Without Dogma by Henryk Sienkiewicz

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14 August.

My aunt begins to talk about going home. She is pining after her
beloved Ploszow. I asked Aniela if she would like to go. She said she
would; therefore I too am anxious to return. Formerly I attached some
vague, undefined hope to a change of place. Now I expect nothing; but
at Ploszow there are so many pleasant memories that I shall be glad to
see the place again.

16 August.

The days flow now very evenly. I think much and I rest. My thoughts
are often sad, at times not without bitterness, but my soul was so
weary that I find this restfulness very soothing. It makes me feel
conscious how much better off I am than I used to be. I am mostly
with Aniela; we read together, and then discuss what we have read.
Everything I say to her is only a definition, a development of love;
everything tends in that direction; but strange to say I notice that
now I never speak of it directly, as if that feminine objection to
calling things by their proper names had also infected me. I do not
know why this is so, but it is a fact. And it grieves me,--sometimes
grieves me very much; and it pleases me, because I see that Aniela is
pleased, and what is more, loves me for it. In order to cement the
union of our souls, I have begun to speak much about myself so as not
to have any secrets from her. I am reticent only about such things as
might offend her delicacy of feeling or the purity of her thoughts.
I tried to initiate her into the workings of a spirit undermined by
scepticism and the want of a basis in life. I told her openly that I
had nothing to live for except her; told her also what was going on
within me after her marriage, what shocks had passed through my heart
and brain since my return to Ploszow; I spoke of this all the more
eagerly, as it was like a series of confessions, as it all meant:
"I loved you then, as I love you now, beyond expression." She was
deceived as to the meaning of these confidences and listened to them
as if there had been no question about her, with emotion, sympathy,
and possibly unconscious delight. I saw tears gathering in her eyes,
her breast heaved as if her whole spiritual being went out to me with
open arms saying: "Come to me; you have suffered enough and deserve
some happiness." And I reply with my eyes: "I do not ask, do not
remind you of anything; I am altogether at your mercy."

I made those confidences also for another reason, namely, to introduce
the habit of mutual confidence between us, and make her tell me what
was going on in her mind at the same time. But I could not manage
it. I tried to ask, but the words seemed to come from her with such
difficulty, there was such evident constraint and uneasiness, that I
left off asking. To be quite open with me, she would have to reveal
all she felt for me and what was her relation to her husband. I wanted
her to come to that; but her modesty and her loyalty for the absent
husband would not permit her to speak.

I understood all perfectly, but I could not help feeling very sore,
and my pessimism says: "It is you who pay the score; you give
everything, without getting anything in return; you are deceived in
thinking her soul belongs to you; even that soul remains a blank to
you; then what do you possess?"

I admit the truthfulness of the utterance, but still I count upon the
future.

17 August.

I am often reminded of the poet Mickiewicz's words, "Alas! it was only
a half-salvation!" But even if I did not see in that half-salvation
all that is wanting, I could not arrive at perfect peace. This would
be achieved only by not desiring anything more, in other words by
ceasing to love. There come upon me, more and more, moments of
despondency when I say to myself that this is only another enchanted
circle. I found some relief from torments I could bear no longer, that
is true; but relief is not the same as the removal of the pain. When
the famished Arab sucks pebbles instead of drinking water, he does not
satisfy his thirst; he only deceives it. Query: Do I deceive my self?
There are again two persons within me: the spectator and the actor;
and the one criticises and mocks the other. The sceptic Ploszowski,
the Ploszowski who has no settled and unshakable belief in the
existence of a soul, in love with a soul, appears simply ridiculous to
that critical number two. What is, after all, my relation with Aniela?
Sometimes I see in it merely the product of a diseased imagination. I
am now indeed like the bird that drags one wing on the earth. I have
doomed to paralysis one half of my being, live only half a life, and
love with half a love. It is a vain enterprise. To separate desire
from love is as impossible as to separate thought from existence.
Even religious feelings, the most ideal of all feelings, manifest
themselves by words, by songs, by kneeling, and kissing of sacred
objects; and I would deprive the love for a woman of all embodiment,
sever all connection with the earth, and make it live upon earth in a
transmundane shape! Love is a natural tendency and desire. What did I
take away from it? The tendency and the desire. I might as well have
gone to Aniela, and said to her, "Since I love you above everything, I
pledge myself to love you no longer."

There is some terrible mistake in this. I had truly lost my way in the
desert; no wonder that I saw a Fata Morgana.

18 August.

Yesterday I felt oppressed and troubled by various thoughts. I could
not sleep. I left off plunging into the depths of pessimism, and
instead of that began to think of Aniela and call her image before my
eyes. This always soothes me. My imagination strained to the utmost
point brings her before me so lifelike that I fancy I could speak to
her. I recalled to memory the time I had met her first as a grown-up
girl. I saw the white, gauzy draperies studded with bunches of
violets, the bare shoulders, and the face a little too small but fresh
like a spring morning, and so original in the bold outline of the
eyebrows, the long lashes, and that soft down on either side of the
face. It seems to me as if I still heard her voice saying, "Do you not
recognize me, Leon?" I wrote at the time that her face appeared to me
like music translated into human features. There was in her at the
same time the charm of the maiden and the attraction of the woman. No
other woman ever fascinated me so strongly, and there must needs cross
my way a Circe-like Laura to lure me away from the one woman I could
love, almost my bride.

Nobody feels more than I that the words, "The spell thou hast cast
upon me lasts forever," are not a mere poetic fancy, but bitter
reality. Besides love and desire, I have for her an immense liking,
the tenderness of affection, and am drawn to her with the irresistible
force of the magnet to iron. And it cannot be otherwise, for she is
still the same Aniela, and is not changed in the least. It is the same
face of a little girl, with the charm of a woman, the same look, the
same eyelashes, brows, shoulders, and supple waist. She has now one
more charm,--that of the lost Paradise.

What a tremendous gulf between our relations in the past and those in
the present. When I think of the Aniela who was waiting, as for her
salvation, to hear from me the words, "Will you be mine?" I can
scarcely believe it to have been true. Reflecting upon that, I feel
like the ruined magnate who at one time scattered his wealth about,
dazzling the world by his splendor, and in later years lived upon
charity.

That night, when I thought about Aniela and evoked her image before my
eyes, it suddenly occurred to me that we had no portrait of her, and
a strong desire seized me to have her likeness. I grasped at the idea
with enthusiasm, and it made me feel so happy that it finally drove
all sleep from my eyes. "I shall have you," I said; "I shall be able
to look at you at any time, kiss your hands, your eyes, your lips; and
you will not be able to prevent it." I began at once to think how it
might be done. I could not go and say to Aniela, "Have your portrait
painted, and I will defray the expenses;" but with my aunt I could
always do what I liked, and a hint will be enough to make her wish for
Aniela's portrait. At Ploszow she has a whole collection of family
portraits, which are her pride, and my desperation, as some of them
are truly hideous; but my aunt will not have them removed out of
sight. Considering her deep attachment to Aniela, I was sure she would
be delighted with the idea of adding her picture to the collection. As
far as she is concerned I consider the thing done; but now came the
question whom to intrust with the execution of the portrait. I thought
it would be impossible to induce the ladies to take Paris on their
way; there I should have the choice between the accuracy and
objectivism of Bonnat, the bold breadth of Carolus Duran, and the
inimitable sweetness of Chaplin. Shutting my eyes, I imagined how each
of them would acquit himself of the task, and I was pleased with the
fancy. But I saw it was impracticable; I foresaw that my aunt would
insist upon a Polish painter. I should have no objection to that, for
I remembered seeing at the Warsaw and Cracow exhibition portraits as
excellent as from the brush of any foreign painter. I was only afraid
of the delay. As regards fancies, and also in many other things, there
is something eminently feminine in my composition. When I plan a thing
I want to get it done at once. As we were in Germany, not very far
from Munich and Vienna, I began to choose among the German painters.
I fixed upon two names: Lembach and Angeli. I had seen some fine
portraits by Lembach, but only men's; besides, I did not like his
self-assurance and sketchiness, which, as I am fond of French
painting, I can endure only from a Frenchman. Angeli's faces did not
altogether satisfy me, but I had to admit his delicacy of touch; and
that is just the thing wanted for Aniela's face. Besides, in order to
get Lembach we should have to go out of our way, and Angeli is on the
way,--a circumstance one is ashamed to confess, not wanting to be
regarded as a Philistine. But in this case I wanted to save time. "The
dead ride quick," as the poet says; but lovers ride quicker still.
Besides I should have chosen Angeli in any case, and finally decided
that he should paint Aniela's portrait. As a rule, I do not approve
of portraits in ball dress, but I resolved to have Aniela in a white
dress with violets. I want to have the delusion in looking at her that
she is the Aniela of the never-to-be-forgotten times. I do not want
anything to remind me that she is Pani Kromitzka. And besides, the
dress is dear to me as a memory.

I thought the night would never end, so impatient was I to speak
about it to my aunt. I changed my plan though, for if my aunt had the
portrait painted, she would insist upon a Polish painter. I decided
instead to offer Aniela's likeness to my aunt on her name's-day, which
is towards the end of October. Put in this way, Aniela cannot refuse.
Of course I shall have a copy for myself.

I scarcely slept at all, but look upon it as a satisfactory night, as
all the hours were occupied with these plans. I dozed a little towards
five, but was up and dressed at the stroke of eight. I went to
Straubinger's and sent a telegram to the Vienna Kuenstlerhaus
inquiring whether Angeli was at home, then returned to the villa
and found the ladies at the breakfast-table. I opened fire at once.
"Aniela," I said, "I have come to confess my guilt in regard to you.
Last night instead of sleeping I have disposed of your person, and it
now remains to be seen whether you will consent."

She looked at me with half-frightened eyes. Perhaps she fancied I was
going mad, or that in a fit of despair I had made up my mind to blurt
out the truth before the elder ladies; but seeing my calmness she
asked:--

"How have you disposed of me?"

"I wanted it to be a surprise for you, dear aunt, but I do not see
how it could be done in secret, and so I must tell you what present I
intend to give you for your name's-day;" and I told them what I had in
my mind. My aunt, who has an excellent portrait of me, painted some
years ago, was greatly delighted, and thanked me warmly. I saw that
Aniela was not less pleased, and that was enough for me. There and
then a lively discussion sprung up as to when and by whom the portrait
was to be painted, and the question of dress, so dear to the feminine
heart, had to be gone into with all details. I had a ready answer for
all questions and saw my chance of getting something else besides the
picture.

"It will not take much time," I said. "I have sent a telegram to
Angeli, and I do not think it will delay our journey much. Aniela will
give Angeli five or six sittings, and as you would have to stop at
Vienna in any case to see Notnagel, there is no loss of time. The
dress can be painted from a model, and the face will be finished in
five sittings. But we must send at once Aniela's photograph and a lock
of her hair. The hair I must have at once. Then Angeli will be able to
make the rough sketch, and later on put in the finishing touches."
I counted upon the fact that none of the ladies knew much about
portrait-painting. I wanted the hair for myself, not for Angeli, to
whom it would have been of use only if he painted Aniela's portrait
from a photograph, to which he would not have consented. But I spoke
as if the whole portrait depended on that lock of hair. Two hours
after breakfast I received an answer to my telegram. Angeli is in
Vienna, where he is just finishing the portrait of the Princess M. I
wrote to him at once and sent him Aniela's photograph; then went out
to Aniela, who was walking in the garden.

"And your hair?" I said; "I want to send the letter by the two-o'clock
post."

She went at once into her room, and shortly afterwards returned with
a lock of hair. My hand shook a little as I took it from her, but my
eyes looked straight into hers and said in that glance:--

"Do you not guess that I want it for myself, that it will be for me
the most precious treasure?"

Aniela did not say anything, but blushed like a girl who listens for
the first time to words of love. She had guessed it. I thought that
for one touch of those lips it would be worth while giving one's life.
My love for her becomes so strong at times that it is akin to pain.

I have now a small part of her physical being. I got it by cunning. I
the man of the world, the sceptic, I who enter into myself and analyze
every thought, have come to practise little tricks and devices,
like Goethe's Siebel. But I say to myself, "At the worst I am only
sentimental and ridiculous." Who knows whether the second self that
reduces everything to consciousness with cold criticism is not more
foolish and more ridiculous? Analysis is like the pulling to pieces of
a flower. It spoils the beauty of life, therefore, its happiness--the
only sensible thing in life.

22 August.

After the completion of Pani Celina's cure we waited for weeks till
the heat in the plains should have grown less intense, and at last the
weather broke and again delayed our journey. There has been an almost
Egyptian darkness for three days. The clouds which have been gathering
on the summits, breeding snow and rain, have descended from the
heights and enveloped Gastein as in a wet blanket. There is such a
mist that in the middle of the day I have to pick my way carefully
from Straubinger's to our villa. Everything is wrapped in a thick
veil,--the houses, the trees, the mountains, and cascades. The shapes
of things dissolve and disappear in the moist clouds that weigh upon
everything, and also upon the human mind. We light the lamps at two
o'clock in the afternoon. The ladies have finished packing, and we
should have gone in spite of the mist, but the road is torn up by the
mountain torrents beyond Hofgastein. Pani Celina again suffers from
headaches, and my aunt, after receiving a letter from Chwastowski
about the harvest, walks with heavy steps about the room, talking to
herself and scolding Chwastowski. Aniela looked pale and out of sorts
in the morning. She had a bad night and dreamed about the cretin she
had seen near the Schreckbruecke. She woke up, and could not go to
sleep again; she spent the rest of the night in nervous terror. It is
very strange what an impression the wretched cripple has made upon
her. I tried by cheerful conversation to make her forget about the
incident, in which I succeeded. Since our compact on the Schreckbruecke
she is without comparison brighter, more cheerful, and happier.

As regards myself, seeing Aniela thus contented, I cannot find it in
my heart to complain, though it often occurs to me that our relation
is mainly based upon there being no relation at all. When I entered
into the compact I knew what I was doing and what shape our feeling
would take; but now that shape seems to be getting more intangible and
undefined, and wrapped up in a mist like that which enfolds Gastein. I
have a presentiment that Aniela will not grant me what is due to
me, and I dare not remind her about anything. I dare not, because a
struggle is too exhausting, especially a struggle for the woman we
love. I have been engaged in this struggle half a year and not gained
anything; and I feel so weary that I prefer the truce, such as it is,
to a renewal of my former warfare. There is also another reason. If
this state of things does not exactly answer to my expectations, it
pleases and conciliates Aniela. She fancies I love her in a nobler
way, therefore she appreciates, I dare not say loves, me more and
more. In spite of the absence of all outward signs, I see it and it
gives me courage; I say to myself, "If her feeling increases, only
persevere, and a time may come when it will be stronger than her power
of resistance."

People generally, and women especially, fancy that the so-called
Platonic love is a peculiar species of love, very rare and very noble.
It is simply a confusion of ideas. There may be such a thing as
Platonic relations, but Platonic love is as much nonsense as dark
light. Even love for the dead consists of a longing after their bodily
presence as well as their souls. Among the living this feeling is
called resignation.

I did not want to say an untruth when I told Aniela I would love her
as if she were dead; but resignation does not exclude all hope. In
spite of all my disappointments, in spite of the consciousness that my
hopes are vain, I still nourish in a corner of my heart the hope that
the present state of affairs is only a halting-place on the way
to love. I may repeat to myself over and over again, "Delusion!
delusion!" but I cannot get rid of it until I get rid of my desire.
They are inseparable. I agreed to the compact because I could not help
myself, because I preferred this to nothing at all; but I consider it,
almost unconsciously, as a diplomatic move which aims at complete, not
half happiness. What makes me nevertheless thoughtful, surprises, and
grieves me, and what I simply cannot understand, is that on this line
even I am defeated. My victories lie in the dim, far-off future; but
in the present, in spite of all my cunning, experience of life, strong
feelings, and diplomacy, I am defeated by a being infinitely more
simple than I, less skilled in life's tactics, less cautious and
calculating in the course she takes. It is a defeat; there is no other
word for it. What is our present relation? Nothing more than the
relation of brother and sister, which she wished for and which I did
not wish. Formerly I fought with the storm and often came to grief,
but I steered my own bark. Now Aniela steers for us both; we go more
smoothly and more evenly, but I feel I am going where I did not wish
to go. I now understand why she put out her hand at once, when I
mentioned Dante's love for Beatrice. She wanted to lead me. Has she
calculated everything beforehand more carefully and profoundly than I?
No; I do not know anybody less capable of any calculation, therefore
I cannot admit the idea; yet I cannot get rid of the consciousness,
bordering upon the mystical, that some one has calculated it for her.

It is all very strange, and the strangest thing of all is that I
forged the fetters which bind me; I myself contrived to bring about
a relation so foreign to my nature, my views, and my most ardent
desires. If somebody had foretold to me, before I knew Aniela, that
I should hit upon such devices, it would have made me laugh at the
prophet and at myself. I, and Platonic relations! Even now I feel
sometimes inclined to laugh and jeer at myself. But I cannot; it is
sheer misery that has brought me to that pass.

23 August.

We leave here to-morrow. The sky is clearing up and there is a
westerly breeze that promises fine weather. The mist has gathered into
long, whitish billows, that hang on the mountain sides, and like
huge leviathans are slowly rolling down. I went with Aniela on the
Kaiserweg. This morning the question arose in my mind what would
happen if the existing state of things ceased to satisfy Aniela. I
have no right to overstep the boundary, and I am afraid to do so;
suppose she too thought the same? Her innate modesty and shyness in
themselves would prove an almost insurmountable barrier; and if, added
to that, she thought the mutual agreement as binding for her as for
me, we should never come to an understanding; we should suffer in
vain.

Reflecting upon this, I understood the futility of such fears. She, to
whom even that Platonic relation appears too broad, who consciously or
unconsciously restricts, and does not even grant me what is due to me
within these limits, should be the first to acknowledge any greater
rights. And yet the human soul, even if in hell, will never lose hope
altogether. In spite of the self-evident impossibility, I resolved to
make myself safe by giving Aniela to understand that if I considered
the agreement as binding, it was not the same with her.

I wanted to say many other things, especially that she was doing me a
great wrong, and that my soul yearned to hear a word of love from her
lips, not once but many times, and that only thus I should be able to
remain on those lofty heights whereon she condemned me to dwell. But
that morning she was so gay, so cheerful and kind to me, that I had
not the heart to disturb her peace. Yesterday I could not understand
how a being so full of simplicity had got me under her power and
conquered me even on those fields I thought my exclusive domain.
To-day it seems clearer to me; and I have a ready and very sad
hypothesis,--she loves me less than I love her.

I knew a man who had the trick of repeating in all his sentences,
"Never mind me." It would not be strange if I began to do the same.
For when I feel, as I do sometimes, a desire to get rid of some words
that almost burn my tongue, the sudden thought that I might mar her
cheerfulness, drive away the smile, and change her good disposition,
renders me mute. Ah me! how often this does happen!

The thought that I love Aniela more than she loves me has crossed my
mind a hundred times; one day I think of it in one way, the next in
another. I am straying among my thoughts and look at the matter in a
different light every day. At one time it seems to me that she does
not care for me very much, in fact is incapable of any strong feeling;
and again, I not only think but am conscious that she has one of the
deepest and most loving hearts I ever met in the world. I have always
plenty of proofs either way. Thus I say to myself: "If her love
increases, three, four, ten times as much, will there not come a time
when it will grow stronger than her resistance?" Yes. Then it is only
a question of how great her feeling is? No. For if the feeling were
small she would not have suffered so much, and I have seen her suffer
almost as much as I did myself. Against all reasoning I have one
answer: "I have seen."

To-day a sentence escaped her which I shall remember, for it is an
answer to my doubts. She would not have said this had I spoken about
us and our love. But I spoke in a general way, as I now always do.
I argued that it lay in the nature of feeling to be connected with
action; that love produces acts of will. When I had finished she said
quietly:--

"Not always. One may suffer."

Of course one may suffer. With these few words she had crushed my
arguments and filled my heart with reverence for her. In moments like
these I am happy and unhappy, as again it seems to me that she loves
me as I love her, but will remain pure before God, and men, and
herself. And I shall not be able to shake that temple. When all is
said and done this analysis of her heart and feelings does not lead to
any certainty. I am always walking in the dark. To my philosophical
and social "I do not know" there is now added a personal
consideration, far more serious; for this "I do not know" threatens my
very life.

I forged myself the chain which binds me to Aniela, and there is no
hope whatever that it ever will be broken. I love her despairingly,
and it is a question whether my love be not a disease. If I were
younger, less shattered in mind and nerves,--in short, of a more
normal disposition,--I might, seeing the hopelessness, try to break
that chain. As it is, I do not make even an effort. I love as a man
with diseased nerves, a man who is close upon mania; love as old
men do, clinging to love with all their might, as it is for them
a question of life. Thus one may cling to a branch overhanging a
precipice.

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