Without Dogma by Henryk Sienkiewicz

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That woman, though unconsciously, has wrought me such irreparable harm
that I ought to hate her, but cannot,--first, because I am conscious
that, had she never crossed my path, I should have probably found some
other means to wreck my happiness; secondly, as Satan is a fallen
angel, so hatred is degenerated love, and I never loved Laura. There
is a little contempt for her, a little dislike, and she returns the
feeling undoubtedly a hundredfold.

As to Clara's feelings, Laura may be right. To-day I saw it clearer
than ever. If that be the case, I am grateful to her. For the first
time in my life I long for the pure friendship of a woman. A soul so
restless as mine will find solace and comfort in such a friendship.

We conversed together to-day, Clara and I, like old friends. Her
intelligence is not large, but clear and discerning between bad and
good, ugly and what she considers beautiful; consequently her judgment
is not shifty, but calm and serene. She has that kind of spiritual
healthiness often met with in Germans. Coming across them now and
then I observe that the type I belong to is very rare among them. The
Germans and the English are generally positive and know what they
want. They too are sounding the fathomless depth of doubt, but they
do it methodically as scientists, not as sensitive geniuses without
portfolio like me; in consequence of which their recent transcendental
philosophy, their present scientific pessimism, and their poetic
_Weltschmerz_ have only a theoretical meaning. Their everyday practice
consists in adapting themselves to the rules of life. According to
Hartmann, the more humanity gains in intensity and consciousness.
The more unhappy it grows. The same Hartmann, with the calmness of a
German _Cultur-traeger_, becomes practical when he raises his voice
in favor of suppressing the Polish element as detrimental to German
supremacy. But, putting aside this incident, which belongs to the
category of human villanies, Germans do not take theories seriously,
and therefore are always calm and capable of action. This same
calmness Clara possesses. Things which rend and trouble human souls
must have come near her some time or other, but if so they left no
trace and were not absorbed by her; thus she never lost faith in
truth and in her art. If she has any deeper feeling for me than mere
friendship, the feeling is unconscious and does not ask for anything
in return. If it were otherwise, it would be the beginning of her
tragedy, as I could not return her love and might make her unhappy. I
am not so conceited as to think that no woman could resist me, but I
am of the opinion that no woman can resist the man she truly loves.
It is a trite saying that "a fortress besieged is a fortress
surrendered," but there is some truth in it when adapted to woman,
especially when behind the entrenchment of her virtues she harbors
such a traitor as her own heart. But Clara may rest tranquil. We shall
travel peacefully together: she, her old relative, myself, and the
dumb piano.

16 April.

I arrived at Warsaw three days ago, but have not been able to go to
Ploszow as, shortly after my arrival, I got a cold in my teeth and my
face is swollen. I do not wish to show myself to the ladies in that
state.

I have seen Sniatynski, and my aunt, who has welcomed me as the
prodigal son. Aniela arrived at Ploszow a week ago. Her mother is very
ill, so ill that the doctors who advised her to try Wiesbaden now
declare she could not bear the journey. She will therefore remain
at Ploszow until she recovers--or dies, and Aniela with her, until
Kromitzki winds up his business or thinks it proper to give her a
home. From what my aunt says this may take him some months. I tried to
get from my aunt as much news about Aniela as I could, which is easy
enough, as she speaks about her with perfect freedom. She simply
cannot understand how a married woman could excite any feeling except
in the way of relationship; or rather, she has never even considered
the question. She spoke openly about the sale of Aniela's home, which
she considers a great shame. She got so excited over it as to break
her watch-chain and let the watch roll on the floor.

"I will tell him so to his face," she said. "I would rather have lent
him the money had I known anything about it. Only what would have been
the use? His speculations are a gulf. I do not know whether any good
will come out of it, but in the meanwhile everything is swallowed up
in it. Let him only come, and I will tell him that he makes Aniela
unhappy, kills her mother, and will end in ruining them and himself."
I asked my aunt whether she had said anything about this to Aniela.

"To Aniela?" she replied. "I am glad you have come; it relieves my
mind and makes it easier to bear. I cannot speak about it with Aniela.
I tried it once when I could not contain myself any longer. I made
some remark and she grew very angry, then burst out crying and said,
'He was obliged, he was obliged, and could not help it.' She does not
allow anybody to say a word against him, and would like to cover all
his short-comings before the world; but she cannot deceive an old
woman like me, and I know that at the bottom of her heart she must
condemn him as I do."

"Do you mean she does not love him?"

My aunt looked at me in unfeigned surprise.

"Not love him? Of course she loves him. Whom should she love if not
him? That's just where the sting lies; she grieves because she loves
him. But one may love and yet have one's eyes open to what is wrong."

I had my own opinion on that point, but preferred not to express it,
and allowed my aunt to proceed.

"What I resent most in him are his lies. He assured Celina and Aniela
that in a year or two he would be able to buy the estate back. Just
tell me, is this possible? and those women believe he is in earnest!"

"According to my opinion it is quite impossible. Besides, he will go
on speculating."

"He knows it even better than we do, and yet he goes on lying to the
women."

"Perhaps he does it to relieve their anxiety."

My aunt grew angrier still.

"Relieve their anxiety! fiddlesticks! they would not have had any
anxiety if he had not sold it. Do not defend him, it is of no use.
Everybody blames him. Chwastowski was wild about it. He had looked
into the affairs, and says that without any ready money he could have
cleared the estate himself in a few years. I would have given the
money and so would you, would you not? and now it is too late."

Presently I inquired about Aniela's health, with a strange, troubled
foreboding I might hear something which, though perfectly natural
and in the order of things, would give a shock to my nerves. My aunt
caught the drift of my thoughts and replied with as much acerbity as
before:--

"There is nothing whatever the matter with her. All he could do
he did; that was to sell his wife's estate. No, there is nothing
expected."

I turned the conversation to something else. I told my aunt I had
arrived together with the celebrated pianist Miss Hilst, who, having
considerable means of her own, wished to give a few concerts gratis.
My aunt is a queer mixture of eccentricities. She began by abusing
Miss Hilst for not coming in winter, when the time for concerts was
more propitious; presently began considering that it was not too late
yet, and wanted to go and call upon her at once. I could scarcely
persuade her to put off her visit until I had told Miss Hilst about
it. My aunt is a patroness of several charitable institutions, and it
is with her a point of honor to get for them as much as she can at the
expense of other institutions, consequently was afraid somebody else
might forestall her with the artist.

When leaving me she asked, "When are you coming to stay at Ploszow?"

I replied that I was not going to stay there at all. I had thought of
that during the journey and came to the conclusion that it would be
better to have my headquarters at Warsaw. Ploszow is only six miles
from here, and I can go there in the morning and stay as long as I
like. It is indifferent to me where I live, and my living here will
prevent people talking. Besides, I do not want Pani Kromitzka to think
I am anxious to dwell under the same roof with her. I spoke of this to
Sniatynski, and saw that he fully agreed with me; he seemed anxious to
discuss Aniela with me. Sniatynski is a very intelligent man, but he
does not seem to understand that changed circumstances mean changed
relations, even between the best of friends. He came to me as if I
were the same Leon Ploszowski who, shaking in every limb, asked for
his help at Cracow; he approached me with the same abrupt sincerity,
desiring to plunge his hand up to his elbow under my ribs. I pulled
him up sharply, and he seemed surprised and somewhat angry. Presently
he fell in with my humor, and we talked together as if the last
meeting at Cracow had never taken place. I noticed, nevertheless,
that he watched me furtively, and not being able to make me out tried
indirect inquiry, with all the clumsiness of an author who is a
deep psychologist and reader of the human mind at his desk, and as
unsophisticated as any student in practical life. As Hamlet of yore, I
might have handed him a pipe and said, "Do you think I am easier to be
played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you
can fret me, yet you cannot play upon me."

I had been reading Hamlet the night before, as I have read it many a
time, and involuntarily these words came into my mind. It seems to
me surpassing strange that a man of my time, in whatever position or
complicated trouble of soul, should find so much analogy to himself
as I find in this drama, based upon Holinshed's sanguinary and gross
legend. Hamlet is the human soul as it was, as it is, and as it will
be. In conceiving this drama, Shakspeare overstepped the limit fixed
even for genius. I can understand Homer and Dante, studied by the
light of their epoch. I can comprehend that they could do what they
did; but how an Englishman of the seventeenth century could foreknow
psychosis, a science of recent growth, will be to me, in spite of my
study of Hamlet, an everlasting mystery.

Having mentally handed over to Sniatynski Hamlet's pipe, I recommended
to his care Miss Hilst, and then began to discuss his pet theories.
Upon his wanting to know what brought me back, I said it was the
longing for the country, and consciousness of unfulfilled duties
towards it. I said it in a careless, off-hand way, and Sniatynski
looked puzzled, not knowing whether I spoke seriously or mockingly.
And again the same phenomenon of which I spoke in Paris repeated
itself here. The moral ascendency he had gained over me gradually
disappeared. He did not know himself what to think, but he saw the
old key would not serve any longer. When he said good-by I again
recommended to him Miss Hilst. He looked at me keenly.

"Do you attach much importance to her success?"

"Yes, very much. She is a person I hold in great esteem, and have much
friendship for."

In this way I centred all his attention on Miss Hilst. Most likely he
thought I had fallen in love with her. He went away angry, and could
not disguise his feelings. He shut the door sharply; and when I
accompanied him as far as the staircase, and turned back to the
anteroom, I heard him descending the staircase, taking four steps at
once, and whistling,--which he always does when angry. Besides, it was
quite true, what I said about Miss Hilst. I wrote to-day to Clara,
explaining why I had not been to see her, and received a reply at
once. She is delighted with Warsaw, and especially its inhabitants.
All the musical world has called upon her, and they are vying with
each other in politeness and offers of help. Whether they would
be quite as enthusiastic had she come to settle here, is another
question; but Clara has the gift to win friends wherever she goes. She
has already seen something of the town, and was much charmed with the
Sazienki Park and Palace. I am glad she likes it,--the more so as
the country, soon after crossing the frontier, seemed to her rather
depressing. Truly, only those born on the soil can find any charm in
the vast solitary plains, where the eye finds very little to rest
upon. Clara, looking through the carriage window, said more than once:
"Ah! I can understand Chopin now!" She is utterly mistaken,--she does
not understand Chopin and his feelings, any more than she is in touch
with his native land. I, though a cosmopolitan by education, by
atavism understand our nature, and am surprised myself at the spell
a Polish spring casts upon me, and it seems as if I could never
feel tired of it. Properly speaking, what does the view consist of?
Sometimes, on purpose, I put myself into a stranger's place,--a
painter's, having no preconceived ideas about it, and look at it with
his eyes. The landscape then makes upon me the impression as if a
child had drawn it, or a savage, who had no notion about drawing. Flat
fallow-land, wet meadows, huts with their rectangular outline, the
straight poplars around country-seats on the distant horizon, a broad,
flat plain, finished off with a belt of woods,--that "ten miles of
nothing," as the Germans call it; all this reminds me of a first
attempt at drawing landscape. There is scarcely enough for a
background. From the moment I cease looking upon it with a stranger's
eyes, I begin to feel the simplicity of the view, incorporate myself
with that immense breadth, where every outlined object melts into the
far distance, as a soul in Nirvana; it has not only the artistic
charm of primitiveness, but it acts soothingly upon me. I admire the
Apennines; but my spirit is not in touch with them, and sooner or
later they become wearisome. The human being finds a resting-place
only where he is in harmony with his surroundings; and is reminded
that his soul and the soul of nature are of the same organization.
Homesickness springs from the isolation of the soul from its
surroundings. It appears to me that the principle of psychical
relationship could be applied in a still wider sense. It may seem
strange that I, brought up in foreign lands, permeated by their
culture, should harbor such views; but I go farther still, and say
a foreign woman, even the most beautiful, appears to me more as a
species of the female kind than a soul.

I remember what I wrote at one time concerning Polish women, but one
statement does not contradict the other; I may perceive their faults,
and yet feel myself nearer to them than to strangers. Besides, my old
opinions--at least, the greater part of them--are now in tatters, like
a worn-out garment.

But enough of this! I notice with a certain shame and surprise
that all I have been writing has been done in order to distract my
thoughts. Yes, that is true. I speak about landscapes, homesickness,
and so forth, while all my thoughts are at Ploszow. I did not want to
acknowledge it, even to myself. I feel restless, and something seems
to weigh me down. It is very probable that my going there and the
getting over the first meeting will be easier and far simpler than I
imagine. Expectancy of anything is always oppressive. When a young
lad, I had a duel; and on the eve of the day I felt troubled. Then,
too, I tried to think of something else, and could not manage it.
My thoughts are not at all tender, not even friendly, towards Pani
Kromitzka; but they swarm around me like angry bees, and I cannot
drive them away.

17 April.

I have been to Ploszow, and found things very different indeed from
what I had pictured to myself. I left Warsaw at seven in the morning
in a cab, counting I should be in Ploszow by eight. The oppressive
feeling still remained with me. I had said to myself that I would not
make any plans about that first meeting, or my future bearing towards
her. Let chance be my guide. But I could not help speculating how
it would be,--how she would greet me, what she would try to make me
understand, and what our future relation to each other would be. Not
having formed any plans of my own, I fancied, I do not know why that
she would want to act according to a well-defined system. Trying to
fathom this, I felt almost inimical towards her. Then again, at the
thought that the meeting might cause her pain, I felt something akin
to pity, and seemed to see her before me as she used to be. I saw
distinctly the low brow with the wealth of auburn hair, the long
eyelashes, and the small, delicate face. I tried to guess how
she would be dressed. Memories came back of words she had said,
expressions of the face, graceful motions, dresses. With strange
pertinacity, the one memory remained with me,--her coming into the
room after she had tried to disguise her emotion by applying powder
to her face. At last these memories became so vivid as to equal a
second-sight. "There she is again," I said to myself; and in order to
pull myself together, I began talking to the driver, and asked him
whether he were married; whereupon he replied that without the old
woman at home, there would be no go, then said something I did not
hear, as I had caught sight of the Ploszow poplars in the distance. I
had not paid any heed to the time we had been on the road.

At the sight of Ploszow I felt more troubled still, and my eagerness
increased. I tried to pay attention to outward things, changes that
had taken place during my absence, and look at the new buildings on
the road. I repeated to myself mechanically that the weather was very
fine, and the spring exceptionally early this year. And indeed, the
weather was magnificent; the morning air was crisp and transparent;
near the cottages the apple-trees, in full bloom, were scattering
their petals like snowflakes on the grass; it was like a long line of
pictures by the modern school of painters. Wherever the eye turned,
there was that luminous _plein-air_ in the midst of which moved the
figures of people working in the fields or near their cottages. I saw
it all, observed every detail; but, strange to say, I was not able to
take it in, or give myself up to it altogether. The impressions had
lost their absorbing power, and remained only on the surface of the
brain, the brain itself being full of other thoughts. In this state of
divided attention I approached Ploszow.

Presently the cool air of the lime avenue fanned my face, and I saw
at the other end, far off, the windows of the house. The scattered,
futile thoughts hammered and knocked louder than ever at my brain. I
stopped the driver from going straight to the house, and dismissed
him, I do not know why, at the gate. Followed by his thanks, I went on
foot straight towards the veranda. I cannot explain to myself why I
felt so troubled, unless it was that within these well-known walls
something unknown was awaiting me, which was in close connection with
the tragic past. Crossing the courtyard, I felt such a weight upon my
chest that it obstructed my breath. "What the deuce is the matter with
me?" said I, inwardly. As I had dismissed the cab, nobody had heard me
coming. The hall was empty; I went in to the dining-room to wait until
the ladies came down.

I knew they would come soon, as the table was laid for breakfast,
and the samovar, whispering and growling, was sending coils of steam
aloft. Again not the slightest detail escaped my notice. I observed
that the room was cool and comparatively dark, as the windows faced
the north. For a moment my attention was fixed on the three luminous
streaks the light from the windows made upon the polished floor. I
looked at the carved sideboard I remembered since a child, and then
recalled the conversation I had in this same room with Sniatynski, and
we looked through the window at his wife and Aniela, in fur boots,
coming from the hot-houses.

At last a feeling of great solitude and sadness overcame me, and
I went close to the window to get more light and make further
observations in the garden. But all this did not restore my balance of
mind. The only real thought my mind was full of was that I should meet
her in a few minutes. There are people who out of fear are capable of
the most heroic deeds. With me it is different. Fear, uncertainty
of what may come next, rouses me to anger. This happened now. The
difference between the old Aniela and the present Pani Kromitzka
impressed itself upon me more forcibly than ever. "If you borrowed the
very moonbeams for your head-dress, if you were a hundred times
more beautiful than my fancy can paint, you would be as nothing to
me,--less than nothing, because an object of aversion." My anger rose
still, for I fancied that she would come to me in order to point out
my guilt, my wrong-doing; that she would be still desirable, but
unapproachable. "We shall see," I replied inwardly, under the vivid
impression that with this woman there was awaiting me a duel; a
struggle in which I should lose and gain at the same time,--lose the
haunting memories and regain peace. At that moment I felt the power to
overcome any obstacles, repulse any attack.

Then the door opened quietly, and Aniela came in.

At the sight of her I felt my brain in a whirl, and my finger-tips
grew icy cold. The being before me bore the name of Pani Kromitzka,
but had the sweet, hundred times beloved features and inexpressible
charm of the Aniela I had known. In the chaotic bewilderment of my
brain there was only one sound I heard distinctly: "Aniela! Aniela!
Aniela!" And she did not see me, or took me for somebody else as I
stood against the light. But when I drew nearer, she raised her eyes
and stood still as if turned into stone. I cannot even describe the
expression of sudden terror, confusion, emotion, and humility which
shone in her face. She had grown white to the lips, and I was afraid
she might faint. When I took her hand it felt as cold as ice. I had
expected anything but that. I thought she would let me know in some
way or other that she was Pani Kromitzka, but there was nothing of the
sort. She stood before me moved, frightened, my former little Aniela.
It was I who had made her unhappy,--I who was guilty, a hundred times
guilty; and at this moment she looked at me as if she herself asked
to be forgiven. The old love, contrition for the past, and pity
overwhelmed me to such a degree that I almost lost my head, and
thought I must take her into my arms, and soothe her with endearing
words, as one soothes a beloved being. I was so agitated by the
unexpected meeting, not with Pani Kromitzka, but Aniela, that I
could only press her hand in silence. And yet I felt obliged to say
something; therefore, pulling myself together, I said, as if in
somebody else's voice,--

"Did aunt not tell you I was coming?"

"Yes; she told me," said Aniela, with an evident effort.

And then we fell back into silence. I felt that I ought to ask after
her mother, and about herself, but could not force myself to do so.
I wished from my soul somebody would come and deliver us from this
position. Presently my aunt came in with the young Doctor Chwastowski,
the agent's son, who for a month past has had the care of Pani Celina.
Aniela slipped away to pour out the tea, and I began to talk with my
aunt. I had recovered my presence of mind entirely when we sat down to
breakfast. I began now to inquire after Pani Celina's health. My aunt,
telling me about her, appealed every moment to the doctor, who turned
to me with that peculiar shade of superciliousness with which a newly
patented scientist treats outsiders, and at the same time with the
watchfulness of a democrat who is afraid of slights where none are
intended. He appeared to me very conceited; and after all, I treated
him with far greater politeness than he exhibited towards me. This
amused me a little, and helped to keep my thoughts, which the sight
of Aniela confused, under control. From time to time I looked at her
across the table, and repeated to myself: "The same features, the same
little face, the same low brow shaded by a wealth of hair; it is the
same Aniela, almost a little girl, my love, my happiness; and now lost
to me forever." There was inexpressible sweetness in the sensation,
mingled with exquisite pain. Aniela, too, had recovered from her
emotion, but looked still frightened. I tried to draw her into
conversation, speaking about her mother. I was partly successful; she
seemed a little more at ease, and said,--

"Mamma will be very glad to see you."

I permitted myself a doubt as far as her mother was concerned, but
listened to her voice with half-closed eyes; it was sweeter to me than
any music.

We were conversing more freely every moment. My aunt was in excellent
spirits,--first, because of seeing me once more at Ploszow, and also
because she had seen Clara and got from her the promise of a concert.
When leaving the artist she had met two other ladies, patronesses of
charitable institutions, ascending the staircase bent on the same
errand. They were too late, and that had put her in a high good-humor.
She asked me a great many questions about Clara, who had made an
excellent impression upon her. Towards the end of breakfast, to
satisfy my aunt's curiosity, I had to say something about my travels.
She was amazed to hear I had been as far as Iceland, and asked what it
looked like; she then remarked,--

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