the last page), was written by Arnold Majorek on two pages; the first – a so-called plain one, with fine perforation (a sheet from a letter block), the second – with an elongated grid. The first three pages are written over.
Full text:
Kid, darling kid,
you’ve slapped me on the wrist and it was good. It fell quite unexpectedly upon me. As I was reading, I felt very, very sorry and ashamed. And I was sorry a bit because just because [word underlined], but very much because I harmed you (I have awakened to it only now). You for whom I have always wanted and always want the best [expression underlined].
And now I can see that everything you have written is true and that I was the worse one. To hell with wits, common sense, and an audacious will to rule everything. Let life rule over us. I hesitated and debated (debated [word underlined] again, but what can I do?) whether I should apologise and excuse myself. And it is precisely in spite of my proud will and self-righteous wisdom that I will try to apologise. By nature, I want heartfulness and I die??? in an icy, indifferent atmosphere. But this is not the only force that rules over me. Another one pushes me to act harshly, ruthlessly, severely on myself first and then on others, to tame unmanly (?) feelings with logic and cold rationality. Life seems to have conspired to strengthen and intensify the latter: with a series of consecutive external and internal disappointments and failures, it wants to force me to acknowledge the frailty and uselessness of feelings. So many times has fate elevated me, as if with purported malice, to the heights of inner life and allowed me to reach the point of the highest tension and exaltation (yes, yes!), only to open my eyes to reality [word underlined] with cynical perfidy that I slowly began to fear and hate these miraculous moments of rapture which yield the fruit of disappointment, doubt, aversion to my own self. Life took a toll to convince me that goodness and affection are weakness and stupidity. Nothing is as certain to me as that it’s not true. But just like one can get a dog [?] to grow and consolidate (through a constantly repeated unpleasant experience) aversion and fear of a certain feeling, the superstitious fear of flying too high and falling to the bottom takes root in the human soul as well.
It serves me very, very right/well???, because elation conceals a fall, and sweetness turns into bitterness in an instant. This is precisely the trauma [word underlined].
Thus, feelings are oppressed and suppressed, they are surrendered to reason, logic, they are looked at with an ironic, mocking smile and prevented from lush growth. Perhaps it is cowardice, perhaps it is stinginess.
And, in addition, a moment [?] of "unworthiness." Do not exalt me, do not feel more for me than I do for myself, because I am not worthy of it, because, involuntarily and unconsciously, I lie to you, because you do not know me, because I do not know what is really inside me. Perhaps if you found out what it really is, you would throw me away, and that would be painful.
Maybe I should not have written all of this. All this, as far as I have been able to express it, is true. But that is just one of the forces that live in me.
So, this is not really the way I am. It is just a part of my nature (not to say "soul".)
But I wanted to be completely honest, get rid of the ballast. And to disarm your regret and your resentment, which (wretched psychologist!) I only now fully understand, and which are my [word underlined] regret and my [word underlined] resentment. Mea, mea, mea maxima [abbreviated Latin phrase "Mea maxima culpa" – my greatest fault]!
What an extraordinary talent to complicate simple things we have, by the way. Especially me. Despite the opposite, healthy forces are powerful in me.
It was them which dictated my last letter to you. And I want to yield to them completely. Because this is the only thing that means something: to live. Honestly and with courage. Without grudge or trauma.
You have written that the bucket of cold water that fell upon you because of me, served you well in a way. But perhaps you are only saying it out of loyalty and not to grind me down completely.
And I tell you, you certainly did the right thing to listen to the old janitor (eh?). It certainly came in handy for me. | And now everything will surely be perfectly fine.
I kiss your hands.
a.
