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Without Dogma by Henryk Sienkiewicz

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"I was more angry with you than I have ever been in my life with
anybody, and only your second letter has pacified me a little, though
it convinced me at the same time of the futility of my dreams. I
confess that after the first letter, and before Kromitzki had finally
proposed, I still thought: 'Perhaps God will be good to us and change
his heart; maybe he has written thus in a fit of auger!' but when
afterwards you sent kind messages to Aniela without denying or
contradicting what you had written in the first letter, I saw it was
of no use deceiving myself any longer. Aniela's wedding is to take
place on the 25th of July, and I will tell you why they have fixed
upon such a short date. Celina is really very ill, thinks she will
soon die, and is afraid her death might delay the marriage, and thus
leave Aniela without a protector. Kromitzki is in a hurry because he
has his business to attend to in the East; lastly, Aniela wishes to
drain the cup with as little delay as possible. Ah! Leon, my boy,
why should all this have happened, and why is that poor child made
unhappy?

"I would never have allowed her to marry Kromitzki, but how could I
say a word against it, feeling as I do that I am guilty in regard
to Aniela. I was over-anxious to see you settled in life, and never
considered what might be the consequences for her. It is my fault,
and consequently I suffer not a little; I pray every day for the poor
child.

"After the ceremony they will immediately leave for Volhynia. Celina
remains with me for the present; she was thinking of Odessa, but I
will not let her go on any account. You know, my dear boy, how happy I
am when you are with me, but do not come now to Ploszow for Aniela's
sake; if you wish to see me I will come to you, but we must spare
Aniela now as much as we can."

Why deceive myself any longer? When I read that letter I felt as if I
could ram my head against the wall,--not in rage or jealousy but in
utter anguish.


23 June.

I cannot possibly fold my hands and let things take their own way.
This marriage must not take place; it would be too monstrous. To-day,
Thursday, I have sent a telegram to Sniatynski, entreating him by all
the powers to be at Cracow by Sunday. I shall leave here to-morrow. I
asked him not to mention the telegram to anybody. I will see him, talk
to him, and beg him to see Aniela in my name. I count much upon his
influence. Aniela respects and likes him very much. I did not apply to
my aunt, because we men understand one another better. Sniatynski, as
a psychologist, can make allowance for the phase of life I have been
passing through lately. I can tell him, too, about Laura; if I were
to mention such a thing to my aunt she would cross herself as if in
presence of the Evil One. I first wanted to write to Aniela; but a
letter from me would attract attention and cause a general confusion.
I know Aniela's straight-forwardness; she would show the letter to her
mother, who does not like me and might twist the words so as to suit
her own schemes, and Kromitzki would help her. Sniatynski must see
Aniela alone. His wife will help him. I hope he will undertake the
mission, though I am fully aware what a delicate task it is. I have
not slept for several nights. When I shut my eyes I see Aniela before
me,--her face, her eyes, her smile,--I even hear her voice. I cannot
go on like this.


CRACOW, 26 June.

Sniatynski has arrived. He has promised to do it,--good fellow, God
bless him for it! It is four o'clock at night, but I cannot sleep, so
I sit down to write, for I can do nothing else. We talked together,
discussed and quarrelled till three o'clock. Now he is sleeping in the
adjoining room. I could not at first persuade him to undertake the
mission. "My dear fellow," he said, "what right have I, a stranger, to
meddle in your family affairs, and such a delicate affair too? Pana
Aniela could reduce me to silence at once by saying, 'What business is
it of yours?'"

I assured him that Aniela would do nothing of that kind. I
acknowledged he was right in the main, but this was an exceptional
case, and general rules could not apply to it. My argument that it was
for Aniela's sake seemed to convince him most; but I think he is doing
it a little for my sake too; he seemed sorry, and said I looked very
ill. Besides, he cannot bear Kromitzki. Sniatynski maintains that
money speculations is the same as taking money out of somebody
else's pocket and put it in one's own. He takes many things amiss in
Kromitzki, and says of him: "If he had a higher or honester aim in
view I could forgive him; but he tries to gain money for the mere sake
of having it." Aniela's marriage is almost as repugnant to him as
to me, and his opinion is that she is preparing a wretched life for
herself. At my entreaties he promised to take the first train in the
morning.

The day after both he and his wife will go to Ploszow, and if they do
not find a chance of seeing Aniela alone, carry her off to Warsaw for
a few hours. He is going to tell Aniela how much I suffer, and that my
life is in her hands. He is able to do it. He will speak to her with a
certain authority, gently and persuasively; he will convince her that
a woman, however wounded her heart may be, has no right to marry the
man she does not love; that doing so she acts dishonestly, and is not
true to herself; that, likewise, she has no right to throw over the
man she loves, because in an access of jealousy he wrote a letter he
repents of now from the veriest depths of his heart.

Towards the end Sniatynski said to me:--

"I will do what you wish under one condition: you must pledge me your
word that in case my mission fails, you will not go to Ploszow and
make a scene which the ladies might pay for with their health; you may
write to Aniela if you wish, but you will not go, unless she gives you
permission."

What does he take me for? I promised unreservedly, but his words
increased my anxiety. But I count upon Aniela's heart and Sniatynski's
eloquence. Ah! how he can speak! He did not encourage my hopes, but I
can see he is hopeful himself. As a last resource he promised to get
Aniela to delay the marriage for six months. In that case the victory
is ours, for Kromitzki will draw back. I shall remember this day for
a long time. Sniatynski, when in presence of a real sorrow, can be as
gentle as a woman, and he was anxious to spare my feelings. Yet
it costs me something to lay bare even before such a friend my
madness,--weak points,--and put into his hands my whole fate, instead
of fighting it out by myself. But what does it all matter when Aniela
is in question?


27 June.

Sniatynski left early. I went with him to the station. On the way I
kept repeating various instructions as if he were an idiot. He said
teasingly that if he were successful in his mission, I would begin
again philosophizing. I felt a desire to shake him. He went away with
such a cheerful face I could swear he feels sure not to fail.

After his departure I went straight to St. Mary's Church, and I, the
sceptic, the philosopher, I who do not know, do not know, do not
know, had a mass offered in the names of Leon and Aniela. I not only
remained during mass in church, but put down here, black on white:
Perdition upon all my scepticism, philosophy, and my "I do not know!"


28 June.

It is one o'clock in the afternoon. Sniatynski and his wife are
starting for Ploszow. Aniela ought to agree at least to a postponement
of her marriage. Various thoughts cross my mind. That Kromitzki is
greedy for money there is not the slightest doubt; then why did he not
fix his attentions on a richer girl? Aniela's estate is large, but
encumbered with debts,--perhaps it was the landed property he wanted,
so as to secure himself a position and a citizenship. Yet Kromitzki,
with his reputation as a rich man, could have got all this, and money
with his wife besides. Evidently Aniela attracted him personally
and for some time. It is not to be wondered at that Aniela should
captivate any one.

And to think that she was waiting, as one waits for one's happiness or
salvation, for one word from me! My aunt says it, that she was lying
in wait for Chwastowski, to take the letters from him. A terrible fear
seizes me that all this may not be forgiven, and that I am doomed and
all those that are like me.


10 o'clock in the evening.

I had a terrible neuralgia in the head; it has passed now, but what
with the pain, the sleeplessness, and anxiety, I feel as if I were
hypnotized. My mind, open and excited on one point, concentrated upon
one thought, sees more clearly than it has ever done before how the
affair will end. It seems to me that I am at Ploszow; I listen to what
Aniela says to Sniatynski, and I cannot understand how I could buoy
myself up with false hopes. She has no pity on me. These are not mere
suppositions, they are a dead certainty. Truly, something strange is
going on with me. A terrible gravity has suddenly fallen upon me, as
if up to this moment I had only been a child,--and such a terrible
sadness. Am I going to be ill? I made Sniatynski promise to send me a
telegram. No message has as yet arrived, though, properly speaking, it
will not tell me anything new.


29 June.

The telegram has come. It contains these words: "It is of no
use,--pull yourself together and travel." Yes, I will do it. Oh,
Aniela!


Paris, 2 April.

It is some ten months since I put down anything in my journal; it had
become such a familiar friend that I missed it. But I said to myself:
what is the use of it? If I put down on paper thoughts worthy of a
Pascal; deeper than the ocean depth; loftier than the Alps,--it would
not change the simple fact that she is married. With that fact staring
at me, my hands dropped powerless. Sometimes life concentrates itself
in one object, not necessarily an important one; but if that fails us
we seem at a loss what to do with ourselves. It is strange,--almost
laughable,--but for a long time I remained in a state of mind in which
the most commonplace functions of life seemed irksome and useless,
and it took me some time to remember that I used to go to clubs and
theatres, shaved, dressed, and dined before I knew her. The first
months I travelled a great deal, straying as far as Iceland. The sight
of Swedish lakes, Norwegian fiords, and Icelandic geysers conveyed to
me no direct impressions; I only tried to imagine what Aniela would
have felt or said to such a view,--in short, I saw with her eyes,
thought her thoughts, and felt with her heart. And when presently I
remembered that she was Aniela no longer, but Pani Kromitzka, I went
straight to the nearest railway station or ship to go somewhere else,
as what I looked upon had ceased to interest me. It did not matter
to me in the least that I played a part in one of the so commonly
ridiculed dramas where thousands of fools have played the same parts
before. And death is a drama; and those who are entering its gates
think the world is coming to an end; and so it is,--for them.

I do not know, and will not enter into it now, whether my feeling
the first few months was one of fathomless despair. Everything is
relative. I know only that my whole being was absorbed by one woman,
and I understood for the first time the void created by the death of a
dearly loved being.

But gradually the habit--not the zest--of life recovered its vital
power. This is a common enough fact. I have known people, inwardly
intensely sad, without a grain of cheerfulness in their souls, yet
keep up an appearance of cheerfulness because they had once been
cheerful, and the habit clung to them. And time dulls the pain, and I
found an antidote to the poison. I read once, in a book of travels by
Farini, that the Caffres, when stung by a scorpion, cure themselves
by letting the scorpion sting them in the same place. Such a
scorpion,--such an antidote,--was for me, and is generally for most
people, the word, "It is done; there is no help for it."

It is done, therefore I suffer; it is done, and I feel relieved.
There is an anodyne in the consciousness that it cannot be helped. It
reminds me of the Indian carried away by the Niagara: he struggled
at first with all his strength against the current; but seeing the
hopelessness of his efforts, threw away his oar, laid himself down in
the bottom of the canoe, and began to sing. I am ready to sing now.
The Niagara Falls have that advantage--they crush the life out of a
man; there are others that throw him on a lonely barren shore without
water. This has happened to me.

The evil genius bent upon wrecking my life had not taken in account
one thing: a man crushed and utterly wretched cares less for himself
than a happy one. In presence of that indifference fate becomes more
or less powerless. I was and am still in that frame of mind that, if
angry Fortuna came to me in person, and said: "Go to perdition," I
should reply calmly: "Be it so,"--not out of sorrow for the loss of
Aniela, but from mere indifference to everything within or without me.

This is a special kind of armor which not only protects the man
himself, but also makes him dangerous to others. It is clear that
he who does not spare himself will not spare others. Even God's
commandment does not say: "Love thy neighbor more than thyself." It
does not follow that I mean to cut somebody's throat one of these
days. What I said has merely a theoretical bearing upon life in
general; nobody will be any the worse for it; for if indifference
diminishes altruism, it also lessens egoism. If I were to sleep
with my neighbor under the, same cloak, I should not surrender it
altogether; neither should I take it all to myself.

Dangerous, and even very dangerous, such a man as I am may become
when at length he is aroused from his lethargy, drawn forth from the
seclusion of his egotism, and forced into definite action. He then
acquires the precision of motion, and also the merciless power, of
an engine, I have gained that mechanical power. For some time I have
noticed that I impress others by my way of thinking and my will more
strongly than formerly, though I have not sought it in the least. The
everlasting source of weakness is love of self, vanity, and coquetry
in regard to others. Almost unconsciously everybody tries to please,
to gain sympathy; and towards that end often sacrifices his own
opinions and convictions. At present this coquetry, if not altogether
gone, is greatly diminished; and the indifference as to whether I
please or not gives me a kind of superiority over others. I have
noticed that during my travels, and especially now at Paris. There are
many here who at one time had an ascendency over me; now I have the
ascendency, for the very reason that I care less for it.

In a general way I look upon myself as a man who could be energetic
if he wished to exert himself; but the will acts in proportion to the
passions, and mine are in the passive state.

As the habit of giving an account to myself for my thoughts and
actions still remains with me, I explain in this way that in certain
conditions of life we may as strongly desire not to live, as in others
we should wish the contrary. Most likely my indifference springs from
this dislike of life. It is this which renders it different from the
apathy of such men as Davis.

It is quite certain that I have grown more independent than formerly,
and might say with Hamlet that there is something dangerous in
me. Fortunately nobody crosses my path. Everybody is as supremely
indifferent and cool towards me as I am in regard to them. Only my
aunt in far-away Ploszow loves me as of old; but I suppose even
her love has lost its active character, and there will be no more
match-making in my behalf.


3 April.

Alas! that indifference I compared to pure water without taste or
color is only apparently colorless. Looking more closely I perceive
tiny bubbles which dim its purity. They are my idiosyncrasies.
Everything else has left me and they remained. I do not love anybody,
have no active hatred towards any one, but am full of aversions in
regard to various people. One of these is Kromitzki. I do not hate him
because he has taken Aniela from me; I dislike him for his long, flat
feet, his thick knees, lank figure, and that voice like a coffee-mill.
He was always repulsive to me, and I mention the fact now because that
aversion has such a strange vitality in me. I cannot help thinking of
people who jar upon my nerves. If only Kromitzki and Pani Celina came
under that category, I might think those antipathies were hatred in
the disguise of aversion. But it is not so. There are others who have
roused at some time or other an aversion in me that clings quite as
perversely to my memory. As I cannot ascribe it to the state of my
health,--I never felt better in my life,--I explain it in this way:
The world has robbed me of my love, time has dried up hatred, and as
the living individual must feel something, I live upon what remains to
me. I must also say that he who feels and lives thus does not get a
surfeit of happiness.

My former sympathies have cooled down very considerably. To Sniatynski
I have taken a dislike which no reasoning on my part can overcome.
Sniatynski has many grand qualities and is pleasantly conscious of
them, which gives him, as painters express it, a certain mannerism. I
suppose it is exceedingly rare that a man who sees that his individual
characteristics impress people favorably does not fall in love with
his own type, and end by exaggerating it. Sniatynski consequently has
grown artificial, and for the sake of the pose sacrifices his innate
delicacy; as in case of the abrupt telegram he sent to Cracow, after
his mission with Aniela had failed,--his advice to travel, which I
should have done without it,--and I received another letter from him
at Christiania soon after Aniela's wedding, written in a friendly
spirit, but very abrupt and artificial. I might give its substance as
follows: "Panna Aniela is now Pani Kromitzka,--the thing is done; I am
sorry for you; do not think the bottom is falling out of the universe;
there are other things in the world of more importance, the deuce take
it. Norway must be splendid just now. Come back soon and set to work.
Good-by," and so forth. I do not repeat it word for word, but such was
the gist of the letter. It impressed me unpleasantly, first because
I had not asked Sniatynski to lend me his yard-measure to measure my
sorrow with; secondly, I had thought him a sensible man, and supposed
he understood that his "more important things" are merely empty words
unless they imply feelings and inclinations that existed before. I
wanted to write to him there and then and ask him to release me from
his spiritual tutelage, but thinking better of it did not answer
at all,--I fancy that is the easiest way of breaking off a
correspondence. Entering more minutely into the matter, I find that
neither his telegram nor his letter have caused my dislike. Properly
speaking, I cannot forgive him that for which I ought to feel
grateful,--his mediation between me and Aniela. I myself implored him
to undertake it, but exactly because I implored him, entrusted him
with my fate, confessed to him my weaknesses, and made him in a way my
protector, and because the humiliation and sorrow which overwhelmed me
passed through his hands,--this, perhaps, explains my dislike towards
him. I felt angry with myself, and angry with Sniatynski as having
a part in it. It is unjust, I know, but I cannot help it, and my
friendship for him has burned out like a candle.

Besides, I have never been quick in forming ties of friendship. With
Sniatynski my relations were closer than with anybody else, perhaps
because we lived each of us in a different part of Europe. I had no
other friends. I belong in general to the class of persons called
singles. I remember there was a time when I considered this a sign
of strength. In the animal world, for instance, the weak ones mostly
cling together, and those whom nature has endowed with powerful claws
and teeth go single, because they suffice unto themselves. This
principle can be applied to human beings only in exceptional cases.
Incapacity for friendship proves mostly dryness of heart, not strength
of character. As to myself, the cause of it was a certain shyness and
sensitiveness. My heart is like that plant which closes its leaves at
the slightest touch. That I never formed ties of friendship with a
woman is a different thing altogether. I had a desire for friendship
in regard to those from whom I expected more. I feigned it sometimes,
as the fox makes believe to be dead in order to secure the rooks. It
does not follow that I disbelieve in friendship between man and woman.
I am not a fool who measures the world according to his own standard,
or a churl who is for ever suspecting evil; besides, various
observations have proved to me that such a friendship is quite
possible. As there exists the relation of brother and sister, the same
feeling may exist between two persons who feel as brother and sister
towards each other. Moreover, the capacity for that kind of friendship
belongs to the choicer spirits who have a natural inclination for
Platonic feasts, such as poets, artists, philosophers, and generally,
people who cannot be measured by the common standard. If this be a
proof that I was not made of the stuff artists, poets, and great men
are made of,--the worse for me. Most likely it is so, since I am
nothing but Leon Ploszowski. There was a time when I felt that if
Aniela had become my wife, she would not only have been my love, but
also my dearest friend. But I prefer not to think of it. Ghosts of
this kind visit me far too often, and I shall never have any peace
until I banish them altogether.


4 April.

I meet Mrs. Davis here pretty often, and call upon her at her house.
And nothing else! There is some dislike, a little contempt under a
thick layer of ashes, and for the rest, the usual social intercourse.
She is still too beautiful to be classified among my idiosyncrasies.
I cannot love her, and do not take the trouble to hate her. She
understood that at once, and adapted herself to circumstances. All the
same she cannot always conceal her irritation at my self-possession
and cool independence; but for that very reason shows me greater
consideration. It is very strange, that easiness with which women from
closest relations pass on to mere acquaintanceship. Laura and I treat
each other as if there had never been anything between us,--not only
before people, but even when we are alone together. It does not
seem to cost her the slightest effort; she is polite, cool, and
self-possessed, affable in her way, and her manners influence me
to such a degree that I should never dream of calling her by her
Christian name.

The Neapolitan cousin, Maleschi, used to roll his eyes so ferociously
at me that I almost considered it my duty to ask him not to injure his
optics; he has now calmed down, seeing how very distant our relations
to each other are, and is very friendly towards me. He has already
fought a duel about Laura, and in spite of the reputation of coward he
had in Italy, showed a deal of pluck. Poor Davis has passed to Nirvana
some months ago, and I suppose after a decent interval of widowhood,
Laura will marry Maleschi. They will make a splendid couple. The
Italian has the torso and head of an Antinous; in addition to that, a
complexion like pale gold, raven black hair, and eyes as blue as the
Mediterranean. It may be that Laura loves him, but for some reason
known only to herself, she bullies him a great deal. Several times in
my presence she treated him so uncivilly that I was surprised, as I
had thought her aesthetic nature incapable of such an exhibition of
temper. Aspasia and Xantippe in one.

I have often noticed that women, merely beautiful, without striking
qualities of the soul, who are looked upon as stars, are something
more than stars; they are a whole constellation, two in fact,--a Great
Bear to their surroundings, a Cross to their husbands. Laura was a
Cross to poor Davis, and is now a Bear in regard to Maleschi. She
would treat me a little in that way, too, if it were not that she is
not familiar with the ways of Parisian society, and considers it safer
to have me for an ally than an enemy. It is very strange, but she
does not create here the same sensation as in Italy, or on the
Mediterranean. She is simply too classical, too beautiful for
Parisians, whose taste is to a certain degree morbid, as appears in
their literature and art; and characteristic ugliness more strongly
excites their blunted nerves than simple beauty. It is a noted fact
that the most celebrated stars of the _demi-monde_ are rather ugly
than beautiful. In regard to Laura, there is another reason for
her non-success with the Parisians. Her intelligence, though very
uncommon, is upon too straight lines, wanting in that kind of dash
so appreciated here. There are thinkers, and deep thinkers, too, in
Paris, but in society those mostly win a reputation whose minds are
nimble enough to cling to any subject, as a monkey to a branch by his
tail or feet, turning head over heel. The more these jumps are sudden
and unexpected, the surer the success. Laura understands this, and at
the same time is conscious that to do this would be as easy for her
as to dance on a rope. She considers me an adept in these kinds of
gymnastics, and consequently wants me.