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Without Dogma by Henryk Sienkiewicz

H >> Henryk Sienkiewicz >> Without Dogma




Seeing that I did not understand, she said, with a certain
uneasiness:--

"I must tell you the great news."

And she told me the "great news." When I heard it I felt the metallic
taste in my mouth, and a cold sensation in my brain, exactly as I had
felt that evening I met Kromitzki unexpectedly. I went into my room.
I remember among other things that I felt an immense desire to
laugh. That ideal being, for whom even Platonic love seemed to be
impermissible, and who instead of "love" used the word "friendship!" I
felt a desire to laugh, and at the same time to dash my head against
the wall.

I preserved nevertheless a mechanical self-possession. It came from
the consciousness that everything was over and done with; that I
must go--that there was nothing for it but to go. That consciousness
transformed me into an automaton, doing by routine everything that
was necessary for my departure. I was even conscious of keeping up
appearances. Why? I do not know, as this did not matter now to me any
longer. Most likely it was an instinctive action of the brain, which
for months had been trained in concealing the truth and keeping up
appearances. I told Pani Celina that I had seen a doctor, and that he
said there was something amiss with my heart, and ordered me to go to
Berlin without delay,--and she believed it.

Not so Aniela. I saw her eyes dilated with terror, and in her face the
expression of a degraded martyr; and there were two persons within me:
one who said, "Is it her fault?" and another who despised her. Oh, why
did I love her so much?


12 September.

It is almost two weeks since I left. They must be at Ploszow by this
time. I wrote to-day a letter to my aunt, because I was afraid
she might be uneasy about me and come here to look after me. I am
sometimes astonished to find there is still somebody that cares what
becomes of me.


13 September.

There are men who lead astray other men's wives, deceive them, and
afterwards throw them aside and quietly resume their every-day life.
I have never done any such thing, and if Aniela had been my victim I
should have wiped the dust from off her path; no human power could
have torn me from her. There are greater crimes than mine, but upon
me has fallen such a burden that it gives me the impression of an
exceptional punishment; and I cannot help thinking that my love must
have been a terrible crime.

This is a kind of instinctive fear, against which scepticism is no
safeguard. And yet by all moral laws it must be admitted that it would
be a greater offence to lead a woman to ruin without love, and do from
calculation what I did from a deep love. Surely the responsibility
cannot be greater for an immense, overpowering feeling than for a mean
little weakness.

No! therefore my love is, above all, an awful calamity. A man free
from prejudices can imagine how he would feel if he were swayed by
prejudice; so, too, a man who doubts may imagine how he could pray if
he had the faith. I not only have the feeling, but it breaks forth
into a complaint, almost like a sincere prayer, and I say: "If I am
guilty, O God! I have been punished severely, and a little mercy might
be shown to me." But I cannot even imagine in what shape that mercy
could come to me now! It is impossible!


14 September.

They must have gone back to Ploszow by this time. I still think of
Aniela very often, for we cannot wipe out the past; especially when we
have nothing to look for in the future; and I have nothing, nothing
at all. If I had faith I might become a priest; if I were a man who
denies the existence of God I might become a convert. But within me
the organs with which we believe are withered, as sometimes a limb
withers. I do not know anything except that in my sorrows I do not
find comfort in religion.

When Aniela married Kromitzki, I thought everything between us was
over. I was mistaken. It is only now I have the full conviction that
everything is over; for now we are divided not only by our will and
my departure, but by something that is beyond us, by forces of nature
independent of us. We are like two parallel lines that can never meet,
though we wish for it ever so much. On Aniela's line there will be
suffering, but there will be also new worlds, a new life; on mine
there is nothing but solitude. She doubtless understands that as well
as I. I wonder whether sometimes she says to herself: "It is I who,
without intending it, have ruined that man." It does not matter much
to me, and yet I should like to know that she is sorry for me. Maybe
she will feel a little sorry until her child is born. After that all
her feelings will flow into one channel, and, for her, I shall not
exist any longer. That also is a law of nature,--an excellent law.


16 September.

I saw to-day on an advertisement in big letters the name of Clara
Hilst. I now remembered that she had told me in her last letter that
she was going to Berlin. She is here, and she is going to give several
concerts. At the time, the news neither pleased nor displeased me.
Now, in proportion as my nervous restlessness increases, the sensation
grows more distinct, and takes a twofold shape: the thought that she
is near acts soothingly on me, but the thought is sufficient, and I
would rather not see her; and when I say to myself that I ought to
call on her it gives me an unpleasant sensation. Clara has that
inquisitive solicitude that wants to know everything and asks
questions. She has a strong leaning towards romantic situations, and
the firm belief that friendship is a remedy for all evils. For me to
make confidences is simply impossible. I often, lack the strength even
to think of what has happened.


17 September.

Why do I wake up in the morning? Why do I exist? And what do I care
for acquaintances or people in general? I did not go to see Clara,
because she can have nothing to say to me that could possibly interest
me, and it wearies me beforehand. The whole world is as entirely
indifferent to me as I am to the world.


18 September.

I did well to write to my aunt. If I had not done so she would have
come here. She writes thus:--

"Your letter came to hand the same day that Celina and Aniela arrived.
How are you now, my dearest boy? You say that you are all right, but
is that really and truly so? What did the doctors in Berlin say, and
how long do you think of remaining there? Send me a telegram whether
you are still there, and I will come to you at once. Celina says you
went away so suddenly that she and Aniela were terribly frightened. If
you had not mentioned that the doctor most likely will advise a sea
voyage, I should have started off at once after receiving your letter.
It is only some fifteen hours by rail, and I feel stronger than ever.
The congestions I used to have have not returned. I am very anxious
about you, and do not like the idea of the sea at all. You are used to
that sort of thing, but I shudder at the thought of ships and storms.
Celina is quite well, and Aniela fairly so. I hear that you have been
told the news. Before leaving Vienna they consulted a specialist, and
he said there was no doubt whatever about Aniela's state. Celina is
overjoyed, and I too am glad. Perhaps this will induce Kromitzki
to give up his speculations and settle at home. Aniela will now be
altogether happy, having an aim in life. She looked rather tired
and as if oppressed when she came back, but that may be only the
consequence of the journey.

"Sniatynski's child has been very bad with croup, but is better now."

Reading my aunt's letter gave me the impression that there is no room
for me among them, especially near Aniela. Even my memory will soon
become unpleasant to her.


19 September.

I cannot imagine myself as living a year or two hence. What shall I
do? Such utter aimlessness ought to debar one from life. Properly
speaking, there is no room for me anywhere.

I did not go to see Clara, but met her in the Friedrichsstrasse.
Seeing me she grew pale from joy and emotion, and greeted me with
such effusion that it pleased and pained me at the same time. I was
conscious that my cordiality towards her was a mere outward form, and
that I did not derive any pleasure from the meeting. When she had
recovered from the surprise at meeting me thus unexpectedly, she
scrutinized my face anxiously. Truly I must have presented a strange
sight; and my hair has become much grayer too. She began to inquire
after my health, and in spite of my friendship for her, I felt that
to see her often would be more than I could stand. I resolved to put
myself on guard against this; I told her that I did not feel very
well, and was shortly going away to a warmer climate. She tried to
persuade me to come and see her; than asked after my aunt, Pani
Celina, and Aniela. I put her off with general remarks. I thought to
myself that she perhaps is the only being who would have understood
me, and yet I felt that I could not open my heart to her.

Nevertheless I am still susceptible to human kindness. At moments,
when those honest blue eyes of Clara's looked into mine with such
kindliness and such keen scrutiny, as if they wanted to look into my
very soul, her goodness humiliated me so that I felt a desire to weep.
Clara, in spite of my effort to seem as usual, noticed that I was
changed, and with quick feminine intuition she guessed that I speak,
live, almost think mechanically, and that my soul is half dead within
me. She left off all searchings and inquiries, but became very tender.
I saw that she was afraid of wearying me. She also tried to make
me understand that in the tenderness she was showing there was no
concealed intention of winning my regard, but only the desire to
comfort me. And it did comfort me, but I could not help feeling very
tired. My mind is not capable of any concentration, any effort to
maintain a conversation, even with a friend. And besides, since the
one aim of my life has vanished from my eyes, everything appears to me
so empty that I have continually the question in my mind: "What is the
use of it? what can it matter now?"


21 September.

Never in my life have I passed a more terrible night. I had a
sensation of terror, as if I descended by endless steps into deeper
and deeper darkness, full of horrible, indefined, moving shapes. I
made up my mind to leave Berlin; I cannot breathe under that heavy,
leaden sky. I will go back to Rome, to my house on the Babuino, and
settle there for good. I think my accounts with Aniela and the world
in general may be considered as closed, and henceforth I will quietly
vegetate at Rome until my time comes. Anything for tranquillity!
Yesterday's visit to Clara convinced me that even if I wished it, I
cannot live with others, since I have nothing wherewith to repay their
kindness. I am excluded from general life and stand outside, and
though I am conscious of the indescribable solitude, I have no wish to
go back. The idea of Rome and my hermitage on the Babuino smiles upon
me; it is a pale, sorrowful smile, but I prefer it to anything else.
There I spread my wings to fly out into the world, and thither I go
back with broken wings,--to wait for the end.

I am writing mostly in the morning, for at night I always descend
to those dark regions wherein fear dwells. To-day I shall go to the
concert and say good-by to Clara. To-morrow I depart. On the way I may
stop at Vienna, perhaps see Angeli, but am not certain. I am never
certain how I shall feel, or what I shall do the next day.

I received to-day a note from Clara, in which she asks me to come and
see her after the concert. I shall go to the concert because there are
so many healthy-minded people there that I feel safer in their midst;
and they do not tire me, as they are personally unknown to me; I see
only the crowd. But I shall not go to Clara. She is too kind. It is
said of persons dying from starvation that for some time before their
death they cannot bear the sight of food. In the same way my spiritual
organism cannot stand sympathy and kindness. It cannot bear memories
either. It is a very small thing, but I know now why that visit to
Clara was such a trial to my nerves. She uses the same scent I brought
from Vienna for Aniela. I have noticed the same thing before, that
nothing recalls to the mind a certain person so distinctly as when one
inhales the perfume she is in the habit of using.


22 September.

I have broken down at last. I caught a chill yesterday coming from
the concert-room, where the air was very close. I did not put on my
overcoat, and when I arrived at the hotel I was chilled to the bone.
Every breath I draw gives me a sensation as if my lungs in
expanding came in contact with two rows of needles hidden under the
shoulder-blade. I feel alternately very hot and very cold. I am
continually thirsty. At times I feel so weak that I could not go
downstairs. There is no question now about going away; I could not get
into the carriage without help. While writing I hear my own breath
coming three times as quick and loud as usual. I am quite certain that
but for my nerves the sudden chill would not have done me any harm,
but in my present state of nervous prostration I have lost all power
of resistance. It is undoubtedly inflammation of the lungs.

I shall keep up as long as I can. In the morning as soon as I felt
ill, I wrote to my aunt, telling her I was all right, and would leave
Berlin in a few days. In a few days, if I am still conscious, I shall
write the same. I asked her to send all letters and telegrams to my
banker here. I shall take care that nobody at Ploszow knows about my
illness. How very fortunate I said good-by to Clara yesterday.


23 September.

I am worse than yesterday. I am feverish and at times conscious that
my thoughts wander, but I have not lain down. When I shut my eyes the
border line between the real and the outcome of my sick brain seems to
vanish altogether. But I have still control over my senses. I am only
afraid the fever will overpower me and I shall lose consciousness
altogether.

The thought comes now and then into my mind that I, a man more richly
endowed by fate than so many others, who could have a home, a family,
be surrounded by loving hearts, sits here lonely and in sickness, in
a strange place, with nobody near him to give him a glass of water.
Aniela would be near me too--I cannot go on.


14 October.

I resume my writing after an interval of three weeks. Clara has left
me. Seeing me on a fair way to recovery she went to Hanover and
promised to come back in ten days. She nursed me during the whole
time of my illness. It was she who brought a doctor to me. I should
probably have died but for her. I do not remember whether it was the
third or fourth day of my illness she came here. I was conscious, but
at the same time as indifferent as if it were not to me that she had
come, or as if her being there were an every-day occurrence. She came
with the doctor, whose thick, curly, white hair attracted my attention
and fascinated me. After examining me he asked me several questions,
first in German, then in French; and though I understood what he said,
I did not feel the slightest inclination to answer, could not make an
effort,--as if my will-power had been struck down by the disease, as
well as the body.

They worried me that day with cupping, and then I remained quiet
without any sensations. Sometimes I thought that I was going to die,
but this did not trouble me any more than what was going on around me.
Perhaps in severe illness, even when conscious, we lose the sense of
proportion between great and small matters, and for some reason or
other our attention is mainly fixed upon small things. Thus, for
instance, besides the doctor's curly hair, I was greatly interested in
seeing them push back the upper and lower bolt of the door of the room
adjoining mine, which Clara intended to occupy. I remember that I
could not take my eyes off that door, as if something depended on
whether it would open or not. Presently the surgeon came in who was to
look after me under Clara's supervision. He began to say something to
me, but Clara motioned him to be silent.

I am still very tired, and must leave off.


16 October.

My nerves have quieted down during that long illness. I have none of
those terrors that haunted me before. I only wish Clara would come
back as quickly as possible. It is not so much a longing for her
presence, as the selfishness of the convalescent, who feels that
nothing can replace her tender care and nursing. I know she will not
dwell close to me any longer; but her presence soothes me. Weakness
and helplessness cling to the protecting power as a child clings to
its mother. I am convinced that no other woman would have done for me
what Clara did; other women would have thought more of the proprieties
than of saving a man's life. Thinking of this, bitterness rises in my
throat, and there is one name on my lips--But those are things better
left alone, as long as I have not strength enough to think about them.
Clara used to sleep fully dressed on the sofa in the room next to
mine, with the door open. Whenever I moved she was at once at
my bedside: I saw her by night, leaning over my bed, her hair
disarranged, and eyes winking with sleeplessness and fatigue. She
herself measured out my physic, and raised my head from the pillow.
When, in moments of consciousness, I wanted to thank her, she put a
finger to her lips as a sign that the doctor had enjoined quietness. I
do not know how many nights she spent at my bedside. She looked very
tired in the daytime, and, when sitting near me in an armchair,
sometimes dozed off in the middle of a sentence. Waking up she smiled
at me, and dozed again. At nights she walked to and fro in her own
room, in order to keep awake; but so softly that I could not have
known it but for the shadow moving on the wall, which I saw through
the open door. Once, when she was near me, not knowing how to express
my gratitude, I raised her hand to my lips; she stooped down quickly,
and, before I could prevent it, kissed my hand. But I must confess
that I was not always so grateful. Sick people as a rule are fanciful
and irritable; I felt irritated at her being so tall. I felt a kind of
resentment that she was not like Aniela; for so long a time I had been
in the habit of acknowledging grace and beauty only in so far as they
approached the grace and beauty of that other one.

Sometimes, looking at Clara, I irritated myself inwardly by the most
singular thought that she is beautiful, not because nature meant
her to be beautiful,--not by right of her race,--but by a fortunate
accident of birth. Sometimes other beautiful feminine heads made
upon me the same impression. These are subtle shades which only very
delicate and sensitive nerves can perceive.

There were moments, especially at night, when, looking at Clara's face
grown thin and tired with watching me, I had a delusion that I saw the
other one. This happened when she was sitting in the half-light, a
certain distance from my bed. This delusion was fostered by fever and
a sick brain, for which impossibilities do not exist. Sometimes my
mind wandered and I called Clara by that other's name, spoke to her as
if she were Aniela. I remember it as if in a dream.


17 October.

The banker B. sent me some letters written by my aunt. She asks me
about my plans for the future. She writes even about the crops, but
nothing about the inmates of Ploszow. I do not even know whether they
be alive or dead. What an irritating way of writing letters. What do I
care about the crops, and about the whole estate? I replied at once,
and could not disguise my displeasure.


18 October.

To-day I received a telegram from Kromitzki addressed to Warsaw. My
aunt, instead of sending its contents in another telegram, put it into
an envelope, and sent it by post. Kromitzki entreats me to save my own
money and his whole future by sending him another twenty-five thousand
roubles. Beading this I merely shrugged my shoulders. What do I care
now for Kromitzki or my money? Let it go with the rest! If he only
knew the reason I helped him the first time, he would not ask me now.
Let him bear his losses as quietly as I bear mine. Moreover, there is
awaiting him the "great news;" that ought to comfort him. Rejoice as
much as you can; have as many children as you like; but if you think I
am going to provide for their future, you ask a little too much.

If at least she had not sacrificed me with such inconsiderate egoism
to her so-called "principles." But enough of this; my brain cannot
stand it,--let me at least be ill in peace.


20 October.

They cannot let me alone,--found me even here. Again for two days I
had no peace; again I press both hands against my head to stop that
whirring sound in my brain. I think again of Ploszow and of her,
and of the solitude that is awaiting me. It is a fearful thing
when suddenly something goes out of our life for which we lived
exclusively. I do not know whether illness has weakened my brain, but
I simply cannot understand various phenomena that I perceive within
myself. It seems as if jealousy had outlived my love.

It is a twofold jealousy,--a jealousy not only of facts, but of
feelings. I am torn by the thought that the child which is to be born
will take Aniela's heart from me, and what is more, and concerns me
most, it will bring her closer to Kromitzki. I would not have her now
if she were free; but I cannot bear the thought of her loving her
husband. I would give all that remains of life if nobody would love
her, and she not love anybody any more. Under such conditions life
might be endurable still.


21 October.

If what is now in my mind does not save me, I shall again fall ill, or
perhaps go mad. I am making up my accounts. Is there anything owing to
me from life? Nothing. What is awaiting me in the future? Nothing. If
so, there is no reason why I should not make a present of myself
to somebody whom that present would make happy. For my life, my
intellect, my abilities,--for the whole of my own self I would not
give a stiver. Moreover, I do not love Clara; but if she loves me, and
sees her happiness in me, it would be cruel to refuse her what I hold
so very cheap. I should consider it my duty to tell her what she is
taking; worse for her if it does not discourage her,--but that will be
her concern.

This plan attracts me chiefly for one reason,--namely, it widens the
gulf that separates me from the other one. I will prove to her that,
as she has taken her own way, I am able to take mine. Then there will
be an end of it. But I am thinking of her still! I notice it, and
it puts me into a rage. Perhaps it is hatred now; but it is not
indifference.

Pani Kromitzka probably fancied that I tore myself away forced by
circumstances; she will see now that it was also my wish. And the
thicker the wall I raise up between us, the sooner I shall be able to
banish her from my mind. As to Clara, I repeat that I do not love her;
but she loves me. Moreover, I owe her a debt of gratitude. During my
illness there were moments when I considered Clara's devotedness a
piece of German sentimentality, and yet the other one would not have
found courage enough for such sentimentality. It would be more in
accordance with her exalted virtue to let a man die than to see
him without his necktie; this is a freedom reserved for the lawful
husband. Clara did not care anything about such things; she gave up
for me her music, exposed herself to trouble, sleepless nights, and
possibly to the world's comments, and stood by me. I contracted
towards her a debt, and am going to pay it. I pay it badly and in
bad faith; for I offer to her what I do not value myself,--the mere
remnants of what was once a man. But if she values it, let it be hers.

To my aunt it will be a disappointment; it will hurt her family pride
and patriotic feelings. Yet, if my aunt could but know what has been
lately going on in my heart, she would prefer this matrimonial scheme
to that other love; I have not the slightest doubt as to that. What
does it matter that Clara's ancestors were most probably weavers? I
have no prejudices; I have only nerves. Any casual view I take tends
rather towards liberalism. Sometimes I fancy that people professing to
be liberals are more narrow in their views than conservatives; but, on
the other hand, liberalism itself is resting on a larger basis than
conservatism, and more in accord with Christ's teachings; but I am
wholly indifferent to both parties. It is scarcely worth speaking or
reasoning about them. Real unhappiness shows us the emptiness of mere
partisan hair-splittings. Involuntarily I fall to thinking, "How will
Aniela receive the news of my resolve?" I have been so accustomed to
feel through her that the painful habit still clings to me.


22 October.

This morning I sent the letter to Clara. To-morrow I shall have a
reply, or perhaps Clara herself will come tonight. In the afternoon
they sent me a second despatch from Kromitzki. It expresses as much
despair as a few words can contain. Things seem to have turned out
very badly, indeed; even I did not think ruin would come so quickly.
Some unexpected circumstances must have intervened that even Kromitzki
could not have foreseen. The loss I incur does not make a great
difference to me; I shall always be what I was,--but Kromitzki? Why
should I deceive myself? There lurks somewhere in a corner of my heart
a certain satisfaction at his ruin,--if only for the reason that these
two will be now entirely dependent on us; that is, upon my aunt, who
is the administrator of the Ploszow estate, and myself. In the mean
while I do not intend to reply at all. If I changed my intention
it would be to send him my congratulation at the expected family
increase. Later on it will be different. I will secure their future;
they shall have enough to live upon and more.