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Various - "Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 153, August 1, 1917."

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In 21 Nights, the first-ever book by Prince, photographer Randee St. Nicholas follows the musician during his 21 sold-out shows at the O2 arena in London last year, and unearths Princes introspective side. How did this book come about for you? I had four

Without Dogma by Henryk Sienkiewicz

H >> Henryk Sienkiewicz >> Without Dogma




"He says as soon as he can possibly manage."

And I, with my sensitiveness, had to listen to these questions and
answers. If my aunt and Aniela had started unexpectedly a quite
improbable cynical conversation it could not have shocked me more.
The first time since my arrival at Ploszow I felt something like
resentment towards Aniela. "Have a little mercy at least, and do not
speak of that man in my presence; do not return thanks for being asked
after him, and say 'Thank God!' because he is prosperous," I thought.
In the mean time she had opened the second letter, and looking at the
date, said: "It has been written at an earlier date;" then began
to read. I looked at the bowed head, the parting of the hair, the
drooping lashes--and it seemed to me that the reading lasted very
long. I thought what a world of mutual interests and aims bound these
two together, and that for some indispensable reason they must feel
that they belonged to each other. I felt that I had no part in it, and
that by force of circumstances I should always be outside her life
even if I won her love. Up to now I had felt the depth of my misery
as one sees the depth of a precipice veiled by clouds. Now the mist
lifted, I looked down and comprehended its whole extent.

My nature is so constituted that under great pressure it resists. Up
to the present my love had not dared to ask for anything, but at this
moment hatred began to clamor loudly for the abolition of merciless
laws, those ties and bondages. Aniela did not read many minutes, but
during that time I ran through a whole gamut of tortures, because
other thoughts relating to my self-analysis and criticism were
haunting me. I said to myself that the agitation, the very bitterness
I felt, were nothing but the ridiculous characteristics of female
ill-humor. How is it possible to live with nerves such as mine? If
such a simple thing as a letter from the husband to his wife makes you
lose your balance, what will happen when he himself comes to claim
her?

I said to myself: "I will kill him!" and at the same time I felt the
ridiculousness and folly of the answer.

Aniela having finished her letters noticed at once that something was
amiss, and looked at me with troubled eyes. Hers is one of those sweet
dispositions that cannot bear to see unfriendly faces, or live in an
atmosphere of cold displeasure. This springs from a great tenderness
of heart. I remember how uneasy she used to be when first she
witnessed the disputes between my aunt and Chwastowzki. Now she was
evidently ill at ease. She began to speak about the concert and Clara,
but her eyes seemed to say: "What have I done, what is the matter with
you?" I merely replied by a cold glance, not being able to forgive her
either the letters or her conversation with my aunt. After breakfast I
rose at once and said I was obliged to go back to Warsaw.

My aunt wanted me to stop to dinner; after which, according to our
agreement, we were to start together for the concert. But I pleaded
some business; the truth was I wanted to be alone. I gave orders for
the carriage to be ready, and then my aunt remarked:--

"I should like to show some gratitude to Miss Hilst, and thought of
inviting her to Ploszow for the day."

Evidently my aunt considers an invitation to Ploszow such a great
reward that she doubted whether it would not be out of all proportion.

After a moment's pause she began again:--

"If I were quite sure that she is of a proper standing."

"Miss Hilst is a personal friend of the queen of Roumania," I
replied, a little impatiently; "and if there be any honor, it will be
altogether on our side."

"Well, well," muttered my aunt.

"You will come with us to the concert?" I said, turning to Aniela.

"I am afraid not. I shall have to remain with mamma; and besides, I
have some letters to write."

"Oh! if it is a question of wifely tenderness I will not insist."

This ironical remark gave me a momentary relief. "Let her be aware
that I am jealous," I thought; "she herself, her mother, and my aunt
belong to those women of the angelic kind, who do not believe there
can be any evil in the world. Let her understand that I love her,
become familiar with the thought, troubled by it, and fight it. To
bring into her soul a strange, decomposing element, a ferment like
this, is half the battle. We shall see what will happen afterwards."

It was a momentary but great relief, and very much like a wicked
delight. But presently, when alone in the carriage, I felt angry with
myself and disgusted,--disgusted because I became conscious of the
littleness of all I had thought and felt, based as it was upon
overstrung and fanciful nerves worthy an hysterical woman, not a man.
It was a heavy journey, far heavier than the one when after my return
from abroad I went the first time to Ploszow. I was reflecting upon
that terrible incapacity for life which casts its shadow upon my
existence and the existence of those like me, and came to the
conclusion that its main source is the feminine element which
predominates in our character. I do not mean by this that we are
physically effeminate or wanting in manly courage. No! it is something
quite different. Courage and daring we are not deficient in; but as
regards psychical elements, every one of us is a she, not a he. There
is in, us a lack of the synthetic faculty which distinguishes
things that are important from those that are not. The least matter
discourages, hurts, and repulses us; in consequence of which we
sacrifice very great things for small ones. My past is a proof
thereof. I sacrificed inexpressible happiness, my future and the
future of the beloved woman, because I had read in my aunt's letter
that Kromitzki wished to marry her. My nerves took the bit between
their teeth, and carried me where I did not wish to go. This was
nothing but a disease of the will. But it is a feminine disease, not
a masculine one. Is it to be wondered at that I act as an hysterical
woman? It is a misfortune I brought with me into the world, to which
whole generations have contributed their share, as also the conditions
of life in which we exist.

The shaking myself thus free from all responsibility did not give me
any relief. When I arrived at Warsaw I intended to call upon Clara,
but was prevented by a severe headache; which got better towards
evening before my aunt came up.

She found me already dressed, and we drove together to the concert,
which was a great success. Clara's fame had attracted the whole
musical and intelligent world, and the charitable purpose the
aristocratic circles. I saw many people there I knew, among them
Sniatynski and his wife. The concert room was crowded. But I was out
of humor, and everything irritated me. I do not know why, but I felt
afraid Clara's performance would be a failure. When she appeared on
the platform a programme clung to the folds of her dress; I thought it
would make her appear ridiculous. She herself in full evening dress
seemed to me more like a stranger than a friend. I involuntarily asked
myself whether it was the same Clara I was so intimate with. When
the hearty applause had ceased she sat down to the piano, and I
acknowledged to myself that she had a noble and artistic presence,
full of simplicity and quite free of any affectation. On all
faces there was the concentrated attention of people who have no
understanding of art, but like to pass for connoisseurs and judges.
She played Mendelssohn's concerto, which I know by heart,--but whether
it was the thought that much was expected from her, or that the
unusually enthusiastic reception had moved her, she played worse
than I had ever heard her. I was sorry for it and looked at her with
astonishment; our eyes met for a moment. The expression of my face put
the final touch to her confusion, and I heard a few dim notes without
force or expression. I was quite sure now she would fail. Never had
the piano, with its lack of continuity, its sound smothered by the
acoustic properties of the room, seemed to me a more miserable
instrument. At times it seemed as if I heard the sharp, staccato
sounds of a harp. Presently Clara recovered her self-possession, but
upon the whole I thought she had played but indifferently. I was very
much surprised indeed when after she had finished there rose such a
storm of applause as I had not heard even in Paris, where Clara was
received with exceptional enthusiasm. During the short pause, amateurs
and professionals began discussing the music, and in their animated
faces I read perfect satisfaction. The cheering lasted until Clara
reappeared on the platform. She stepped forth with downcast eyes, and
I who could read her face saw what she wanted to express: "You are
very kind, and I thank you for it; but it was not good and I feel
inclined to cry." I too had applauded with the rest, for which I
received a passing glance full of reproach. Clara loves her art too
much to be gratified by undeserved applause. I felt sorry for her, and
should have liked to say a few encouraging words, but the continued
cheering did not permit her to leave the platform. She sat down again
and played Beethoven's Sonata in cis-moll, which was not on the
programme. There is, I believe, no composition in the whole world that
shows with the same distinctness the soul torn by tragic conflict;
especially in the third part of the Sonata, the _Presto-agitato_. The
music evidently responded to the tune of Clara's soul, and certainly
harmonized with my own disposition, for never had I heard Beethoven
interpreted and understood like this before. I am not a musician, but
I suppose even musicians do not know how much there is in that Sonata.
I cannot find another word than "oppressiveness" to describe the
sensation wrought upon the audience. One had a feeling as if mystical
rites were being performed; there rose before me a vast desert, not of
this world, weird and unutterably sad, without shape, half lit up by a
ghostly moon, in the midst of which hopeless despair waited and
sobbed and tore its hair. It was terrible and impressive because so
unearthly; and yet irresistibly attractive,--never had my spirit
come in such close proximity to the infinite. It was almost an
hallucination. I imagined that in the shapeless desert, in the dusk of
a world of shadows, I was searching for somebody dearer to me than the
whole world, one without whom I could not and would not live, and I
searched with the conviction that I should have to search forever and
never find what I was looking for. My heart was so oppressed that at
times I could scarcely breathe. I paid no attention to the mechanical
part of the execution, which no doubt was as perfect as the
expression.

All in the room seemed under the same spell, not excepting Clara
herself.

When she left off playing she remained for a moment with uplifted head
and eyes, lips slightly parted, and face very pale. And it was not
a mere concert effect, it was real inspiration and forgetfulness of
self.

There was a great hush in that crowd, as if they expected something,
or were benumbed by sorrow, or tried to catch the last echo of sobbing
despair, carried away by a wind from the other world.

Presently there happened what probably never happened in a concert
room before. A great tumult arose, and such an outcry as if a
catastrophe were threatening the whole audience. Several musicians
and reporters approached the platform. I saw their heads bowed over
Clara's hands, she had tears on her eyelashes, her face looked still
inspired, but calm and serene. I went with the others to press her
hands.

From the first moment of our acquaintance Clara had always addressed
me in French; now for the first time, returning the pressure of my
hand, she said in German:

"Haben Sie mich verstanden?"

"Ja," I replied, "und ich war sehr ungluecklich!" And it was true.

The continuation of the concert was one great triumph. After the
performance Sniatynski and his wife carried Clara off to their house.
I had no wish to go there. When I reached home, I felt so tired that
without undressing I threw myself upon the sofa, and remained there an
hour without moving, yet not asleep.

After a long time I became conscious that I had been thinking about
the young cleric's funeral, Aniela, and death. I rung for lights, and
then began to write.


29 April.

Kromitzki's letters have stirred me to such a degree that I cannot
get over the impression. My unreasonable resentment towards Aniela is
passing, and the more I feel how undeserved was my harshness, the more
contrite I become, and the more tenderly I think of her. Yet more
clearly than ever I see how these two are bound by the power of a
simple fact. Since yesterday I have been in the clutches of these
thoughts, and that is the reason I did not go to Ploszow. There I
am obliged to keep watch upon myself and to put on an appearance
of calmness, and at present I could not do it. Everything within
me--thoughts, feelings, nerves--has risen up in revolt against what
has been done. I do not know whether there can be a more desperate
state of mind than when we do not agree with something, protest with
every fibre of heart and brain, and at the same time feel powerless
in presence of an accomplished fact. I understand that this is only a
foretaste of what is awaiting me in the future. There is nothing to be
done,--nothing. She is married, is Pani Kromitzka; she belongs to him,
will always belong to him; and I who cannot consent, for to do so
would mean losing my own self, am obliged to consent. I might as well
protest against the earth turning round as against that other law
which bids a woman stand by her husband. Does this mean that I ought
to respect that law? How can I submit when my whole being cries out
against it? At moments I feel inclined to go away, but I understand
perfectly that beyond this woman the world has for me as much meaning
as death,--that is, nothingness; moreover, I know beforehand that I
shall not go, because I could not muster strength enough to do so.
Sometimes I have thought that human misery goes far beyond human
imagination,--imagination has its limits, and misery, like the vast
seas, appears to be without end. It seems to me that I am floating on
those seas. But no,--there is still something for me to do.

I read once, in Amiel's memoirs, that the deed is only the
crystallized matter of thought. But thoughts may remain in the
abstract,--not so feelings. Theoretically I was conscious of it
before; it is only now I have come to prove it actually on myself.
From the time of my arrival at Ploszow until now, I have never clearly
and distinctly said to myself that I wanted to win Aniela's love, but
it was merely a question of words. In reality I know that I wanted
her, and want her still. Every look of mine, every word, and all my
actions are tending that way. Affection which does not include desire
and action is a mere shadow. Let it be understood,--I want her. I want
to be for Aniela the most beloved being, as she is to me. I want to
win her love, all her thoughts, her soul; and I do not intend to put
any limit to my desires. I shall do everything my heart dictates, and
use all means my intelligence sees most efficient to win her. I shall
take from Kromitzki as much of Aniela as I can; I shall take her from
him altogether if she be willing. In this way I shall have an aim in
life; shall know why I wake up in the morning, take nourishment during
the day, and recuperate myself in sleep. I shall not be happy; for I
could be happy only if she were exclusively my own, and I could crush
the man who had her before me. But I shall have something at least to
live for. It will be my salvation. And this is not a resolution taken
upon the spur of the moment; it is only a translation into words of
all the forces that work within me,--the will and the desires which
belong to the feeling and make an indivisible part of it.

I throw all my scruples to the winds. Even the fear that Aniela might
be unhappy loving me must give way before the great truth, great
as the universe, that the presence of Love fills the life; gives
sustenance to it, and is a hundred thousand times worth more than
emptiness and nothingness of existence.

Thousands of years ago it was known to the world that virtue and
righteousness alone give power to life; that emptiness and nothingness
dwell in the realm of evil. The moment when that dear head rests on my
breast, when the beloved lips meet mine, truth and goodness will be
with us. In the midst of doubts which crowd my brain, that one truth
shines clearly,--of this I can say I believe in it. At last I have
found something certain in life. I know perfectly what a gulf there is
between my belief and the small conventional moralities created for
every-day use. I know that to Aniela it will be a strange, fearsome
world; but I will take her by the hand and lead her there, because
I can tell her with sincere conviction that there are truth and
goodness.

I find great solace in these thoughts. The greater part of the day
passed miserably enough, because of the consciousness of my impotency
to overcome the obstacles that stand in our, mine and Aniela's, way.
The thought crossed my mind: "Suppose, after all, she loves her
husband?"

Fortunately for me, a visit from Doctor Chwastowski interrupted my
train of thoughts. He had come from Ploszow to consult with one of the
physicians who at some time had attended Pani Celina. Before going
back he had come to see me. He said Pani Celina was still neither
better nor worse, but Pani Kromitzka was confined to her room with a
severe headache. Then he began to speak about Aniela, and I listened
with pleasure, as it seemed in some way to make up for the loss of
seeing her. He spoke intelligently enough, for a young man of so
little experience. He said he had made it a rule to look mistrustingly
upon mankind in general, not because he thought it the right point
of view, but because it was the safest. As to Pani Kromitzka, he was
quite sure hers was a nature of exceptional goodness and nobility.
He spoke of her with a scarcely disguised enthusiasm, and I had some
suspicion he felt more than admiration for her. But this did not
trouble me in the least; there is too great a distance between her and
this young medical student. On the contrary, I felt pleased that
he appreciated her, and asked him to stop as long as he could; his
presence did me good, as it kept me from thinking.

In the course of our conversation I asked about his plans for the
future. He replied that first he must save some money in order to go
abroad and see something of foreign hospitals; afterwards he intended
to settle at Warsaw.

"What do you understand by settling at Warsaw?"

"Work at some of the hospitals, and a possible practice."

"And then you will get married, I suppose?"

"I suppose so; but there is plenty of time for that."

"Unless you meet somebody that subjugates your will; as a doctor you
know that love is a physiological necessity."

Young Chwastowski wants to show himself off as a sober-minded man
above human weaknesses; so he only shrugged his broad shoulders,
smoothed his short-cropped head, and said: "I acknowledge the
necessity; but do not intend to allow it to occupy too large a space
in my life."

He looked very knowing, but I replied gravely: "Considering somewhat
deeper the question of feeling, who knows whether it be worth while to
live for anything else?"

Chwastowski pondered over this a little while.

"No," he said, "I do not agree with you. There are many other objects
in life,--for instance, science, or even social duties. I do not say
anything against matrimony; a man ought to marry for himself as
well as to have children. But matrimony is one thing, and continual
love-making another."

"What is the difference between them?"

"The difference is obvious, sir. We are like ants constructing an
ant-hill. We have our work to do, and not much time to spare for love
and women. That is all very well for those who cannot work, or who do
not want to do anything."

Saying this he looked like a man who speaks in the name of all that is
strongest in the country, and expresses himself well. I looked with
a certain satisfaction at this healthy specimen of mankind, and
acknowledged that, except for a certain touch of youthful arrogance,
he spoke very sensibly.

It is quite true that woman and love do not occupy a large space in
the life of those who work, and those who have before them great
undertakings and serious aims. The peasant marries because such is the
custom, and he wants a housekeeper. There is very little sentiment in
him, although poets and novelists want us to believe the contrary. The
man of science, the statesman, the leader, the politician devote only
a small part of their life to woman. Artists are exceptional. Their
profession brings them in touch with love, for art exists through love
and woman. Generally, it is only in rich communities that woman reigns
supreme and fills the life of those who have no serious work in hand.
She encompasses all their thoughts, becomes the leading motive of
their actions, and the exclusive aim of their exertions. And it cannot
be otherwise. There is myself for instance. The community to which
I belong is not as rich as others, but personally I am rich. These
riches prevented me from doing anything, and I have no fixed aim in
life. It might be different had I been born an Englishman or a German,
and not been handicapped by that _improductivite Slave_. No one of the
compound active principles of civilization attracts me or fills up the
void, for the simple reason that civilization is faint and permeated
with scepticism. If it feels its end is drawing near and doubts
itself, why should I believe in it and devote to it my life? Generally
speaking, I live as if in mid air, with no firm hold upon the earth.
If my disposition were cold and dry, if I were dull of mind or merely
sensuous, I could have limited my life to mere vegetation or animal
enjoyment. But it happened otherwise. I brought with me into the world
a bright intellect, a luxuriant organism, and vital powers of no mean
degree. These forces had to find an outlet, and they could find it
only in the love for a woman. There remained nothing else for me. My
whole misfortune is that, as a child of a diseased civilization, I
grew up crooked; therefore love, too, came to me crooked.

Simplicity of mind would have given me happiness, but what is the use
to speak of it? The hunchback, too, would be glad to get rid of his
hump, but he cannot, because hump-backed he came from his mother's
womb. My hump was caused by the abnormal state of civilization that
brought me into the world. But straight or crooked, I must love, and I
will.


4 May.

My reason is now altogether subservient to feeling, and is, in truth,
like the driver who passively clings to his box, and can do nothing
but watch whether the vehicle will go to pieces. I went back to
Ploszow a few days ago, and all I say and all I do are only the
tactics of love. He is a clever doctor--is Chwastowski--to prescribe
for Aniela exercise in the park. I found her there this morning. There
are moments when the feeling in my heart--though I am always conscious
of it--manifests itself with such extraordinary power that it almost
frightens me by its magnitude. Such a moment I had to-day, when at a
sudden turn of the road I met Aniela. Never had she appeared to me
more beautiful, more desirable, and more as if she were my own. This
is exactly the only woman in the world who by virtue of certain
natural forces, scarcely known by name, was to attract me, as the
magnet attracts iron, to reign over me, to attach me to her, and
become the aim and completion of my life. Her voice, her shape, her
glances intoxicate me. To-day, when I thus unexpectedly met her, I
thought it was not only her personal charm she carried with her, but
the charm of that early morning, that spring and serene weather, the
joy of all the birds and plants,--in fact, she seemed to be more an
incarnation of beauty and nature than a woman. And it struck me then
that, if nature had created her thus that she should react upon me
more than upon any other man, nature had meant her to be mine, and
that my right had been trodden under foot by this marriage. Who knows
whether all the crookedness of the world does not spring from the
non-fulfilment of certain laws, and whether that be not the cause of
the imperfectness of life?

They are wrong who say that love is blind. On the contrary,
nothing--not the smallest detail--escapes its eyes; it sees everything
in the beloved being, notices everything; but melts it all in one
flame in the great and simple "I love." When I came close to Aniela, I
noticed that her eyes were brilliant as if from recent slumber; that
on her face and the light print dress fell the golden rays of the
morning sun filtering through the young leaves; her hair was tied in
a loose knot, and the flowing morning dress showed the outline of her
shoulders and supple waist, and in its very carelessness had a certain
freshness, which enhanced a thousandfold her charm. It did not escape
my notice how much smaller than usual she looked among the tall elm
trees of the avenue,--almost a child; in brief, nothing escaped me,
but all my observations changed into the rapture of one who loves
deliriously. She returned my morning greeting with some confusion. For
the last few days she seems afraid of me, for I hypnotize her with
every glance and word. Her peace of thought is already disturbed, and
the ferment has entered her soul. She cannot help seeing I love her,
but does not own it, not even to herself. Sometimes I have a
sensation as if I were holding a bird in my hand, and heard its heart
palpitating under my fingers. We walked together in embarrassed
silence, which I did not care to interrupt. I know this uneasiness is
oppressive to her; but it renders her my accomplice, and brings me
nearer to the end. In the silence which surrounded us not a sound
was audible but the crunching of the gravel under our feet, and the
whistling of the golden orioles, which are plentiful in the park. I
started at last a conversation. I directed it to suit my plans, for
however much my mind is closed against influences that have no bearing
upon my feeling, within their sphere I have a well-nigh redoubled
presence of mind,--an acuteness of perception, as have those plunged
into a hypnotic trance, and in a given direction see more clearly
than people in their normal state. We passed speedily on to personal
topics. I spoke about myself in the confidential tone in which one
speaks to those nearest, who alone have the right to know everything.
There sprung up between us a whole world of mutual understanding and
thoughts, common to us both. Since such a bond ought to exist by
virtue of marriage,--between her and her husband,--I was leading
her towards spiritual faithlessness by such gradual steps that she
scarcely could be aware of it.