Without Dogma by Henryk Sienkiewicz

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It is not the first time I have compared myself to Kromitzki, and it
makes me angry considering what a vast difference there is between us.
We are like inhabitants of different planets, and as to our souls, if
one has to climb up to reach mine, such as Aniela would have to stoop
very low to reach his. But would this be such a difficult task for
her? It is a horrible question; but in regard to women I have seen so
monstrous things, especially in my country where the women generally
speaking are superior to the men, that I am obliged to consider it.
I have seen girls, angels in all but wings, full of noble impulses,
sensitive to everything beautiful and uncommon, not only marry
louts of narrow and mean characters, but adopt after marriage their
husbands' maxims of life, vanities, narrowness, and commonplace
opinions. What is more, some of them did this eagerly, as if former
ideals were only fit to be thrown aside with the bridal wreath. They
seemed to labor under the conviction that only thus they could prove
themselves true wives. It is true that sometimes a reaction follows,
but in a general sense Shakspeare's Titania is a common enough type,
to be met with every day.

I am a sceptic from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet, but
my scepticism springs from pain, for it hurts me to think that such
may be Aniela's fate. Perhaps she too will shrug her shoulders at the
memory of her girlish aspirations, and consider contracts in Turkestan
better adapted to practical life. A dull wrath seizes me at the
thought, all the more as it will be partly my fault, that is, if it
should come to that.

On the other side these reflections and vacillations are not merely
the result of a want of decision, as Sniatynski seems to think. I have
such a high conception about marriage, such lofty demands, that they
take away my courage. It is true that often husband and wife fit each
other like two warped boards, and yet jog through life contentedly
enough; but this would not be enough for me. For the very reason that
I believe in happiness so little, I should like to attain it; but can
I attain it? It is not so much the unhappy marriages I have met with
that make me so wavering, but the few happy ones I have seen; at the
remembrance of these I ask myself, "Is it possible I could be so
happy?" And yet happiness is not met with in fiction only,--but how to
know where to look for it!

11 June.

In the last few days I have become quite intimate with Lukomski. He
is not so self-contained and melancholy as he used to be. Yesterday,
towards evening, he came to see me; we went out for a walk as far as
the Thermes of Caracalla; then I asked him to come back with me, and
he stopped until midnight. I had a long talk with him, which I note
down, as it made upon me a certain impression. Lukomski seemed a
little ashamed of the exhibition of feeling he had made near "The
Dying Gladiator;" but I led him on and gradually came to know the
man as he really was. As we were growing very friendly I ventured to
remark,--

"Excuse the question, but I cannot understand why a man so fond of
domestic life has not taken to himself a companion. Neither your
studio, your assistants, nor your dogs can give you the feeling of a
home you are missing, as a wife would."

Lukomski smiled, and pointing to the ring on his finger, said,--

"I am going to be married shortly. We are only waiting because the
young lady is in mourning for her father; I am to join her in two
months."

"At Sierpiec?"

"No, she comes from Wilkomierz."

"What took you to Wilkomierz?"

"I have never been there. I met her by accident on the Corso in Rome."

"That was a fortunate accident, was it not?"

"The most fortunate in my life."

"Was it during the Carnival?"

"No. It happened in this way: I was on my way to the studio when, in
the Via Condotto, I saw two fair-haired women inquiring in very
bad Italian the way to the Capitol. They were saying: 'Capitolio,
Capitole, Capitol,' and nobody seemed to know what they wanted,
because here, as you know, they call it 'Campidolio.' I could not have
been mistaken,--they were Poles, evidently mother and daughter. They
were overjoyed when I addressed them in Polish; I was very glad too,
and so I not only showed them the way but went there with them."

"You have no idea how this interests me; and so you went together?"

"Yes, we went together. On the way I looked at the younger lady; a
figure like a young poplar, graceful, pretty, a small head, ears a
perfect model, the face full of expression, and eyelashes pure gold,
such as, you find only at home; there is nothing of that kind here,
unless now and then at Venice. She pleased me very much too because of
that thoughtfulness for her mother, who was in grief, having lost her
husband; I thought she must have a good heart. For about a week I went
with them everywhere, and then asked for the young lady's hand."

"After a week's acquaintance; is it possible?"

"Yes, because the ladies were going back to Florence."

"At any rate you are not one of those who take a long time to make up
their minds."

"At home it would have taken much longer; but here, sir, the very
thought they were my countrywomen made me long to kiss their hands."

"Yes, but marriage is such an important step."

"That is true; but three or four weeks more would not help me to a
clearer view of it. I had certain scruples, I confess; I feel a little
reluctant to speak of it. In our family there is hereditary deafness.
My grandfather at an advanced age became quite deaf. My father was
deaf at forty. One can live with that, but it is a great drawback,
because deaf people as a rule are irritable. I debated within myself
whether it was right for a young girl to marry a man threatened with
such a defect, and who in course of time might become a burden to
her."

I began to observe now that Lukomski had in the expression of his
eyes, and the way he listened to what was said to him, a certain
peculiarity noticed in deaf people. His hearing was still excellent,
but he evidently feared that he might be losing the faculty.

I told him he had no right to let that stand in his way.

"I thought so a little myself. It is not worth while to spoil one's
life for a thing that may never happen. There is the cholera that
sweeps now and then over Italy; it would be foolish for Italians not
to marry for fear they might leave orphans and widows. Besides I have
done what I considered my duty. I told Panna Vanda that I loved
her and would give my life to call her my own, but there was this
impediment. And do you know what her answer was? 'When you are no
longer able to hear me saying I love you, I will write it.' All this
did not come off without some crying, but an hour afterwards we made
merry over it. I pretended to have suddenly grown deaf, to make her
write, 'I love you.'"

This conversation fixed itself in my mind. Sniatynski is wrong when
he maintains that among us only asses have still a kind of will.
This sculptor had a real motive to reflect, and yet a week seemed
sufficient for such a weighty decision. Maybe he does not possess the
same knowledge of self as I, but he is a very intelligent fellow. What
a plucky woman the future Pani Lukomska is; I like her ready answer.
Aniela would do the same. If, for instance, I were to lose my
eyesight, Laura would care only in so far as she could show me off, a
picturesque Demadoc, singing at her feast; but Aniela would take care
of me even if she were not my wife.

I must acknowledge that, having such convictions, a week of indecision
seems a long time; and here I have been wavering for five months, and
the letter I wrote to my aunt was not very decisive either.

But I comfort myself with the thought that my aunt is a clever woman,
and loving me as she does, will guess what I meant to say, and will
help me in her own way; and then there is Aniela who will assist her.
Nevertheless, I regret now that I did not write more openly, and I
feel half inclined to send another letter, but will not yield to the
impulse. Perhaps it will be as well to wait for the reply. Happy those
people, like Lukomski, whose first impulse is towards action.

15 June.

Whatever name I might give to the feeling I cherish for Aniela, it is
different from anything I ever felt before. Either night or day she is
never out of my thought; it has grown into a kind of personal affair
for which I feel responsible to myself. This never used to be the
case. My other love affairs lasted a longer or shorter time, their
memories were pleasant sometimes, a little sad at others, or
distasteful as the case might be, but never absorbed my whole being.
In the idle, aimless life we are leading, woman, perforce, occupies a
large space,--she is always before us; we bestow our attentions upon
her until we become so used to it that she counts only as a venial sin
in our lives. To disappoint a woman causes us but little trouble
of conscience, though a little more perhaps than she feels in
disappointing us. With all the sensitiveness of my nature, I have a
rather blunted conscience. Sometimes it happened I said to myself,
"Now is the time for a pathetic lecture!" but I only shrugged my
shoulders and preferred to think of something more pleasant. This time
it is altogether different. For instance, I think of something that
has no connection with it whatever; presently I am overcome by a
feeling that something is missing, a great trouble seizes me, a fear
as if I had forgotten something of great importance, not done a thing
I ought to have done; and I find out that the thought of Aniela has
percolated through every nook and cranny of the mind, and taken
possession of it. It knocks there night and day like the death-tick in
the desk of Mickiewicz's poem. When I try to lessen or to ridicule the
impression, my scepticism and irony fail me, or rather help me only
for a moment; then I go back to the enchanted circle. Strictly
speaking, it is neither a great sorrow nor a sting of conscience; it
is rather a troublesome fastening upon one subject, and a restless,
feverish curiosity as to what will happen next,--as if upon that next
my very life depended. If I analyzed myself less closely, I should say
it was an all-absorbing love that had taken possession of me; but I
notice that there is something besides Aniela that causes me anxiety.
There is no doubt as to her having made a deep impression upon me; but
Sniatynski is right,--if I had loved her as much as Sniatynski loved
his wife, I should have desired to make her my own. But I--and this is
quite a fact--do not desire her so much as I am afraid to lose her.
It is not everybody perhaps who could perceive the singular and great
difference. I feel quite convinced that but for Kromitzki and the fear
of losing Aniela, I should not feel either anxieties or trouble. My
entangled skein is gradually getting straighter, and I can see now
more clearly that it is not so much love for Aniela as fear of losing
her, and with her some future happiness, that moves me, and still more
the utter loneliness I see before me should Aniela go out from my
life.

I have noticed that the stoutest pessimists, when fate or men try to
take something out of their lives, fight tooth and nail, and cry out
as loud as the greatest optimists. I am exactly in the like position.
I do not cry out, but a terrible fear clutches at my heart, that a few
days hence I shall not know what to do with myself in this world.

16 June.

I had indirect news of Laura through my lawyer, who is also their
legal adviser. Mr. Davis is already in a lunatic asylum, and Laura at
Interlaken, at the foot of the Jungfrau. Perhaps she has some ideas
about climbing the mountain heights, drapes herself in Alps, eternal
snow, and rising sun, sails gracefully on the lake, and bends over
precipices. I expressed my regret at Mr. Davis's condition, and the
lady's, who at so early an age was left without protection. Thereupon
the old lawyer set my mind at rest, telling me that Count Maleschi, a
Neapolitan, and Laura's cousin, had gone to Switzerland. I know
him. He is beautiful as an Antinous, but an inveterate gambler, and
somewhat of a coward. It appears I was a little out of my reckoning
when I compared Laura to the tower of Pisa.

It has happened to me literally for the first time that the memory of
a woman whom I did not love, though I made her believe I did, rouses
within me much ill-feeling. I am so ungrateful and ungenerous to her
that it makes me feel ashamed. Plainly, what reason have I for any
ill-feeling, and what has she done to me that I cannot forgive? It is
because, as I said before, from the very beginning of our relations,
though not through any fault of hers, I did many things I have
never done before in my life. I did not respect my sorrow, had
no consideration for the weakness and helplessness of Davis, got
corrupted, slothful, and finally sent off that fatal letter.

It is all my fault! But the blind man when he stumbles over a stone,
curses the stone, not the blindness that made him stumble.

17 June.

To-day I paid Lukomski, gave a power of attorney to the lawyer, had my
things packed, and am ready for the journey. Rome begins to pall upon
me.

18 June.

I have been counting that my aunt's reply ought to have reached me by
this. Putting aside all the worst suppositions, I try to guess what
she is going to tell me. I regret, for I do not know how many times,
that my letter was not more conclusive. Yet I wrote that I would come
to Ploszow if I felt sure my presence would be acceptable to my aunt's
guests, sending them my kindest regards at the same time. I also
mentioned that during the last days of my stay at Peli I felt so
irritable that I scarcely knew what I was doing. The letter, while I
was writing it, seemed to me very clever; now it appears to me as the
height of folly. It was simply that my vanity did not permit me to
revoke clearly and decidedly what I had written previously. I counted
upon my aunt grasping at the opportunity I gave her for settling
matters, and then I meant to make my appearance as the generous
prince. Human nature is very pitiful. Nothing now remains but to hold
fast to the hope that my aunt would guess how it stood with me.

With my anxiety increasing every moment, I feel not only that I could
have loved Aniela, but that I do love her beyond expression, and also
that I might become an incomparably better man. Strictly speaking, why
do I act as if beyond nerves and egoism there were nothing else in me?
and if there be anything else, why does not my auto-analysis point it
out to me? I have the courage to draw extreme conclusions, and do not
hide the truth from myself, but I decidedly negative the notion.
Why? Because I have the unshaken conviction that I am better than my
actions. The cause of the latter is partly a certain incapacity of
life, partly the inheritance of my race and the disease of the times
in which I live, and finally that over-analysis which does not permit
me to follow the first, simple impulses of nature, but criticises
until it reduces the soul to utter impotence. When a child I used to
amuse myself by piling up coin upon coin until the column, bending
under its own weight, tumbled down into one chaotic heap. I am doing
now exactly the same with my thoughts and intentions, until they
collapse and roll over each other in a disorderly confusion. For this
very reason it has always been easier for me to play a passive part
than an active one. It appears to me that many cultured people are
attacked by the same disease. Criticism of ourselves and everything
else is corroding our active power; we have no stable basis, no point
of issue, no faith in life. Therein lies the reason why I do not care
so much to win Aniela as I am afraid of losing her. In speaking of a
disease common to our time, I will not confine myself exclusively to
my own case. That somebody takes to his bed when an epidemic disease
is raging is a very common occurrence; nowadays criticism of
everything is the epidemic spreading all over the world. The result
is that various roofs that sheltered men collapse over their heads.
Religion, the very name of which means "ties," is getting unloosened.
Faith, even in those who still believe, is getting restive. Through
the roof of what we call Fatherland social currents begin to filter.
There remains only one ideal in presence of which the most hardened
sceptic raises his hat,--the People. But on the base of this statue
mischievous spirits are beginning already to scribble more or less
ribald jokes, and, what is still more strange, the mist of unbelief is
rising from the heads of those who, in the nature of things, ought
to bow down reverently. Finally there will come a gifted sceptic, a
second Heine, to spit and trample on the idol, as in his time did
Aristophanes; he will not, however, trample on it in the name of old
ideals, but in the name of freedom of thought, in the name of freedom
of doubt; and what will happen then I do not know. Most likely on the
huge, clean-wiped slate the devil will write sonnets. Can anything
be done to prevent all this? Finally, what does it matter to me? To
attempt anything is not my business; I have been trained too carefully
as a child of my time. But if all that is thought, that is achieved
and happening, has for its ultimate aim to increase the sum of general
happiness, I permit myself a personal remark as to that happiness; by
which I do not mean material comfort, but that inward spiritual peace
in which I as well as anybody else may be wanting. Thus my grandfather
was happier than my father, my father happier than I, and as to my
son, if ever I have one, he will simply be an object of commiseration.

FLORENCE, 20 June.

The house of cards has tumbled down. I received a letter from my aunt.
Aniela is engaged to Kromitzki, and the marriage will take place in a
few weeks. She herself has fixed such a short date. After receiving
the news I took a railway ticket, with the intention of going straight
to Ploszow, conscious all the time that it was a foolish thing to do,
which could lead to nothing. But the impulse was upon me, and carried
me along; when, collecting the last remnants of common-sense and
reflection, I stuck fast here.

FLORENCE, 22 June.

Simultaneously with my aunt's letter, I received a "faire part"
addressed in a female hand. It is not Aniela's handwriting, or her
mother's; neither of them would have done it. Most likely it is Pani
Sniatynska's malicious device. Upon the whole, what does it matter? I
got a blow with a club on the head, and feel dizzy; it has shaken me
more than it has hurt. I do not know how it will be later on; they say
one does not feel a bullet wound at once. But I have not sent a bullet
through my head, I am not mad; I look at the Lung Arno; I could sit
down to a game of patience if I knew how to play; in fact, I am quite
well. It is the old story,--among sincere friends the dogs tore the
hare to pieces. My aunt considered it her Christian duty to show
Aniela the letter I had written from Peli.

FLORENCE, 23 June.

In the morning, when I wake up,--or rather, when opening my
eyes,--I am obliged to repeat to myself that Aniela is marrying
Kromitzki,--Aniela, so good, so loving, who insisted on sitting up to
take care of me when I returned from Warsaw to Ploszow; who looked
into my eyes, hung upon every word that came from my lips, and with
every glance told me she was mine. That same Aniela will not only be
Kromitzki's wife, but within a week from the wedding will not be able
to conceive how she could ever hesitate in her choice between such a
man as Ploszowski and a Jupiter like Kromitzki. Strange things happen
in this world,--so terrible and irrevocable that it takes away the
desire to live out the mean remnant of one's existence. Most likely
Pani Celina together with Pani Sniatynska make a great ado about
Kromitzki, and praise him at my expense. I hope they will leave Aniela
in peace. It is my aunt's doing; she ought not to have allowed it, if
only for Aniela's sake, as she cannot possibly be happy with him. She
herself says Aniela has accepted him out of despair.

Here is that long, cursed letter:--

"I thank you for the last news,--all the more as that first letter
from Peli was not only conclusive, but also very cruel. I could
scarcely believe that you had not only no affection for the girl, but
also neither friendship nor compassion. My dear Leon, I never asked
nor advised you to become engaged to Aniela at once,--I only wanted
you to write a few kindly words, not to her directly, but in a letter
to me. And believe me, it would have been sufficient; for she
loved you as only girls like her can love. Put yourself in my
position,--what could I do after having received your letter? How
could I conscientiously allow her to remain in her illusion, and at
the same time in that anxiety that evidently undermined her health?
Chwastowski always sends a special messenger for papers and letters,
and brings them himself when he comes to breakfast. Aniela saw there
was a letter from you, because the poor child was always on the
lookout for Chwastowski, and took the letters from him under pretext
that she wanted to put them under my napkin; and the real reason was
that she might see whether there was a letter from you. I noticed how
her hands trembled when she poured out the tea. Touched by a sudden
foreboding, I hesitated whether to put off the reading of your letter
until I had gone into my room; but I was anxious about your health,
and could not wait. God knows what it cost me not to show what I felt,
especially as Aniela's eyes were fixed upon my face. But I got a firm
grip of myself, and even managed to say: 'Leon is still sorrowing,
but, thank God! his health is all right, and he sends you kind
messages.' Aniela inquired, as it were in her usual voice, 'Is he
going to remain long in Italy?' I saw how much the question meant
to her, and had not the heart to undeceive her then,--especially as
Chwastowski and the servants were there; so I said merely: 'No, not
very long; I believe he will soon come to see us.' If you had seen the
flame that shot up in her face, the sudden joy that kindled her eyes,
and the effort she made not to burst into tears. Poor child! I feel
inclined to cry every time I think of it. What I went through in the
solitude of my own room, you cannot imagine; but you wrote distinctly,
'I wish her happiness with Kromitzki;' it was duty, my conscience told
me, to open her eyes. There was no need to send for her,--she came
herself. I said to her, 'Aniela, dear, you are a good girl, and a girl
that submits to God's will. We must be open with each other. I have
seen the affection that was springing up between you and Leon. It was
my dearest wish you might come to love each other; but evidently the
Lord willed it otherwise. If you have still any illusions, you must
try to get rid of them.' I took her into my arms; for she had grown
deadly white, and I was afraid she might faint. But she did not lose
consciousness, but hid her head on my knees and said over and over
again: 'What message did he send me?' I did not want to tell her, but
then it struck me it might be better for her if she knew the whole
truth; and I told her you wished her happiness with Kromitzki. She
rose, and after a moment said, in a quite changed voice: 'Thank him
for me, aunty!' and then left the room. I am afraid you will not thank
me for repeating to her your very words, without disguising them under
any kind expressions; but since you do not want Aniela, the more
plainly she is told about it the better. Convinced that you treated
her badly, she may forget you all the sooner. Besides, if it give
you pain, remember how much pain and anxiety you have caused
us,--especially Aniela. Yet she has more control over herself than I
even expected. Her eyes were quite dry the whole day, and she gave
no sign of inward trouble; she is anxious to spare her mother, about
whose health she is much concerned; she only clung more to her and
to me,--which moved me so deeply that it made my chin tremble. Pan
Sniatynski, who came to see us the same day, did not notice anything
unusual in Aniela. Knowing he is in your confidence, I told him all
about it; and he was dreadfully shocked, and got into such a rage with
you that it made me quite angry with him. I need not repeat what
he said,--you know his ways. You, who do not love Aniela, cannot
understand how happy you might have been with her; but you have done
wrong, Leon, in making her believe you loved her. Not only she,--we
all thought the same; and that is where the sting lies. Only God
knows how much she suffered; and it was this that made her accept
Kromitzki,--it was done out of despair. She must have had a long talk
with her mother, and then it was decided. When Kromitzki arrived the
day after, she treated him differently; and a week later they were
engaged. Pan Sniatynski heard about it only a few days ago, and he was
tearing his hair; and as to my own feelings, I will not even try to
put them into words.

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