Without Dogma by Henryk Sienkiewicz

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"Everything may be proved in some way or other; but when we do wrong
our conscience tells us, 'It is wrong, wrong!' and nothing can
convince it to the contrary."

Young Chwastowski must have thought Aniela wanting in philosophical
development, and as to myself I had a sensation like that, for
instance, when a weapon comes into contact with a stone wall. Aniela's
reply, in its simplicity and dogmatism, brought to naught all my
arguments. For if the principle that the will ends where love steps in
might be open to doubt, there is no doubt whatever that where dogma
begins reasoning ceases. Women generally, and Polish women especially,
agree with logic as long as it does not bring them into danger. At the
approach of danger they shelter themselves behind the fortifications
of simple faith and catechismal truth, which strong feeling might
force to surrender, but reasoning, never. It is their weakness, and at
the same time their strength. In consequence of this their power of
reasoning is weaker than man's, but their saintliness in certain
conditions becomes unassailable. The devil can lead a woman astray
only when he inspires her with love; by way of reasoning he can do
nothing, even if for once he has the right on his side.

In presence of these reflections I feel disheartened. I am thinking
that any structure, however cleverly and artfully raised by me, will
be pulled down by the simple words: "It is wrong; conscience does not
permit it."

In presence of that I am powerless. I must be very careful so as
not to estrange or frighten her by the boldness of ideas I try to
acclimatize in her mind. And yet I cannot give up all endeavors of
this kind. Though they do not occupy the first place in the plan of
subduing her, they may hasten the solution. They would be of no use
whatever if it were true that she did not love me. If I had made a
mistake,--but even then there would be some kind of solution.

29 May.

To-day I found Aniela standing on a chair before the old Dantzic clock
which had gone wrong. At the moment she raised herself on tip-toe to
reach the hands, the chair gave way. I had only time to cry out, "Take
care! you are falling!" I caught her in my arms, and put her on the
floor. For the twinkling of an eye I held the dear girl in my arms,
her hair touched my face, her breath fanned my cheek. I felt so dizzy
that I had to steady myself by grasping the back of a chair,--and she
saw it. She knows I love her madly. I cannot write any more.

30 May.

My whole day was poisoned, for Aniela has received another letter from
Kromitzki. I heard her telling my aunt that he does not know himself
when he will be able to return,--may be shortly, or it may be two
months hence. I cannot even imagine how I shall be able to bear his
presence near Aniela. At times it seems that I simply could not bear
it. I count upon some lucky chance that will prevent his coming back.
Chwastowski says Pani Celina ought to go to Gastein as soon as she can
bear the journey. Gastein is such a distance from Baku that it may be
too far for Kromitzki to go. I shall go there as sure as there is a
heaven above us. It is a happy thought of Chwastowski's; the baths
will do us all much good. I too feel fagged and in want of bracing
mountain air, and still more in want of being near Aniela. To-morrow I
shall go to Warsaw, and send a telegram to the manager of the bathing
establishment to secure rooms for the ladies. If no rooms are to be
had, I am ready to buy a villa. When Pani Celina spoke of the trouble
and difficulties it would give Aniela were she to go there, I only
said: "Leave it all to me;" and then, in a lower voice, to Aniela: "I
will take care of her as if she were my own mother." I saw that Pani
Celina, who believes less and less in Kromitzki's millions, was afraid
I might arrange things on too expensive a scale; but I have already
settled it in my mind to show her a fictitious agreement, and take the
greater part of the expenses upon myself. Of course, I never mentioned
that I intended going there myself. I will arrange it so that the
proposal shall come from my aunt. I am quite sure that, as soon as I
unfold my plans of going somewhere in the hills to recruit my health,
the good soul will fall into the trap, and say: "Why not go with them?
it will be more comfortable for all of you." I know it will frighten
Aniela, and in the most secret recess of her heart please her a
little. Maybe it will remind her of the poet's line, "You are
everywhere: above me, around me, and within me." Then truly, my love
will surround her as with an enchanted circle, enter her heart in the
guise of thoughtfulness towards the mother,--in the guise of little
services she cannot refuse without exciting her mother's suspicions;
all this will gradually sink into her heart, in the guise of gratitude
and pity for my sufferings, will thrust itself upon her with all the
force of old memories.

She hears my praises sung by everybody: by my aunt, who loves me
blindly as she always did; by young Chwastowski, who, to show the
impartiality people of his opinions are capable of, maintains I am an
exception in the "rotten sphere." I have even won over Pani Celina
by my attentions; she likes me now, and involuntarily, I dare say,
regrets that I am not Aniela's husband. All around Aniela there is one
great suggestion of love.

And you, dearest, are you going to resist all these powers? When will
you come and tell me: "I cannot hold out any longer; take me,--I love
you"?

Warsaw, 31 May.

Pani L., the patroness of a charitable institution, asked Clara to
give another concert for the benefit of the destitute. Clara refused
on the plea that she is busy upon a great musical work that engages
all her attention. The letter,--a very pattern of polite refusal,--was
accompanied by exactly the same sum of money the first concert had
brought in. It is easy to imagine what a sensation this act of
generosity made in Warsaw. The papers were full of it, raising the
musician and her generosity to the sky. Naturally, her private means,
which are considerable, gained in dimensions. I do not know how
society came to couple our names; perhaps, our acquaintance, dating
from a long time, our intimacy, and the exaggerated news of her wealth
gave rise to the rumor. I was at first a little angry on hearing this;
but upon maturer reflection, resolved not to give any direct denial,
because this puts my attentions towards Aniela beyond all suspicion.

When I went to Clara's morning reception, Pani Korytzka came up to me,
and, with that witty, aggressive air of hers, asked me in presence of
some dozen people from the musical world and Warsaw society, in an
audible voice,--

"Tell me, cousin, who was that mythological person that could not
resist the Siren?"

"Nobody resisted, _ma cousine_, except Ulysses; and he only because he
was tied to the mast."

"And why have you not taken these precautions?"

I saw some covert smiles lurking in the faces of those who witnessed
the attack, and I retorted,--

"Sometimes even that is of no use. You know that love sunders the
strongest ties."

In spite of all her self-possession, Pani Korytzka grew confused,
and I gained one of those tiny victories which are comprised in the
proverb, "The scythe hit upon a stone," or in plain English, "The
biter bit."

Whether people repeat to each other that I am going to marry Clara or
not, does not trouble me in the least; in fact, for the above stated
reason I do not mind it at all; but I did not expect that this visit
would turn out so unpleasant, and Clara herself be the cause of it.
When all the people had left, and only Sniatynski and I remained, she
sat down to the piano, and played her new concerto,--played it so
magnificently that we could not find words to express our admiration;
repeating at our request the finale, she said, suddenly,--

"This is my farewell, because everything comes to a finale."

"Surely you are not thinking of leaving us?" asked Sniatynski.

"Yes, in ten days at the furthest I must be at Frankfurt," replied
Clara.

Thereupon Sniatynski turned to me,--

"And what do you say to that,--you who at Ploszow gave us to
understand, made us hope, Miss Hilst would remain with us always?"

"Yes; and I say the same now: her memory will always remain with us."

"Yes; I understood it so," replied Clara, with naive resignation.

Inwardly I was furious,--with myself, Sniatynski, and Clara. I am
neither so vain, foolish, nor mean that every conquest of that kind
should rejoice me; therefore felt annoyed at the thought that Clara
might love me, and nourish some baseless hopes. I knew she had some
kind of undefined feeling, which, given time and occasion, might
develop into something more lasting; but I had no idea this vague
feeling dared to wish or expect something. It suddenly struck me that
the announcement of her departure was prompted by a desire to find out
how I would receive the news. I received it very coolly. A love like
mine for Aniela ought to teach compassion; yet Clara's sadness and the
mention of her departure, not only did not move me, but seemed to me
an audacious flight of fancy and an insult to me.

Why? Not from any aristocratic notions; that is certain. I could
not account at once for the strange phenomenon; but now explain it
thus,--the feeling of belonging to Aniela is so strong and exclusive
that it seems to me that any other woman wanting but one pulsation of
my heart endeavors to steal something that is Aniela's property. This
explanation is sufficient for me. No doubt, by and by I shall bid
Clara good-by, and feel as friendly as ever towards her; but the
sudden announcement of her departure gave me a distaste for her. It is
only Aniela who may with impunity trample on my nerves. Never did I
look at Clara so critically and resentfully; for the first time
I became fully aware of the amplitude of her figure, the bright
complexion, the dark hair, and blue, somewhat protruding eyes, the
lips like ripe cherries,--in brief, her whole beauty reminded me of
the cheap chromo-lithographs of harem beauties in second-class hotels.
I left her in the worst of humors, and went straight to a book-shop to
select some books for Aniela.

For a week I had been thinking what to choose for her reading. I did
not wish to neglect anything, though I did not attach undue weight
to this, as it acts very slowly. Besides, I have noticed that to
our women, though their imagination is more developed than their
temperament, a book is always something unreal. If it falls even into
the hands of an exceptionally susceptible person, it creates in her
at the most an abstract world, that has no connection with real life
whatever. To almost none of them it occurs that ideas taken from books
can be applied to any practical purpose. I am convinced that if a
great writer tried to prove, for instance, that purity of thought and
mind were not only superfluous in a woman, but even blameworthy from
a moral point of view,--Aniela would opine that the principle might
apply to the whole world with the exception of herself. The utmost I
can hope for is that the reading of appropriate books will render her
familiar with a certain kind of broad views and thoughts. That is all
I wish for. Loving her from my whole soul, I want her to respond to
that love, and do not neglect any means towards that end. I, who never
deceive myself, confess openly that I want Aniela to sacrifice for me
her husband, but I do not want to corrupt her or to soil her purity.
Let nobody tell me that this is a sophism, and that the one includes
the other. The tormenting devil that is always within me raising
difficulties says: "You create new theories; the way of faithlessness
_is_ the way of corruption." How these conflicting thoughts tear me
to pieces! I reply to the familiar spirit: "I might doubt opposite
theories quite as much; I contrive what I can in defence of my
love,--it is my natural law." And there is a greater law still, the
law of love. Some feelings are mean and commonplace, others lofty and
full of nobility. A woman that follows the call of lofty feeling does
not lose the nobility of her soul. Such a great, exceptional love I
try to awake in Aniela, and therefore I may say conscientiously that I
do not want to corrupt her.

Besides, these inward arguments do not lead to anything. Even if I had
not the slightest doubt that I am doing wrong, if I were unable to
give any conclusive answer to the tormenting spirit, I would not cease
loving; and always following where a greater power leads me, I should
go according to my feeling, and not according to abstract reasoning.

But the true misfortune of those analytic and hyper-analytic modern
people is that, though not believing in the result of their analysis,
they have the invincible habit of inquiring into everything that goes
on within themselves. It is the same with me. For some time I have
been questioning myself how it is possible that a man absorbed by a
great feeling should be able to be so watchful, so calculating about
ways and means, and to account for everything as if somebody else did
it for him. I could reply to it in this way: The man of the period
reserves above everything part of himself to observe the other
part. Besides, the whole activity of a mind full of forethought, of
reflections apparently cool, stands eventually in proportion to the
temperature of the feeling. The hotter this grows, the more cool
reason is forced into service. I repeat, it is a mistake to represent
love with bandaged eyes. Love does not suppress reason, as it does
not suppress the breathing, or the beating of the heart,--it only
subjugates it. Reason thereupon becomes the first adviser, the
implement of war,--in other words, it plays the part of an Agrippa to
a Caesar Augustus. It is holding all the forces in readiness, leads
them into war, gains victories, and places the monarch on the
triumphal car; it erects finally,--not a Pantheon, like the historical
Agrippa,--but a Monotheon, where it serves its only divinity. In the
microcosm called man, the part reason plays is a still greater one
than that of chief commander,--for it reflects into infinite parts the
consciousness of everything and of self,--as a collection of properly
arranged mirrors reflect a given object infinitely.

1 June.

Yesterday I received news from Gastein. The rooms for Pani Celina and
Aniela are ready. I sent them the particulars, together with a parcel
of books by Balzac and George Sand. To-day is Sunday, and the first
day of the races. My aunt has arrived from Ploszow and taken up her
abode with me. That she went to the races is a matter of course,
she is altogether absorbed in them. But our horses, Naughty Boy and
Aurora, which arrived here two days ago with the trainer Webb and Jack
Goose, the jockey, are on the list for Thursday; therefore my aunt's
attendance at the Sunday races was merely a platonic affair. The
goings on here are past all description. The stables have been
converted into a kind of fortress. My aunt fancies the jockeys of
other racing studkeepers shake in their shoes at the very mention of
Naughty Boy, and are ready to use every means to prevent his running;
consequently in every orange boy or organ grinder that comes into the
yard, she sees an enemy in disguise, bent upon some evil practice. The
Swiss porter and the servants have strict orders to keep an eye upon
everybody that comes in. In the stables, the precautions taken are
still stricter. The trainer Webb, being an Englishman, remains
impassive, but the unfortunate Jack Goose, a native of Burzany, and
whose name is a literal translation from the Polish Kuba Gonsior,
fairly loses his head; my aunt scolds him and the grooms, natives also
of Burzany, whenever she fancies things are going wrong. She was so
much at the stables that I did not see much of her, and only when
departing she told me that Aniela was to come for the races. I suppose
Pani Celina consented to this in order to please my aunt; besides, she
can very well remain alone for one day, with the doctor and the maids
to look after her. Aniela, who is walled up at Ploszow day after day,
really wants a little change. For me this is joyful news indeed. The
very thought that she will be under my roof has a singular charm for
me. Here I began to love her and maybe her heart kept beating a little
faster after that entertainment my aunt gave here in her honor.
Everything here will remind her of the past.

2 June.

It is fortunate I did not have the rooms altered to suit a museum. I
have an idea to give a dinner-party after the races. In this way I
shall be able to keep her here a few hours longer,--and besides, she
will understand that it is all for her.

3 June.

I ordered a cartload of plants and flowers to put along the staircase
and in the rooms. Aniela's room remains exactly as it was when she
occupied it. I suppose the ladies will arrive in the morning and
Aniela will want to change her dress. I had a large mirror put there,
and every requisite for a lady's toilet. Aniela will meet everywhere
proofs of thoughtfulness, memory, and faithful love. Only now, while
writing, it strikes me how much easier I feel when occupied with
something, when outward activity takes me out of the enchanted circle
of reflection and pondering over myself. Even driving nails into
the wall for the pictures of the future museum would be better than
twisting one idea around another. Why cannot I be a simple-minded man?
If I had been that in times gone by I should be now the happiest man
in the world.

4 June.

I went to-day to invite the Sniatynskis and several other people to
dinner. Sniatynski has spread the news of my founding a museum for the
public, and I am at present the hero of the day. All the papers write
about it, improving the occasion as usual by pitching into those that
waste their substance abroad instead of doing good to the country.
I know their style so well, and it amuses me. There are the usual
phrases about a citizen's duties and "noblesse oblige," but it suits
my purpose. I gathered the whole packet to show my aunt and Aniela.

5 June.

The races have been fixed a day sooner because of to-morrow's holiday.
Aniela and my aunt arrived this morning with a maid and sundry boxes
containing their racing toilets. The first glance at Aniela filled me
with terror. She does not look well at all; her face is wan and
has lost its former warm color; it seems smaller too, and there is
something misty about her that reminds me of Puvis de Chawannes'
figures. My aunt and her mother do not notice it, because they see her
every day; but to me, after the absence of a few days, the change is
very remarkable. I am seized with contrition and sincere pity. It is
evident that the inward struggle is telling upon her. If she would
only end it, and follow the dictates of a heart that is mine,--a
hundred times mine and pleads for me,--all her troubles would
cease and happiness begin. I am getting deeper and deeper into the
quicksands. It seemed to me that I knew her so well; every detail and
every feature stands out before my eyes when I do not see her, and yet
when I meet her, after a few days' absence, I discover a new charm,
and find something new I like in her. How she satisfies my every
taste, and I am deeply conscious that she is my type,--my only
affinity. This consciousness gives me a belief, half mystic, half
approaching the natural hypothesis, that she was meant for me. When
hearing the sound of wheels, I ran down to meet her, and again had the
sensation one might call falling under the spell; again the reality
seemed to me more perfect than the picture I carry in my heart. She
was dressed in a dust-cloak of Chinese silk; a long gray veil was
twisted round her hat and tied under her chin, and from amid that
frame the dear face, always more like a girl's than a married woman's,
smiled at me. Her greeting was more cheerful and more frank than
usual; it was evident the morning drive and the prospect of a little
pleasure had brightened her spirits; this filled me with delight. I
thought, "She is glad to see me again, and Ploszow appears to her dull
and empty without me." I offered one arm to my aunt and the other to
Aniela, as the staircase is wide enough for three persons, and led
them upstairs. At the sight of all the plants and flowers she uttered
a little cry of wonder.

"It is my surprise," I said.

I pressed her arm slightly, so slightly that it might have passed for
an accidental movement, and then turning to my aunt, said:--

"I am giving a dinner in honor of the Ploszowski success."

My aunt was deeply gratified with my belief in that event. Ah! if she
knew how little I care for Naughty Boy, and all the races the Ploszow
horses might win on all the race-courses of Europe. Aniela evidently
guessed something of this, but she was in such spirits that she only
cast a passing glance at me, and bit her lips to hide a smile.

I well-nigh lost my head. In the covert smile I saw a shade of
coquetry I had never noticed there before. It is impossible, I
thought, that she should have no vanity whatever, and not feel
flattered in the least, on perceiving that all I am doing is done
through her and for her sake.

My aunt divested herself of her travelling-wraps, and without delay
went to inspect Naughty Boy and Aurora, and I showed Aniela the list
of the invited guests.

"I tried to bring together people you like; but if there is anybody
else you would like to have, I will go myself, or send an invitation."

"Show it to aunty;" replied Aniela, "let her decide."

"No; aunty will sit at the head of the table, and we shall go to her
with our congratulations or condolences, as the case may be; but the
part of lady of the house I have assigned to you."

Aniela blushed a little, and, trying to change the conversation,
said:--

"Leon, I do hope Naughty Boy will win; aunty has set her heart upon
it, and will be so vexed if it should turn out otherwise."

"I have won already, because I have as guest under my roof a certain
small person who is sitting opposite me."

"You are making fun; but I am really anxious about it."

"My aunt," I replied, more seriously, "will have some compensation if
she loses. My collections will be in Warsaw in a few weeks, and this
has been the dearest wish of her life. She always tried to make my
father give them to the town. All the papers are full of it, and
praise me to an extent you have no idea of."

The dear face lit up with pleasure.

"Show me; read it to me," she said eagerly.

I had a desire to kiss her hands for that glimpse of brightness. It
was a new proof. If I were indifferent to her, would she rejoice so
much when I am praised?

"Not now," I replied. "I will read it when my aunt comes back, or
rather she must read it, and I will hide my blushes behind you; you,
at least, shall not see how foolish I look."

"Why should you look foolish?"

"Because the thing is not worth all the fuss, and if there be any
merit in it, it is yours, not mine. They ought to praise you. I would
give a good deal if I could tell those journalists: 'If you think well
of it, go _en masse_ and kneel at certain little feet and pour out
your gratitude there!'"

"Leon! Leon!" interrupted Aniela.

"Now do not say a word, lest I should feel tempted to divulge the
great secret."

Aniela did not know what to say. The words were those of a man in
love; but the tone was so playful and jesting that she could not
possibly receive them in a tragic spirit.

I was glad I had discovered a way by which I could convey a deeper
meaning without absolutely frightening her. But I did not take too
much advantage of it, and presently, in a more serious tone, began
telling her about the projected changes in the house.

"The whole story is to be given up to the collections, with the
exception of the room in which you lived last winter. This remains as
it was. I have only permitted myself to adorn it a little for your
reception."

Saying this I led her to the door. Standing on the threshold she
exclaimed with astonishment:--

"Oh, what lovely flowers!"

I said in a low voice:--

"And you the most lovely among them!"

Then added, earnestly:--

"You believe me, Aniela, if I tell you that it is in this room I wish
to die some day!"

Oh, how much sincerity there was in these words. Aniela's face grew
misty; all the radiance had gone. I saw that my words had touched a
chord, as all words do that come from the depth of the soul. For
a moment her whole body swayed as if some inward power pushed her
towards me. But she resisted still. She stood before me, her eyes
veiled by the long lashes, and said, with mournful dignity:--

"Let me be at ease with you, Leon; do not sadden me."

"Very well, Aniela; I will not say anything more; here is my hand upon
it."

I gave her my hand, and she pressed it warmly, as if by that pressure
she wanted to say all she forbade her lips to utter. It indemnified me
for all I had suffered, and almost made me stagger on my feet. For
the first time I felt distinctly that I was taking for my own this
being,--body and soul. It was a sensation of such immeasurable
happiness as to cause me almost pain. New, unknown worlds began
to open for me. From this moment I grew quite convinced that her
resistance was only a question of time.

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