Without Dogma by Henryk Sienkiewicz

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My aunt sent the carriage for the Sniatynskis and Clara very early, in
consequence of which they arrived before noon. The ladies were bright,
cheerful, and chirping like sparrows, glad of the fine weather and
their excursion. What toilets, and what quaint hats! Clara looked
very well in a light, striped dress that made her seem less tall than
usual. I observed that Aniela, after the first greeting, looked at her
searchingly and seemed struck by her beauty, of which I had scarcely
said anything to her. I had not refrained out of calculation, but
had been so occupied with Aniela that I had not thought of it. For
instance, though I had met Pani Sniatynska several times I had never
noticed she wore her hair short, which suits her style of beauty. The
light, curly hair falling over her brow gives her the expression of a
resolute, rosy-faced boy. We are excellent friends again. There was a
time she would have liked to kill me, so angry was she about Aniela.
Evidently her husband had told her what I suffered, and women have
a special weakness for those who suffer for love's sake; she has
forgiven me and reinstalled me in her favor. The presence of such a
bright, vivacious, easy-going woman was a great help in bringing Clara
and Aniela into closer relation. I saw that my aunt met Clara with
great heartiness; but Aniela, in spite of her sweet disposition,
seemed shy, and kept aloof from her. At lunch, amid a cheerful
conversation, she thawed a little. Clara seemed struck by Aniela's
beauty, and as she always says what she thinks, she expressed her
admiration with so much grace and enthusiasm that Aniela had to yield.

Pani Celina, who now perhaps for the first time found herself in
company with an artist, looked gratified, and turning to her said that
"though Aniela's mother, she must say that as a child she was very
pretty,--promising far greater beauty." Both Sniatynskis joined in the
conversation. He began to discuss with Clara various female types,
then spoke of Aniela's type and its aesthetic perfection in a highly
amusing objective manner, as if she were a portrait hanging on the
wall, rather than a living presence. She, listening to this, blushed
and lowered her eyes, truly like a little girl, which made her look
more charming than ever.

I was silent, but inwardly compared these three female faces, treating
them also objectively, that is, putting aside the fact that one of
them was the loved one, and as such occupied an exceptional position;
even then everything spoke in her favor. Pani Sniatynska's, especially
in her short curly hair, is a charming head, yet nothing but what may
be found in any English Keepsake. Clara's beauty rests mainly upon her
calm expression, the blue eyes, and that transparent complexion so
often met with in German women; but for her art, which surrounds her
as with a nimbus, she could only be called a handsome woman. Aniela
is not only an artistic production of an exceedingly noble style as
regards her features, but there is something individual in her that
cannot be measured by any standard. Maybe her individuality rests upon
the fact that, being neither dark nor fair, she gives the physical
impression of a brunette and the spiritual one of a blonde. The cause
of this is perhaps the great abundance of hair on a comparatively
small head; enough that she is unique in her kind. She excels even
Mrs. Davis in this regard, whose beauty was without a flaw, but it was
the beauty of a statue. Mrs. Davis only excited the admiration of my
senses, while Aniela rouses in me the idealist, who goes in rapture
over the poetry of her expression.

But I will not even compare these two so utterly different beings.
I yielded to these reflections during lunch, because the topic in
question had brought me on that track; besides, the analysis of
Aniela's beauty always gives me a keen delight. My aunt interrupted
the discussion, deeming it proper, as lady of the house, to say
something about Clara's last concert. She spoke much and very well;
I never supposed she had such knowledge of music; she paid her some
graceful compliments with the air of a _grande dame_, in that flowing,
winning style only people of the older generation are capable of. In
short, I observed that my downright, outspoken aunt was still able to
recall the times of powder and patches. Clara seemed quite charmed,
and did not remain behind-hand in graceful acknowledgment.

"I shall always be able to play well at Warsaw," she said, "because
I am in touch with my audience, but I play best in small circles of
friends where I feel in sympathy with everybody,--and if you will
permit, I will give you a proof of it after lunch."

My aunt, who was very anxious that Pani Celina should hear her, yet
had misgivings whether it would be right to ask her to play, was much
pleased by the proposal. I began to speak of Clara's performances at
Paris and her triumphs at Erard's concerts; Sniatynski gave an account
of what was said at Warsaw; and so the time passed until we rose from
lunch. Clara herself got hold of Paul Celina's invalid chair and would
not allow anybody to help, declaring laughingly that she was by
far the strongest among us, and was not afraid to tire her hands.
Presently she sat down to the piano, and as evidently Mozart suited
her disposition, she gave us Don Juan. The first notes sounded, she
was a different Clara; not the merry, lively child any longer, but an
incarnate Saint Cecilia. There shone in her the close relationship of
outward form with the spirit of harmony, which surrounded her with a
dignity above common womanhood. I made another observation, namely:
that a man in love can find food for his feelings even in what tells
against the loved woman. When I thought how far my Aniela was from
being a Sybil, saw her sitting in a corner of the drawing-room so
small and still, as if crushed down by some weight, I loved her all
the more, and it made her if possible dearer to me than ever. It also
occurred to me that a woman is not in reality what she appears to
people in general, but such as the man who loves sees her; therefore
her absolute excellence is in proportion to the power of love she
inspires. I had no time to follow out this idea, but it pleased me
because I saw dimly before me the conclusion that in the name of this
excellence the woman ought to give her heart to him who loves her
most.

Clara played superbly. I watched the sensation on the others' faces,
when presently I noticed that Aniela was looking at me for the same
reason. Was it mere curiosity, or an involuntary uneasiness of heart
which could not say what it feared and yet was afraid? I said to
myself: "If the last supposition were true it would be a proof that
she loves me." The thought filled me with joy, and I resolved to find
an answer to it in the course of the day. Thenceforth I bestowed all
my attention upon Clara, and was more attentive to her than I had ever
been before. In the woods whither we had driven, I walked with her,
glancing furtively now and then at Aniela, who remained with the
Suiatynskis. Clara was in rapture with the woods, which are indeed at
their best now, the fresh green of the leafy trees forming a perfect
canopy over the more sombre looking pines.

The sun filtering across the branches converted the earth, carpeted
with ferns and tender mosses, into a delicate golden embroidery. There
were the cheerful voices of spring around us, the cuckoo's call and
the woodpecker's knock-knock at the trees. When we joined the others
I asked Clara to translate into music the voices of spring. She said
there was already a _Fruehlingslied_ singing within her, and she
would try to give it expression. Truly she looked as if the song was
there,--besides she is like a great harp that speaks only in sounds.

Her face was bright with burning blushes; Aniela instead looked
fagged, though she evidently tried to keep up with the Sniatynskis,
who were as lively as a couple of school-children on their holiday.
They began finally to race with each other, and Clara joined in the
sport, which she ought not to have done, considering her size, as the
quick motion was anything but graceful,--nay, almost ridiculous.

When they were thus running after each other I remained alone with
Aniela. According to my plan of operations I was anxious to bring
her mind to full consciousness through the uneasiness with which she
seemed to be oppressed.

"There is something troubling you, Aniela; what is it?" I asked.

"No, nothing whatever."

"It seemed to me as if you were dissatisfied with something; is it
that you do not like Clara?"

"No; I like her very much, and do not wonder she is so much admired."

Further conversation was made impossible by the return of the truants.
It was also time to go back. On the way, Sniatynski asked Clara
whether she felt really satisfied with her stay at Warsaw.

"The best proof I can give you of this is that I do not think of going
away yet," she replied gayly.

"We must try to keep you with us always," I interpolated.

Clara, in spite of the simplicity with which she accepts all that is
said to her, looked questioningly at me, then grew a little confused,
and replied,--"They are all very kind to me here."

I was conscious that my words were in a way dishonorable, as they
might mislead Clara; but all I cared for was the impression they would
make upon Aniela. Unfortunately, I could not see her face, as she was
buttoning her gloves, with her head bent so low that her hat concealed
it from me. This sudden movement seemed to me a good sign.

The elder ladies were awaiting us with the dinner, which lasted until
nine o'clock; and then Clara improvised her _Fruehlingslied_. I am
almost certain that since Ploszow existed there had never been heard
such music within its walls, but I paid very little attention to it.
I sat near her in the dusk, as she did not want the lamps lit.
Sniatynski waved his arm as if it were a baton; which evidently
annoyed his wife, as she pulled his sleeve several times. Aniela sat
quite motionless; maybe she, too, was absorbed in her own thoughts,
and did not listen to the _Fruehlingslied_. I was almost certain she
was thinking about me and Clara, and especially about the meaning of
the words I had said to Clara. It was easy enough to guess that even
if she did not love me, or had the slightest consciousness that my
love was any other but brotherly affection, she would feel sore and
disappointed if that were about to be taken away from her. A woman who
is not happy in her married life clings round any other feeling, if
it be only friendship, as the ivy clings to the tree. I had no doubt
whatever that if at this moment I knelt down at her feet and told her
it was she, and she alone, that I loved, she would feel a sudden joy,
as one feels upon recovering something very precious. And if so, I
debated within me, why not hasten the solution, if only a way could be
found,--frightening her as little as possible, or making her forget
all terror in her joy. I began at once to devise ways and means, as
I understood it must be done in such a way as to make it forever
impossible for her to cast me off. My mind worked very hard at it, as
the problem was not an easy one. Gradually a great emotion stole over
me: and strange to say, it was more on Aniela's account than on my own
that I felt moved,--for I realized suddenly what a great wrench it
would be, and I was afraid for her.

In the mean time it had grown lighter in the drawing-room; the moon
had risen above the trees, and cast luminous shafts across the floor.
The melodies of the _Fruehlingslied_ still filled the air, and the
nightingales responded to it through the open French window. It was
a glorious evening, warm and balmy, and full of harmony and love. I
thought involuntarily that, if life does not give us happiness, it
presents us with a ready frame for it.

In the luminous dusk my eyes searched for Aniela; but she looked at
Clara, who at this moment seemed more a vision than a substantial
being. The moonlight, advancing more and more into the room, rested
now upon her; and in the light dress she looked like the silvery
spirit of music. But the vision did not last long. Clara finished her
song; whereupon Pani Sniatynska rose, and saying it was late, gave the
signal for departure. As the evening was so warm, I proposed we should
see our visitors off as far as the high-road, about half a mile from
our house. I did this on purpose, so as to walk home with Aniela. I
knew she could not well refuse such a mere act of politeness, and I
was also sure my aunt would not go with us.

I gave orders for the carriage to drive on and wait on the road, and
we went on foot through the lime avenue. I offered my arm to Clara,
but we walked all abreast, accompanied by the croaking of the frogs in
the Ploszow mere.

Clara stopped a moment to listen to that chorus, which ceased now and
then, to start afresh with redoubled vigor, and said,--

"This is the finale of my Song of Spring."

"What an exquisite evening!" remarked Sniatynski, and then began to
quote the beautiful lines from the "Merchant of Venice":--

"How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!
Here will we sit and let the sounds of music
Creep in our ears: soft stillness and the night
Become the touches of sweet harmony."

He did not remember the rest, but I did, and took up the strain:--

"Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold:
There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st
But in his motion like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins;
Such harmony is in immortal souls;
But whilst this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it."

Then I repeated to Clara, who does not understand Polish, the lines in
French, improvising the translation. She listened to it, then raised
her eyes heavenward, and said simply,--

"I was always certain there is music in the spheres."

It appeared that Pani Sniatynska was equally certain of it, and
reminded her husband that she had discussed it with him not long
before, but he was not quite sure he remembered; whereupon a slight
matrimonial dispute took place, at which Clara and I laughed. Aniela
had not joined the conversation at all; did she feel hurt that I
had offered my arm to Clara, and paid her some attention? The very
supposition made me feel happy. Yet I tried not to lose my head, and
said to myself, "Do not run away with the idea that she knows what
jealousy means; she is only a little sad and feels lonely, that is
all." I would have given at this moment a whole host of artists such
as Clara for a few words with Aniela,--to tell her that I belong
to her, and only to her. Then Sniatynski began a discussion about
astronomy, of which I heard now and then a few words, though this
science attracts me more than I can tell,--for in its very nature
there is no limit, either in itself or for the human mind; it is
infinite.

We reached at last the end, where our guests mounted into the
carriage. Presently the wheels rattled on the road, the last good-bys
reached our ears, and I was alone with Aniela. We turned homewards,
and for some time walked side by side in silence. The croaking of
the frogs has ceased, and from the distance came the sound of the
watchman's whistle and the loud baying of the dogs. I did not speak to
Aniela, because the silence seemed fraught with deep meaning,--both
our minds being full of the same subject. When about half-way I said
to Aniela,--

"What a pleasant day it has been, has it not?"

"Yes. I never heard such beautiful music before."

"And yet you seemed not in your usual spirits, and though you will not
tell me the cause, I notice every passing cloud on your face."

"You were obliged to look after your guests. You are very kind to
trouble about me, but there is nothing the matter with me."

"To-day as any other day I was occupied with you only, and as a proof
of it let me tell you of what you were thinking to-day." And without
waiting for permission, I went on at once: "You thought I resembled
somewhat the Latysz couple; you thought I had deceived you in speaking
of the void around me; lastly, you thought that I had no need to ask
for your friendship while I was seeking friendship elsewhere. Was it
not so? Tell me the truth."

Aniela replied with evident effort: "If you insist upon knowing--yes,
perhaps it is so. But I ought to be only glad of it."

"What ought you be glad of?"

"Of your mutual friendship with Clara."

"As to our friendship,--I wish her well, that is all. But Clara, like
all other women, is indifferent to me. Do you know why?"

I began to tremble a little, because I perceived that the moment
had come. I waited a moment to see whether Aniela would take up my
question, and then, in a voice I tried to render steady, I said,--

"Surely you must see and understand that my whole being belongs to
you; that I loved you and love you still madly."

Aniela stood still as if turned to stone. By the icy coldness of my
face I felt that I was growing pale; and if the world seemed to totter
under that poor child's feet, it was my life, too, which was at stake.
Knowing with whom I had to deal, I did not give her time to repulse
me. I began to speak very quickly:--

"Do not answer me, for I do not want anything from you. I desire
nothing,--nothing whatever, understand that well. I wanted to tell you
that you have taken my life, and it is henceforth yours, to do with it
what you like. But you have seen yourself that such is the case, and
it matters nothing whether I speak of it or not. I repeat that I
desire nothing, nor do I expect anything. You cannot repulse me,
because I repulse myself. I only tell you as I might tell a friend, a
sister. I come and complain to you, because I have nowhere else to
go, that I love a woman that belongs to somebody else,--love her to
distraction,--oh, Aniela!--and without limit!"

We were near the gate, but still in the deep shadow of the trees. For
a moment I had the delusion that she was leaning towards me like
a broken flower, that I might snatch her into my arms; but I was
mistaken.

Aniela, recovering from the sudden shock, began suddenly to say, with
a kind of nervous energy I had not suspected in her,--

"I will not listen to this, Leon. I will not; I will not; I will not!"

And she ran into the moonlit courtyard. Yes; she ran away from my
words,--my confession. Presently she disappeared within the portico,
and I remained alone with a feeling of unrest, fear, and great pity
for her, and triumph at the same time that the words which should be
the beginning of a new life for us both had been spoken. For, to say
the truth, I could not expect anything else from her at first; but the
seed from which something must spring up was sown.

When I came into the house there was no Aniela visible. I found
only my aunt, walking up and down the room muttering her rosary and
soliloquizing between the prayers. I said good-night, and went at once
to my room thinking that it would calm me if I put down the day's
impressions; but it only tired me more. I intend to go away to-morrow,
or rather to-day, for I see the daylight coming through the window. I
want to confirm Aniela in the conviction that I expect nothing from
her,--want her to calm down and get familiar with what I told her. But
to confess the whole truth, I go away also because I am afraid to meet
her so soon, and would fain put it off. There are moments when
it seems to me a monstrous deed to have introduced an element of
corruption in this pure atmosphere. But does not the principal evil
lie in her marrying a man she cannot love? What is more immoral, my
love which is a manifestation of nature's great law, or the belonging
of Aniela to that man, which is a shameful breaking of the same law?
And I, who understand this so clearly, am yet so weak that a horror
seizes me when I kick against that corrupt morality. But all these
scruples melt like snow at the words, "I love." If even now my heart
feels sore at the thought that at this very moment she may be awake,
weeping perhaps, or torn by doubts, it is only another proof how I
love her. It hurts me, and at the same time I do not see how otherwise
we can arrive at happiness.

19 May.

The first night after my arrival I slept profoundly. At Ploszow I
grudged every moment that kept me from Aniela, and during the night I
was writing; consequently I felt deadly tired. And now I feel still
heavy, but am able to think. I am somewhat ashamed that I ran away and
left Aniela alone to bear the burden of my confession; but when the
beloved woman is in question, a little cowardice is not dishonorable.
Besides, I should not have fled had it not been necessary for the
future weal of my love. Now, every day when she rises and says her
prayers, walks in the park or attends her sick mother, she must, if
ever so unwillingly, say to herself, "He loves me," and the thought
will gradually become familiar, less terrifying to her. Human nature
gets accustomed to everything, and a woman soon becomes reconciled to
the thought that she is loved, especially when she returns that love.
This question, "Does she love me?" I put to myself the first time when
I knew I loved her still; and again I turn it over in my mind, try to
weigh all the circumstances as if somebody else's fate were at stake,
and I arrive at the conviction that it cannot be otherwise. When she
married she loved me, not Kromitzki; she only yielded to him her hand
driven by despair. If she had married a superior man who dazzled her
by his fame, his thoughts, or exceptional character, she might have
forgotten me. But how could a Kromitzki, with his money-grubbing
neurosis, get hold of her affection? Besides, he left her soon after
they were married; he sold Gluchow, which was as the very apple of the
eye to these two women. Judging Kromitzki quite impartially, there
was nothing in him which could win a being full of ideal impulses and
feelings. Then I came back,--I, whom she had loved. I touched the
chords of her heart with memories of the past, by every word and
glance. I drew her towards me, not only with that skill an experience
of life gives, but also with that magnetic force true love bestows on
man. Adding to this the fact that she knew how much I suffered when I
sent Sniatynski to her, she must have pitied me, and that pity cannot
have vanished altogether. I play for my life, but the cards are in my
favor. I cannot lose the game.

I am as much in my right as anybody who is defending his life. I do
not say this upon the impulse of the moment, but after calm reasoning.
I have no convictions, no beliefs, no principles, no stable ground
under my feet, for the ground has been undermined by criticism and
reflection. I have only those forces of life born with us, and they
are all concentrated on one woman. Therefore I clutch my love as a
drowning man clutches a plank; if this gives way there will be nothing
left to live for. If common-sense asks, "Why did you not marry
Aniela?" I say what I have said before: I did not marry her simply for
the reason that I am not straight, but crooked,--partly because born
so, partly because so reared by those two nurses, Reflection and
Criticism. Why this woman and no other should be my plank of
salvation, I do not know. Most likely because it was she and not
another. It did not depend upon me.

If she were free to-day, I would stretch my hands out for her without
hesitation; if she had never been married, who knows?--I am ashamed
of the thought, and yet it may be that she would not be so desirable.
Most likely, judging by the past, I should have gone on watching her,
watching my own feelings, until somebody else carried her off; but I
prefer not to think of it, because it makes me inclined to swear.

20 May.

I considered to-day what would happen if I gained Aniela's love, or
rather brought her to confess it. I see happiness before me but no way
of reaching it. I know that if in presence of these women I uttered
the word "divorce," they would think the roof was crashing down over
our heads. There cannot be even a question as to that, because my
aunt's and Pani Celina's ideas upon that point are such that neither
of them would survive the shock. I have no illusions as to Aniela; her
ideas are the same. And yet the moment she owns her love, I will say
the word, and she must accustom herself to it; but we shall have to
wait until my aunt's and Pani Celina's death. There is nothing else
for it. Kromitzki will either agree willingly or he will not. In the
latter case I shall carry Aniela off, if I have to go as far as the
Indies, and the divorce, or rather invalidation of the marriage, I
shall conduct myself, in spite of his wishes. Fortunately, there is no
want of means. As regards myself, I am ready for everything, and the
inward conviction that I am right justifies me in my own eyes. This
time it is not a mere love intrigue, but a feeling that absorbs my
whole being. Its sincerity and strength make all my stratagems lawful.
I know that I deceive her in saying that all I wish to gain is a
sister's love. I deceive her when I say I do not desire anything; all
this would be wrong and a lie if my love were in itself a lie. In
presence of a great truth, they are mere diplomatic stratagems of
love. It all belongs to the course of love. It is a known fact that
even affianced lovers have recourse to stratagems, in order to make
each other confess their love. As to myself, I am sincere even when I
say what is not true.

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