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Without Dogma by Henryk Sienkiewicz

H >> Henryk Sienkiewicz >> Without Dogma




"And that ended the conversation?"

"Almost. I saw he was very much upset. I fancy he was especially angry
because I promised a life interest to Aniela instead of a round sum
down, as it shows how little I trust him. When going away he said that
for the future he would look for partners among strangers, as he could
not meet with less good-will, and might find a better understanding of
business matters. I meekly accepted this reproach. Yesterday he went
for an excursion with the Belgians and came back discontented, I
suppose he tried it on with them and met with a disappointment. Do you
know what I think, Leon? His business is shaky, since he is so anxious
to get partners. And I may tell you that the thought troubles me; for
if such be the case common-sense tells us not to have anything to do
with his affairs; and yet the simplest family duty bids us to help
him, if only for Aniela's sake. That is one reason why I was so
anxious to talk it over with you."

"His affairs are not in such a desperate state as you think, aunty."
And I told her what I had heard from Chwastowski, and guessed long ago
from Kromitzki's manner, namely, that he was in want and looking about
for capital. I added that it was mainly to inquire about the state of
his affairs that I had gone to Vienna.

My aunt was delighted with my tactics and perspicacity; and walking up
and down the room according to her habit she muttered to herself, "He
is a genius in everything." She finally decided to leave everything in
my hands, and to act as I thought best. Upon this, she went below, and
I, after perusing yesterday's papers for half an hour, followed her.

I found the whole company gathered round the breakfast table, and one
glance was sufficient to tell me that something unusual had taken
place. Aniela looked frightened, Pani Celina troubled, and my aunt was
flushed with anger. Only Kromitzki was quietly reading the paper, but
he looked cross, and his face was as yellow as if he had been ill.

"Do you know," said my aunt, pointing at Aniela, "what news she has
brought me as a morning's greeting?"

"No, what is it?" I said, sitting down at the table.

"Nothing more nor less than that in two weeks, Celina's health
permitting, they are both going to Odessa or somewhere farther still."

If a thunderbolt had fallen in the middle of the table, I could not
have been more startled. My heart sank within me. I looked at Aniela,
who had grown very red, as if caught in the act of committing a wrong
deed, and at last asked, "Where are they going? why?"

"They give me a deal of trouble at Ploszow, you know," said my aunt,
imitating Aniela's voice. "They do not want to be a burden to me, the
charitable souls. They evidently think I yearn after solitude; and in
case you went away too, it would be ever so much better, more cheerful
for me, to be by myself in that big house. They have discussed this
all the night, instead of sleeping like other respectable people."

My aunt waxed angrier still, and turning upon Kromitzki asked: "Did
you preside at that debate?"

"Not at all," he replied; "I was never even consulted. But if my wife
has resolved to go, I suppose it is in order to be nearer me, for
which I ought to feel grateful."

"There is nothing settled yet," remarked Aniela.

I, forgetting all precautions, looked steadily at her, but she did not
lift her eyes; which convinced me all the more that I was the cause
of this sudden resolve. I cannot find words to express what I felt
at that moment, and what deadly bitterness suffused my heart. Aniela
knows perfectly that I live for her only, exist through her; that all
my thoughts belong to her, my actions have only her in view; that she
is to me an issue of life and death; and in spite of all that she
calmly decides to go away. Whether I should perish or beat my head
against the wall, she never so much as considered. She will be more at
ease when she ceases to see me writhing like a beetle stuck on a pin;
she will be no longer afraid of my kissing her feet furtively, or
startling that virtuous conscience. How can she hesitate when such
excellent peace can be got, at so small a price as cutting somebody's
throat! Thoughts like these spun across my brain by thousands. I felt
a bitter taste in my mouth. "You are virtuous," I said inwardly to
Aniela, "because you have no heart. If a dog attached himself to you
as I am attached, something would be due to him. You have never shown
me any indulgence, or any spark of pity; you have never confessed to
me any tender feeling, and you have taken from me what you could.
If you were able, you would deprive me of your presence
altogether,--although you had the certainty that if I could not see
you my eyes would perish forever. But I begin to understand you now,
begin to see that your inflexibility is so great because your heart is
so small. You are cold and unfeeling, and your virtue is nothing
but an enormous egoism, that wants above everything to be left
undisturbed, and for that peace is capable of sacrificing all else."

During the whole time of breakfast I did not say a word. When alone
in my own room I held my head with both hands and with a weary,
over-wrought brain, began to think again of what had happened. My
thoughts were still very bitter. Women of narrow hearts often remain
unyielding through a certain philistinism of virtue. The first thing
with them is to keep their accounts in order, like any tradesman. They
fear love, as the grocer fears street-risings, war, riots, exalted
ideas, and audacious flights of fancy. Peace at any price, because
peace is good for business. Everything that rises above the rational
and commonplace standard of life is bad, and deserves the contempt of
reasonable beings. Virtue has its heights and precipices, but also its
level plains.

I now struggled with the exceedingly painful question whether Aniela
did not belong to that kind of commonplace virtuous women, who want to
keep their accounts in order, and reject love because it reaches above
the ordinary standard of their hearts and minds. I searched in the
past for proofs. "Who knows," I said to myself, "whether her simple
ethical code is not resting upon such a foundation?" I had believed
her to be one of those exceptional natures, different from all other
women, inaccessible as the snowy heights of the Alps that without any
slope soar straight heavenward. And now this lofty nature considers it
the most proper thing that a husband in slippers should trample on
those snows. What does it all mean? Whenever thoughts like these crowd
my brain I feel as if I were on the brink of madness; such a rage
seizes me that if I could I would throw down, trample, and spit upon
the forces of life, reduce the whole world to chaos and obliterate its
existence. On my journey back from Vienna I was searching for some
unearthly abode where I might love Aniela even as Dante loved
Beatrice. I built it of the sufferings from which as from fire my love
had risen purified, of my renunciations and sacrifices, and thought
that in a superhuman, simply angelic way she would be mine, and feel
that she belonged to me. And now it came into my thoughts that it was
not worth while to speak about it, as she would not understand me; not
worth while leading her on to those heights, as she would not be able
to breathe there. She might agree, in her soul, that I should go on
loving her, go on suffering, since that flatters her vanity; but no
compact, no union the most spiritual, no mutual belonging even in
the Dantesque meaning,--to none of these will she agree, because she
understands only one belonging and one right, which is expressed in a
man's dressing-gown, and her soul cannot rise above the narrow, mean,
matrimonial, book-keeping spirit.

I felt an overwhelming regret that I had not been in the wrecked
train. The regret was as much the result of physical exhaustion as
of Aniela's cruelty. I was tired, as one who has watched night after
night at the sick bed of a very dear friend, and to whom death appears
as a desired rest. And then I thought that if they had brought my
mangled remains to Gastein something would perhaps have stirred in
her. Thinking of this I suddenly remembered yesterday's Aniela, who
went with my aunt in search of me. I recalled to my mind the sudden
terror and the joy close upon it, those eyes full of tears, the
disordered hair; and love immeasurable, love a hundred times more real
than all my thoughts and reasonings took possession of me. It was
like a great convulsive motion of the heart, which almost at once
got buried in a wave of doubts. All I had noticed that day might be
explained upon quite different grounds. Who knows whether it was I
or my aunt who played the principal part in this emotion? Besides
impressionable women have always a store of sympathy at command,
even for the merest stranger. What more natural than that she should
exhibit some feeling when he who was threatened by some danger was a
relative? She would naturally be horrified at the thought of my death,
and rejoice at seeing me alive. If, instead of her, Pani
Sniatynska had been staying with my aunt, she too would have been
terror-stricken, and I should have seen her without her gloves, and
her hair in disorder. No, in regard to that I cannot delude myself any
longer. Aniela knew very well that her departure would be to me a more
dangerous catastrophe than a wound on my head or the loss of an arm or
leg; and yet she did not hesitate a moment. I was perfectly aware that
it was all her doing. She wanted to be near her husband, and what
would become of me was not taken into account.

Again I felt myself growing pale with anger, hatred, and indignation,
and only one step removed from madness. "Stop a little," I said to
myself, pressing both hands against my temples; "perhaps she is
seeking safety in flight because she loves you, and feels she cannot
resist any longer." Ah me! and these thoughts sprung up, but they did
not find any congenial soil and perished like the seed sown on a rock;
they only roused a bitter, despairing irony. "Yes," something said
within me, "hers is a love resembling the compassion which makes
people remove the pillow from under the dying man's head, to shorten
his agony. I shall not suffer much longer, and Kromitzki will be able
to see her often and bring her such comfort as a wife expects from her
husband."

Aniela at that moment was hateful to me. For the first time in my
life I wished she really loved Kromitzki; she would have been less
repugnant to me. Anger and resentment almost deprived me of my senses,
and I saw clearly that if I did not do something, revenge myself upon
her in some way, something terrible would happen to me. I jumped up,
and under the influence of that thought, as if touched by a red-hot
iron, I took my hat and went forth in search of Kromitzki. I did
not find him either in the house or in the garden. I went to the
Wandelbahn, then to the reading-rooms; he was in neither of the two
places. I stopped for a moment on the bridge near the Cascades,
thinking what to do next. The wind coming from that direction blew a
cloud of spray into my face. This caused me a pleasant sensation and
relieved the tension of my nerves. I bared my head and exposed it to
the spray until my hair was quite wet. I felt a purely animal delight
in the coolness. I had regained all my self-possession. There remained
now only the distinct and decided wish to thwart Aniela. I said to
her, "You shall not be allowed to go away, and henceforth I will treat
you as a man who has paid for you with his money." I saw the way clear
before me, and was not afraid of making any mistakes in dealing with
Kromitzki. I found him outside Straubinger's hotel reading the paper.
When he saw me he dropped his eyeglass and said:--

"I was just thinking of going to look for you."

"Let us go on the Kaiserweg."

And we went. Not waiting for him to begin, I plunged at once into the
subject.

"My aunt told me about your conversation with her yesterday," I said.

"I am very sorry it took place at all," replied Kromitzki.

"As far as I can judge, you were both not as calm as one ought to be
in treating affairs of that kind. My dear fellow, I will be open with
you, and tell you at once that you do not know my aunt. She is the
dearest woman in the world, but she has one weakness. Possessed of a
great deal of common-sense and shrewdness, she likes to assert them;
therefore any new scheme or proposition is met by her with a certain
almost exaggerated suspicion. For that reason she invariably refuses
at first to have anything to do with it. Chwastowski, her manager,
might tell you something about that. In dealing with her it is always
best to suggest a thing and leave her time to digest it; and besides,
you rubbed her the wrong way, and that makes her always more
determined; a pity you could not have avoided that."

"But how could I have irritated her? If anybody it is I who should be
able to discuss matters of this kind."

"You made a mistake in saying that you had married Aniela without a
dowry; she is still very angry about that."

"I said it when she threw the sale of Gluchow in my teeth. Besides I
only spoke the truth; Gluchow was so encumbered that next to nothing
really belonged to Aniela."

"Plainly speaking, what induced you to sell that unfortunate estate?"

"Because by doing so I was able to do a good turn to somebody upon
whom my future career depends to a great extent; besides, he paid more
than I could have got from anybody else."

"Well, let that pass. My aunt felt all the more hurt as she has some
intentions in regard to Aniela."

"Yes, I know. She is going to leave her a yearly income."

"Between ourselves, I tell you that she thinks of no such thing. I
know she spoke to you about a life interest, because she was angry and
wanted to let you feel that she mistrusted your business capacities. I
as her heir ought to know something about her intentions, especially
as she does nothing without consulting me."

Kromitzki looked at me keenly. "Anything she is doing for Aniela," he
said, "would be against your interest as the heir."

"Yes, that is so; but I do not spend even my income, consequently I
can speak about it quite calmly. If you cannot explain it any other
way, consider it as a whim of mine. There are such people in the
world. I may tell you that I do not intend to put any limit to my
aunt's generosity, and also that she intends to give Aniela, not the
life interest she spoke about, but the capital. Of course my influence
might turn the scale either way, but I do not intend to exert it
against you."

Kromitzki squeezed my hand with effusion, and his shoulders moved
exactly like those of a wooden manikin. How repulsive the man is to
me! I suppose he considered me more of a fool than an oddity; but he
believed me, and that was all I wanted. He is quite right as to that,
for I was decided that Aniela should have the capital instead of only
a life interest. I saw that he was consumed with curiosity to know how
much and when; but he understood that it would not do to show his
hand so openly, and therefore remained silent as if from emotion. I
continued:--

"You must remember one thing, my aunt wants careful handling. I know
for certain that she means to provide for Aniela; but it all depends
on her will, and even her humor. In the mean while, what is it you
both are doing? Yesterday you made her angry, and to-day Aniela
vexed her still more. As the future heir I ought to rejoice at your
blunders, and not warn you, and yet you see I am doing the opposite.
My aunt was deeply hurt by Aniela's plan, and in her anger turned upon
you, hoping, I fancy, that you would take her side; but you, on the
contrary, supported them!"

"My dear fellow," said Kromitzki, squeezing my hand again, "I will
tell you openly that I agreed to their plan because I was vexed with
your aunt, and that is the top and bottom of it. There is no sense in
it at all. I cannot stand exaltation, and both these women are full of
it. They always seem to think they ought not to take advantage of your
aunt's hospitality, that they cannot always remain at Ploszow, and so
on, _ad infinitum_. I am heartily sick of it. In the mean while it is
this way: I cannot take them with me to Turkestan, and when I am there
it is all the same to me whether they are at Odessa or at Warsaw. When
I wind up my affairs, with a more than considerable fortune, I hope I
shall give them, of course, an adequate home. That will take place in
a year at the latest. The sale of the business itself will bring in a
considerable sum. If they were not at Ploszow, I should have to look
out for some other place; but since your aunt offers her house and is
pleased to have them, it would be folly not to accept the offer. My
mother-in-law has only just recovered from her illness. Who knows what
might happen in the future? and if things went wrong, Aniela, young
and inexperienced as she is, would be alone with all these troubles.
I simply cannot remain with them; even now I am in a fever to be off,
and only delayed my departure in the hope that I might persuade you or
your aunt into a partnership. Now I have told you all that is in my
mind; and it is your turn to tell me whether I may count upon your
good-will."

I breathed again. Aniela's scheme was reduced to nothing. I was
delighted because I had got what I wanted. Although my love for Aniela
was akin to deep hatred, it was all I had to live for, and it wanted
food; and this it would get only from Aniela's presence. From
Kromitzki's words I concluded that by one stroke I could gain the most
wished for end,--Kromitzki's departure for an almost unlimited time.
I remained impassive, and thought it more advisable to show myself a
little reluctant.

"I cannot," I said, "give you any promise beforehand. Tell me first
exactly how you stand."

He began to talk, and talked with great volubility, showing that once
embarked upon this theme, he felt himself in his proper element. Now
and then he paused to buttonhole me or press me against the rocks.
When he had said something he thought very convincing, he swiftly
screwed his eyeglass into his eye and scrutinized my face to see what
impression he had made upon me. This, added to his voice, which was
like the sound of creaking hinges, and the reiteration of his "what,
what," was very trying to my nerves, but I must render him justice; he
did not try to deceive me. He told me substantially the same things
that I had heard from Chwastowski. The affair stood thus: Great
capital had already been invested in material, the purveying of which
was solely in Kromitzki's hands. The danger of the business consisted
in the fact that the capital already sunk came back to him only after
passing through various official forms, therefore very slowly; and
also in the fact that Kromitzki had to deal with purveyors whose
interest it was to supply him with the very worst materials, for which
he was held responsible. This last point put him more or less at the
mercy of the agency, which besides had the most complete right to
accept only good material. Who knows what complications might arise
from that? After having listened to his statement, which lasted an
hour, I replied:--

"My good fellow, considering all you have told me, neither my aunt nor
I can have anything to do with the partnership."

His countenance fell, and he turned very yellow. "Tell me why," he
said.

"If you, in spite of cautiousness and care, are in danger of lawsuits,
we will not be mixed up in your affairs."

"Looking at things in that way, nobody would embark in any business at
all."

"There is no necessity for us to do so. But supposing we entered into
any partnership, how much would you want us to put into the business?"

"It is of no use to speak of that now; but if you could have come into
it, let us say with seventy-five thousand roubles--"

"No, we will not put anything into the business; we do not think it
advisable to do so. But as you are connected with our family, we
will help you in another way. In brief, I will lend you the sum you
mentioned upon a note of hand."

Kromitzki stopped, looked at me, and blinked as one who is not fully
awake. But this lasted only a moment. He evidently thought it would
not be wise to show too great a delight,--a mercantile caution not at
all necessary, and ridiculous under present circumstances. He only
pressed my hand and said: "Thank you,--at what rate of interest?"

"We will talk of that later on. I must go back now and talk with my
aunt."

I said good-by at once. On the way I reflected whether Kromitzki would
not think my acting thus a little curious and open to suspicion. But
it was a vain fear. Husbands are proverbially blind, not because they
love and trust their wives, but because they love themselves. Besides,
Kromitzki, looking at us from his business point of view, considers
me and my aunt as two fantastic beings, who, with little knowledge of
practical matters, stick to antiquated notions about family ties
and duties. He is, indeed, in many respects of such an altogether
different type from us, that we cannot help looking upon him as an
intruder.

When I came back to the villa I saw Aniela at the gate buying wild
strawberries from a peasant woman. Passing close by, I said roughly,
"You will not go away, because I do not wish it," and then went up
into my room.

During dinner the conversation again turned upon the departure of the
ladies. This time Kromitzki spoke up and treated the whole thing as a
childish whim, to be laughed at by sensible people. He was not very
considerate either to his wife or his mother-in-law, but then his
nature is not a refined one. I did not say anything,--as if the
question of their going or staying mattered very little to me. But I
noticed that Aniela was conscious that her husband acted as a
mere puppet in my hands, and she felt ashamed for him and deeply
humiliated; but such was the resentment I had towards her that the
sight of it did me good.

For in truth I was deeply wounded, and I cannot forgive Aniela. If, on
the way from Vienna, I had not thought so much of that new compact, if
I had not made a wholesale sacrifice of all my desires, passions,
and senses, in fact of my whole nature, I should not have felt the
disappointment so acutely. But it fell out so cruelly that, when, out
of love for her, I was ready to change my whole being, when I climbed
to a height I had never reached before, only to be near her, she,
without any consideration or pity for me, wished to push me into the
very depth of despair and without considering for a moment what would
become of me! These thoughts poison even the pleasure afforded by
Kroimitzki's departure.

The future will bring some kind of solution, but I am too tired to
speculate upon it. The simplest solution would be inflammation of the
brain. It will come to that. I torment myself all the day, do not
sleep at night, smoke endless cigars to stupefy myself, and sit up
till daylight.


30 July.

I have not written in my diary for two weeks. I went; with Kromitzki
to Vienna to conclude his business; after which he remained three days
and then left for the East. I had such violent headaches that I could
not write. Pani Celina's cure is completed, but we still remain at
Gastein because of the great heat.

Kromitzki's departure was a great relief to me, to Pani Celina,--whom
he irritates to such a degree that if he were not her son-in-law she
could not stand him at all,--and perhaps also to Aniela. The latter
cannot forgive him that he involved me in his affairs. He, not
supposing there could be anything between me and his wife except
social relations, made no secret of the loan. She opposed it
energetically, but could not tell him the reason,--perhaps from a
secret fear that after an explanation he might compel her to remain
where she is, and thus destroy the last shred of respect she has for
him. I am almost sure that since the sale of Gluchow, both she and her
mother distrust him, and in the secrecy of their hearts consider him
worse than he really is. In my opinion he is a spiritual upstart, with
a dry and wooden disposition, and incapable of any fine feeling or
subtle thought. There is no generosity in him; his mind is neither
deep, noble, nor sensitive; but in the general acceptance of the word
he is a decent member of society. A certain natural pedantry aids
him in this, which harmonizes with his money-making neurosis,--a
degenerated imaginativeness seeking expression in financial adventure.
Taking him all in all, he is so intensely repulsive to me--with his
eyeglass, oblique eyes, long legs, and sallow, hairless face--that I
doubt if I am capable of judging him objectively. Nevertheless I am
quite sure that unless he loses his own money I shall not lose mine.
But I put it down, in all sincerity, that I would rather he lost the
money, his senses, his life, and went altogether to perdition.