Subtracting the last two strokes, who is it: Chopin or Przybyszewski? The trait most obviously common to both Poles is the unquenchable yearning, the eternal Sehnsucht, which filters through all their productions. In neither of them was it the yearning of healthy natures, in whom, as in a mother’s womb, it bears the embryo of fruitful life; it is not the yearning of Zarathustra “in a sunny rapture of ecstacy greeting new, unknown gods with an exalted ‘Evoi’!” Chopin’s longing, as reflected in Przybyszewski, is tinted with the pale color of anemia peculiar to a representative of a degenerate aristocracy (the Poet’s progenitor died of delirium tremens), with his transparent skin projecting the tiniest veins, with his slender figure and prolongated limbs that breathe with each movement incomparable gracefulness, with his overdeveloped intellect which shines in his eyes, as in the eyes of frail children who are doomed to early death. This longing is the incessant palpitation of a nervous, over-delicate nature, something akin to the constant irritability of open wounds, the continuous change of ebbs and flows of morbid sensitiveness, the eternal dissatisfaction of acute emotions, the fatigableness of a too-susceptible spirit, the weariness of one oversatiated with suffering. Yet this longing has in it also wild passion, “the convulsive agony of deadly horror,” self-damnation and thirst for destruction, delirium and madness of one who strains his gaze into the vast—and sees nothing. Indeed I should like to hear Chopin’s _Preludes_ recreated under the longing fingers of Stanislaw. * * * * *