Without Dogma by Henryk Sienkiewicz

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It is the old story again of the intelligent man who, given up by the
doctors, goes for advice to quacks and wise women. I want to kill my
enemy by hypnotism; and as it only shows my own worthlessness, it is I
who suffer by it. I must also confess that as often as I am alone, I
begin to think of all possible means in human power to put the hateful
man out of the way. For some time I nursed the thought of killing him
in a duel; but this would not lead to anything. Aniela would never
marry the man who had killed her husband; then, like a common
criminal, I began to think of other ways. And what is the strangest
thing of all, I discovered ways which human justice would not be able
to detect. Foolishness! vain thoughts! pure theory!

Kromitzki need have no fear for his life; thoughts like these will
never be acted upon. I should not kill him if I could do it without
more responsibility than is incurred in crushing a spider; should not
kill him if we two were alone together on a desert island. If one
could divide the human brain as one cuts in two an apple, and lay
bare its thoughts, it would be found that mine is honeycombed with
murderous thoughts. What is more, I am well aware that if I refrain
from killing Kromitzki it is not by reason of any moral principle
contained in the law "Thou shalt do no murder." This law I have
already violated morally. I refrain from killing him because some
remnants of chivalric tradition bar my way; because my refined nerves
would not permit me to commit a brutal deed; in short, I am too far
removed from primitive man to be physically competent to the task,
though morally I slay him every day. And now I ask myself whether, in
presence of a higher judgment, I should be held responsible, as if I
had committed the deed.

It may be that if one could lay open the human brain, as I said
before, in the most virtuous individual thoughts would be found to
make our hair stand on end. I remember that, when a little boy, there
came upon me a period of such religious fervor that I prayed from
morning until night; and at the same time, in the midst of my pious
transports, there came into my mind blasphemous thoughts, as if an
evil wind had blown them thither, or a demon whispered them into my
ear. In the same way I had irreverent thoughts about persons whom
I loved with all my heart and for whom I would have given my life
without a moment's hesitation. I remember that this, which I might
call a tragedy of childhood, cost me a great deal of anguish. But I
will not dwell upon that now. Going back to blasphemous or criminal
thoughts, I do not think we are responsible for them, as they come
from the knowledge of evil, not from an evil growing within the
organism itself; and for the very reason that it is outward to
ourselves we fancy an evil spirit suggesting the thoughts. Man listens
to it, and being averse to evil, spurns it; and there may be some
merit in this. But with me it is different. The thought of getting rid
of Kromitzki does not come from the outside, but springs from me and
exists within me. I have come down to that morally, and if I do not
commit the deed it is a mere matter of nerves. The part of my inward
Mephistopheles is confined to mocking and whispering into my ear that
the deed would only prove my energy, and not be much of a crime.

These are the crossways on which I never dreamed of finding myself.
I look into the depths of my own self with amazement. I do not know
whether my exceptional troubles will partly atone for my errors, but
one thing I know, namely: that he whose life cannot find room in
the simple code Aniela and others like her cling to, if his soul is
brimming over and breaks its bounds it must mix with dust and be
polluted in the mud.

9 July.

To-day in the reading-room Kromitzki pointed out to me an Englishman
accompanied by a very beautiful woman, and told me their story. The
beauty is a Roumanian by birth and married a Wallachian bankrupt
Boyar, from whom the Englishman simply bought her at Ostend. I have
heard of similar transactions at least a dozen times. Kromitzki even
mentioned the sum the Englishman had given for her. The story made a
strange impression upon me. I thought to myself, "This is one way,
however disgraceful for the seller and buyer; it is a simple method of
obtaining a desired result. The woman concerned in it need not know
anything about the transaction, and the agreement could be concealed
under decent appearances." Involuntarily I began to apply the idea to
our own situation. Suppose it answered. The whole thing presented
itself to me under two aspects: in regard to Aniela as a horrible
profanation; in regard to Kromitzki, not only as feasible, but at the
same time gratifying my scorn and hatred for him. If he agreed to it,
he would prove himself a villain, and show what kind of man he is, and
what a monstrous thing has been done in giving Aniela to him. I should
then be quite justified in all my endeavors to take her from him. But
would he agree? I said to myself: "You hate him, and consequently
believe him capable of any evil." But thinking of him objectively, I
remembered that the man had sold his wife's property, had deceived
her and Pani Celina, and also that the ruling passion of his life was
greed for gain. It was not I alone who considered him as one wholly
possessed by the gold fever. Sniatynski thought the same, and so do
my aunt and Pani Celina. This kind of moral disease always leads into
pitfalls. I understand that much will depend upon the state of his
affairs. How they stand nobody seems to know, unless it be his agent
Chwastowski. It suddenly struck me that I might get some information
from this same Chwastowski, but that would take some time. Perhaps I
will run over to Vienna and see his brother the doctor, who is working
in the Vienna hospitals; the brothers are sure to correspond with each
other. My aunt thinks that he is not doing as well as he wants us
to believe, and I imagine that he has sunk all his money in
some speculation from which he expects a great profit. Will he
succeed?--that is the question. He himself does not know; hence
his restlessness, and the multitude of letters he sends to young
Chwastowski. In the mean while I will sound him cautiously, lest I
should rouse his suspicions, as to what he thinks of the Boyar who
sold his wife to the Englishman. I do not suppose for a moment that
he will be quite sincere, but I will help him and guess the rest. The
whole sum and substance of this is, that it has put a little more life
into me. There is nothing more horrible than to suffer passively; and
anything that rouses me from my apathy is acceptable. I repeat to
myself, "At least to-morrow and the day after, you will have something
to do to further your plans;" and that promises a transition from
utter passiveness to a feverish activity. I must be doing something;
it is a question of not losing control over my senses. I pledged my
word to Aniela not to attempt my life, and I cannot go on living as I
do. If the road I am taking be ignominious, the ignominy will be for
Kromitzki more than for me. I must and will separate them, not only
for my own sake but also for Aniela's sake. I am really feverish.
Everybody seems to derive some benefit from the bathing except me.

10 July.

There are some hot days even in Gastein. What heat! Aniela is dressed
in white soft flannel, such as English girls wear for lawn-tennis. We
have our breakfast in the open air. She comes from her bath as bright
and fresh as the snow at sunrise. The supple figure shows to great
advantage in the graceful dress. The morning light falls upon her and
shows distinctly every hair on the eyebrows, lashes, and the delicate
down on either side of her face. The hair is glistening with
moisture and looks fairer in this light, and the eyelids are almost
transparent. How young she is, and how intoxicating her appearance! In
her, then, is my life, in her everything I want. I will not go away, I
cannot. Looking at her I seem to lose my senses from intoxication, and
at the same time from pain; for close by her side sits he who is her
husband. It cannot continue thus; let her belong to no one provided
she be not his. She understands to a certain extent what I suffer, but
not altogether. She does not love her husband, but considers it her
duty to live with him. I gnash my teeth at the very thought, for in
admitting his rights she degrades herself; and that is not allowed,
even to her. Far better she were dead. Then she will be mine; because
the lawful husband will remain behind, but not I. By this token I am
more lawfully hers than he is.

There is something very strange going on within me at times. For
instance, when I am very tired or when my mind is concentrated upon
one point I seem to look into the future, into far-away space which
remains invisible to me in a normal state. Then there comes to me such
a conviction that Aniela belongs to me--that in some way she is or
will be mine--that when I wake up I have to remind myself that there
exists such a man as Kromitzki. Maybe in moments like those I cross
the boundary which separates the living from the dead, and have a
vision of things more perfect, such as the ideals we dream about,
as they might shape themselves in outward form. Why is it these two
worlds are not more in touch with each other? As often as I try to
solve this problem I lose myself; I cannot understand this want of
harmony, but feel dimly that therein lie our imperfection and our
misery. The thought comforts me, for in the ideal world Aniela could
not belong to a man like Kromitzki.

11 July.

Another disappointment, another plan shattered, but I have still hope
that all is not lost. I spoke to-day with Kromitzki about the Boyar
who sold his wife, and invented a whole story in order to discover his
real feelings. We met the Englishman with his purchased wife near the
Cascades. I began by praising her beauty, and then remarked:--

"The doctor here told me something about the transaction, and I think
you are a little hard upon the Boyar."

"Hard upon him? not a bit; he amuses me intensely," he replied.

"There are extenuating circumstances in the case. He is not only a
Boyar, but the owner of extensive tannery works. Suddenly, because of
the infection, the importation of skins from Roumania was forbidden.
The man recognized that unless he could tide over the time until the
law was repealed he would be ruined, and with him hundreds of families
to whom he gave employment. My dear fellow, he looked at it from
a business point of view; perhaps business morality is a little
different from general morality, and as he had once entered into
that--"

"He had a right to sell his wife? To fulfil one part of his duties he
had no right to trample upon another and perhaps more binding duty."

Kromitzki could not have disappointed me more thoroughly than by thus
showing some decent feeling. But I did not give up my hope at once.
I know that even the meanest person has still at his disposition
high-sounding words wherewith to mask his real character. Therefore I
went on:--

"You do not take into account one thing, namely, that the man would
have dragged his wife with him into poverty. Confess it is a singular
idea of duty that it should lead us to deprive those dependent on us
of their daily bread."

"Do you know, I had no idea you were so deucedly sober-minded."

"You fool!" I thought to myself; "don't you understand that these are
not my views, but views I want you to adopt?" Aloud I said:--

"I only try to put myself into the place of this business man.
Besides, you do not consider that the woman probably did not love her
husband, and that the other man was aware of it."

"In such a case they were worthy of each other."

"That is another question altogether. Looking a little deeper into
the affair, and supposing that being in love with the Englishman, she
nevertheless remained faithful to her husband, she may be worthier
than you think. As to the Boyar, he may be a villain for anything I
know, but what can he do, I ask you, in case somebody comes to him and
says: 'You are a bankrupt twice over; you have debts you cannot pay,
and a wife that does not love you. Divorce that woman, and I will take
care of her future, and will also take upon me all your liabilities.'
It is a way of speaking, to say the man 'sold' his wife; but can a
transaction like this be called a sale? Consider that the merchant
who agreed to this proposition by one stroke saved his wife from
poverty,--and possibly this is the right way to look upon duty,--and
saved all those who depended upon him!"

Kromitzki thought a little, then dropped his eyeglass and said:--

"My dear fellow, as to business I flatter myself that I know a great
deal more about it than you; but as to arguments, I confess that you
would soon drive me into a corner. If you had not inherited millions
from your father, you would be able to amass a fortune as a barrister.
You have put the whole thing in such a light that I do not know what
to think of that Roumanian chap. All I know about it is that some
kind of transaction about his wife had occurred, and that, put it in
whatever light you will, is always a disreputable thing. Besides, as
I am somewhat of a merchant myself, I will tell you another thing:
a bankrupt can always find a way out of his difficulties: he either
makes another fortune and then pays his debts, or he blows out his
brains and pays with his life; and at the same time, if he is married,
he sets his wife free and gives her another chance."

I fumed and raged inwardly, and would have given anything if I could
have shouted out to him: "You are a bankrupt already in one thing, for
your wife does not love you. You see the Cascades; jump in, set her
free, and give her the chance of some happiness." But I remained
silent, chewing the bitter cud of my reflections. Kromitzki, however
commonplace he might be, though capable of selling Gluchow and taking
advantage of his wife's trust in him, was not the villain I took him
for. It was a disappointment and destroyed the plan to which for the
moment I had clung as to a plank of safety. Again I felt powerless,
and saw looming up before me the vast solitude. Nevertheless, I held
fast to that purpose because I understood that unless I could do
something, I should go mad. "It will at least prepare the ground for
anything that may turn up, and accustom Kromitzki to the thought of
parting with Aniela," I said to myself. As I said before, nobody knows
in what state Kromitzki's affairs are, but I suppose that a man who
speculates is liable to losses as well as to gains. I said to him:--

"I do not know whether your principles are, strictly speaking,
business principles, but at any rate they are the sentiments of an
honorable man, and I respect you for them. You said, if I understood
you, that a man has no right to drag his wife with him into poverty."

"No, I did not say that; I only said that to sell one's wife is a
villany; the wife ought to share her husband's fate. I think but
little of a fair-weather wife, who wants to break her marriage vows
because her husband cannot give her the comforts of life."

"Suppose she did not agree, he might set her free against her will.
Besides, if she knew that by submitting to a divorce, she could save
her husband, duty well understood would bid her to yield."

"It is unpleasant even to talk about such things."

"Why? are you sorry for the Boyar?"

"Not I; I shall always hold him for a blackguard."

"Because you do not look at things from an objective point of view.
But that is not astonishing. A man like you, with whom everything is
prospering, cannot enter into the psychology of a bankrupt unless
he be a philosopher; and philosophy has nothing to do with making
millions."

I did not wish to prolong the conversation, so utterly disgusted was
I with my own perversity. I had sown the seed,--a very small and
pitiable seed to produce anything; and yet I clung to it tenaciously.
One thing revived my hope. At the moment when I tried to make him
believe that a ruined man ought to set his wife free, there was a
certain constraint and trouble in his expression. I also noticed that
when I spoke about his millions a slight sigh escaped him. To infer
from this that he is on the brink of ruin, would be jumping at
conclusions; but I may fairly conjecture that his affairs are in
a precarious state. I resolved to get at the truth as quickly as
possible.

In the mean while my own self seemed to be divided in two parts. The
one said: "If you waver ever so little, I will push you downward if
it should cost me my whole fortune. I will work your ruin, and when
I come to deal with a broken man, it remains to be seen whether for
certain transactions you do not find a gentler word than, 'villany.'"
Yet I was conscious at the same time that these were not my thoughts
nor my ways of dealing; that they had been suggested to me by somebody
else, and that but for my desperate position they would never have
found room in me, as they are averse to my nature and repulsive to me.
Money never played any part in my life, either as means or as aim. I
consider myself incapable of using such a weapon, and I felt what a
degradation it would be for me and Aniela to introduce that element
into our relations to each other. The thought of it was so repulsive
to me that I said to myself: "Will you not spare yourself? Must you
even drink from such a bowl? See how you are degenerating step by
step. Formerly thoughts like these would never have crossed your mind;
and what is more, schemes like these are utterly useless, and will
only lower you in your own eyes."

In fact, formerly, when my aunt spoke of Kromitzki's affairs in a
doubting spirit, it had always caused me some uneasiness. The prospect
that at some time or other he might want me to assist him or take a
share in his transactions had made me consider what I should do in
such a case; and I always vowed that I would decline and have nothing
to do with any of his affairs; so repugnant to me was the thought of
mingling money matters with my relations to Aniela. I remember that
I saw in this another proof of the nobility and refinement of my
feelings. To-day I grasp that weapon as if I were a banker and had
lived by money transactions all my life.

I perceive with absolute certainty that my thoughts and deeds are
worse than myself, and I ask myself how that can be. Most probably
because I cannot find the way out of the labyrinth. I love a noble
woman; my love is very great; and yet, putting the two together, the
net result is crookedness, and enchanted circles where my character
loses itself and even my nerves grow less sensitive. When, in former
times, I erred and strayed from the right path there still remained
something, some aesthetic feeling, by the help of which I still
distinguished good from evil. At present I have none of that feeling,
or if it still exists it is powerless. If I had only at the same time
lost the consciousness of what is ugly and offensive! But no; I have
it still, only it does not serve me as a curb, and is of no effect
except to aggravate my troubles. Beside my love for Aniela there is no
room for anything; but consciousness does not require space. I absorb
love, hatred, and sorrow as a cancer breeds in a diseased organism.

He who has never been in a position similar to mine cannot understand
it. I knew that from love's entanglements spring various sufferings,
but I did not appreciate those sufferings. I did not believe they were
so real and so difficult to bear. Only now I understand the difference
between "knowing" and "believing," and the meaning of the French
thinker's words: "We know we must die, but we do not believe it."

12 July.

To-day my pulses are beating wildly, and there is a singing in my
ears; for something has occurred the memory of which thrills every
nerve as in a fever. The day was very beautiful, the evening more
lovely still, and there was a full moon. We resolved to make an
excursion to Hofgastein,--all but Pani Celina, who preferred to remain
at home. My aunt, Kromitzki, and I went down together to the villa
gate, whence Kromitzki sped towards Straubinger's to order a carriage,
my aunt and I waiting for Aniela, who lingered behind. As she did not
come I went back and saw her descending the winding staircase leading
from the second floor into the garden.

As the moon was on the other side, this part of the house was wrapped
in darkness, and Aniela came down very slowly. There was a moment when
my head was on a level with Aniela's feet. The temptation was too
great; I put my hands gently around them and pressed my lips to
them. I knew I should have to pay a heavy penalty for this minute of
happiness, but I could not forego it. God knows with what reverence I
touched her feet, and for how much pain this moment compensated me.
But for Aniela's resistance I should have put her foot upon my head
in token that I was her servant and her slave. She drew back and went
upstairs again but I ran down calling out loudly, so that my aunt
could hear me:--

"Aniela is coming, coming."

Nothing remained for her now but to come down again, which she could
do safely, as I had remained near the gate. At the same moment
Kromitzki arrived with the carriage. Aniela coming up to us said:--

"I came to ask you, aunty, to let me stop at home. I would rather not
leave mamma alone. You can go, and I will wait for you with the tea."

"But Celina is quite well," replied my aunt, with a shade of annoyance
in her voice, "it was she who proposed the excursion, mainly for your
sake."

"Yes, but--" began Aniela.

Kromitzki came up, and hearing what was the matter, said sharply:
"Please do not raise any difficulties." And Aniela, without saying a
word, took her seat in the carriage.

In spite of my emotion I was struck by Kromitzki's tone of voice and
Aniela's silent obedience,--all the more as I had already noticed that
his manners towards her during the day had been those of a man who
is displeased. There was evidently the same reason, of which I knew
nothing, at the bottom of this, and of the estrangement some time ago.
But there was no room now for these reflections; the fresh memory of
the kiss I had imprinted on her feet still overpowered my senses. I
felt a great delight and joy, not unmixed with fear. I could account
for the delight because I felt it every time I only touched her hand.
But why the joy? Because I saw that the immaculate Aniela could not
escape from me altogether, and must needs confess to herself: "I am on
the downward path too, and cannot look people in the face; he was at
my feet a moment ago, the man who loves me, and I am obliged to be his
accomplice and cannot go to my husband and tell him to take me hence."
I knew she could not do this without creating a commotion; and if she
could, she would not do it, for fear of an encounter between me and
Kromitzki,--"And who knows for whom she is most afraid?" something
within me whispered.

Aniela's position is indeed a difficult one, and I, knowing this, take
advantage of it without more scruples than are admitted by a general
in time of war who attacks the enemy at his weakest point. I asked
myself whether I would do the same if Kromitzki would make me
personally responsible; and as I could conscientiously say "Yes," I
thought there was no need for any further consideration. Kromitzki
inspires me with fear only in so far as he has power to remove Aniela
and put her out of my reach altogether. The very thought makes me
desperate. But at this moment, in the carriage, I only feared Aniela.
What will happen to-morrow? How will she take it? As a liberty, or as
a mere impulse of respect and worship?

I felt as a dog may feel that has done wrong and is afraid of being
whipped. Sitting opposite Aniela, I tried at moments when the moon
shone on her face to read there what was to be my sentence. I looked
at her so humbly and was so meek that I pitied myself, and thought she
too ought to pity me a little. But she did not look at me at all, and
listened or seemed to listen attentively to what Kromitzki was telling
my aunt he would do if Gastein belonged to him. My aunt only nodded,
and he repeated every moment: "Now, really, don't you think I am
right?" It is evident that he wants to impress my aunt with his
enterprising spirit, and to convince her that he is capable of making
a shilling out of every penny.

The road to Hofgastein, hewn out of the rocks, skirting the
precipices, winds and twists around the mountain slopes. The light
of the moon shone alternately on our faces and those of the ladies
opposite, according to the varying directions of the road. In Aniela's
face I saw nothing but a sweet sadness, and I took courage from the
fact that it was neither stern nor forbidding. I did not obtain
a single glance, but I comforted myself by the thought that when
concealed in the shadow, she would perhaps look at me and say to
herself: "Nobody loves me as he does, and nobody can be at the same
time more unhappy than he,"--which is true. We were both silent. Only
Kromitzki kept on talking; his voice mingled with the rush of the
waters below the rocks and the creaking of the brake, which the driver
often applied. This creaking irritated my nerves very much, but the
warm, transparent night lulled them into restfulness again. It was,
as I said before, full moon; the bright orb had risen above
the mountains, and sailing through space illumined the tops of
Bocksteinkogl, the Tischlkar glaciers, and the precipitous slopes
of the Graukogl. The snow on the heights shone with a pale-green,
metallic lustre, and as the mountain sides below were shrouded in
darkness, the snowy sheen seemed to float in mid air, as if not
belonging to the earth. There was such a charm, such peace and
restfulness in these sleeping mountains, that involuntarily the words
of the poet came into mind:--

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