Without Dogma by Henryk Sienkiewicz

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23 October.

Clara has not arrived, and up to this moment there is no answer. This
is the more strange as she used to write every day, inquiring after my
health. Her silence would not surprise me if I thought she wanted even
ten minutes to make up her mind. I shall wait patiently; but it would
be better if she did not put it off. I feel that if I had not sent off
that letter, I should send now another like it; but if I could take it
back I should probably do so.

24 October.

This is what Clara writes:--

Dear Monsieur Leon,--Upon receiving your letter I felt so foolishly
happy that I wanted to start for Berlin at once. But it is because I
love you sincerely that I listened to the voice which said to me that
the greatest love ought not to be the greatest egoism, and that I had
no right to sacrifice you for myself.

You do not love me, Monsieur Leon. I would give my life were it
otherwise; but you do not love me. Your letter has been written in a
moment of impulse and despair. From the first instant of meeting you
in Berlin I noticed that you were neither well in body nor easy in
your mind, and it troubled me; the best proof of this is that although
you had wished me good-by, I sent every day to the hotel inquiring
whether you had gone, until I was told you were ill. Afterwards,
nursing you in your illness, I became convinced that my second fear
had been also right, and that you had some hidden sorrow, one of those
painful disappointments, after which it is difficult to be reconciled
to life.

Now I have a conviction--and God knows how heavily it weighs upon
my heart--that you want to bind your life to mine in order to drown
certain memories, to forget and put a barrier between you and the
past. In the face of that is it possible that I could agree to what
you ask? In refusing your hand, the worst that can happen to me is
that I shall feel very unhappy, but I shall not have to reproach
myself with having become a burden and a dead weight upon you. I have
loved you from the first time we met, therefore it is nothing new
to me; and I have got used to the sorrow which is the inevitable
consequence of separation and the hopeless certainty that my love will
never be returned. But even if my life be sad, I can weep either with
tears in the usual woman-fashion, or through my music as an artist. I
shall always have that comfort at least, that when you think of me it
will be as a dear friend or sister. With this I can live. But if I
were your wife and came to see that you regretted your impulsiveness,
were not happy, perhaps learned to hate me, I should certainly
die. Besides, I say to myself: "What have you done to deserve such
happiness?" It is almost impossible to imagine perfect happiness. Can
you understand that one may love somebody with all one's heart in a
humble spirit? I can understand it, for I love thus.

What I am going to say seems to me overbold, yet I do not feel it in
my heart to give up hope altogether. Do not be angry with me; God is
merciful, and the human soul is so athirst for happiness that it would
fain leave a door open for it to enter. If you ask me again in half a
year, a year, or any time in life the same question, I shall consider
myself rewarded for all I have suffered, and for the tears I am
shedding even at this moment.

Clara.

There is within me something that is keenly conscious and can
appreciate every word of this noble letter. Not a syllable is lost to
me, and I say to myself: "All the more reason for asking her again;
she is so honest, simple, and loving." But there is also that other
self, very tired, who had all the strength taken out of him, who can
give sympathy but no love; because he has staked his all upon one
feeling, and sees clearly that for him there is no return.

28 October.

I am quite certain that Clara will not come back to Berlin; and what
is more, that when she went away it was with the intention of not
coming back again. She wanted to avoid my gratitude. I think of her
gratefully and sadly, and am sorry she did not meet a different man
from me. There is such an irony of fate in this! But what is the use
of deceiving myself? I am still yoked to my memories. I see before me
Aniela, as she appeared to me at Warsaw, as I saw her at Ploszow and
Gastein; and I cannot tear myself away from the past. Besides, it has
absorbed so much of my strength and life that I am not surprised at
it. The difficulty is, not to remember. Every instant I catch myself
in the act of thinking about Aniela, and I have to remind myself
that she is changed now, that her feelings will be going, have gone
already, into another direction, and that I am nothing to her now.

Formerly I preferred not to think of my wrecked condition, because my
brain could not stand the thought; now I do it sometimes on purpose,
if only to defend myself against the voice that calls out: "Is it her
fault? and how do you know what is passing in her heart? She would not
be a woman if she did not love her own child when it comes into the
world, but who told you that she is not as unhappy as you are?" At
times it seems to me that she is even more unhappy, and then I wish
for another inflammation of the lungs. Life with such a chaos of
thoughts is impossible.

30 October.

With my returning health I am gradually drifting back into the magic
circle. The doctor says that in a few days I shall be able to travel.
I will go hence, for it is too near Warsaw and Ploszow. It may be one
of my nervous whims, but I feel I shall be better and more at rest in
Rome on the Babuino. I do not promise myself to forget the past; on
the contrary, I shall think of it from morning until night, but the
thoughts will be like unto meditations behind cloister walls. Besides,
what can I know of how it will be? All I know is that I cannot remain
here any longer. I shall call upon Angeli by the way; I must have her
portrait at Rome.

2 November.

I leave Berlin, I renounce Rome, and go back to Ploszow. I wrote some
time ago that Aniela is not only the beloved woman, but the very
crown of my head. Yes, it is a fact; let it be called by any
name,--neurosis, or an old man's madness; I have got it in my blood
and in my soul.

I am going to Ploszow. I will serve her, take care of her, do for her
what I can; and for all reward let me be able to look at her. I wonder
at myself that I fancied I should be able to live without seeing her.
One letter from my aunt brought out all that was buried within me. My
aunt says:--

"I did not write much about us, because I had nothing cheerful to tell
you; and as I am not clever at disguising things, I feared I should
make you uneasy, knowing that you were not well. I am in terrible
anxiety about Kromitzki, and should like to have your advice.
Chwastowski showed me his son's letter, in which he says that
Kromitzki's affairs are in a deplorable state, and that he is
threatened with legal prosecution. Everybody has deceived him. He
suddenly received orders to deliver a great quantity of goods, and as
the appointed term was very short, he had no time to look into things
and see whether everything was as it should be. It turned out that all
the goods were bad,--imitations, and second and third rate quality.
They were rejected; and in addition Kromitzki is threatened with a
trial for defrauding the agency. God grant that we may be able to
prevent this, especially as he is innocent. Ruin does not matter,
provided there be no disgrace. I am altogether at a loss what to do
and how to save him. I do not like to risk the money I intended Aniela
to have, and yet we must not let it come to a trial. Tell me what to
do, Leon; for you are wise and will know what is expedient in these
matters. I have not told Celina anything about it, nor Aniela,--and I
am very anxious about Aniela. I cannot understand what is the matter
with her. Celina is the worthiest of women, but she always had
exaggerated ideas about modesty, and has brought up Aniela in the same
way. I do not doubt that Aniela will be the best of mothers, but now
I am quite angry with her. A married woman ought to be prepared for
consequences, and Aniela seems to be in despair, as if it were a
disgrace. Nearly every day I see traces of tears in her eyes. It
torments me to see her looking so thin and pale, with those dark
rings under her eyes and ready to burst into tears at the slightest
provocation; and there is always an expression of pain and humiliation
in her face. I have never in my life seen a young woman so distressed
at her situation. I tried persuasion and I tried scolding,--all in
vain. Perhaps I love her too much, and in my old age am losing my
former energy; but then she is such an affectionate creature! If you
only knew how she asks after you day by day, whether a letter has
arrived and if you were well, when you will be going, and how long you
mean to stop at Berlin. She knows I like to speak about you, and
she makes me talk for hours. God give her strength to bear all the
troubles that are awaiting her. I am really so concerned about
her health that I positively dare not give her any hint about her
husband's position. But sooner or later it must come to her ears. I
have not said anything to Celina either, because she is troubled about
Aniela, and cannot understand why she should take her position so
tragically."

Why? I alone in the world understand and could have answered that
question,--and that is the reason I go back to Ploszow. It is not her
position she takes tragically, but my desertion. My despair she is
aware of, the sundering of those ties that have grown dear to her from
the time when after so much suffering, so many efforts, she contrived
to change them into ideal relations. Only now I enter into her
thoughts, into her very soul. From the moment I came back to Ploszow
there arose a struggle between duty and feeling in that noble heart.
She wished to remain true to him to whom she had promised her faith,
because her spiritual nature abhors impurity and falsehood; and at the
same time she could not help being drawn to the man she had loved with
all the fresh feelings of her young heart,--all the more as the man
was near her, loved her, and was supremely unhappy. Whole months had
passed in that struggle. At last there came a moment of peace, when
the feeling had become a union of souls so pure and unearthly that
neither her modesty nor her loyalty could take exception to it. This
is the reason of her unhappiness; I am reading now her soul as an open
book,--therefore I go back.

I also now see clearly that I would not have left her if I had had a
complete certainty that her feelings would outlast all changes in her
life. The mere animal jealousy that fills my mind with rage because
another has rights over her which are denied to me would not have been
sufficient to drive me away from the one woman who is all the world to
me. But I thought that the child, even before it was born, would take
possession of her heart, draw her closer to her husband, and blot me
out of her heart and life forever.

I do not delude myself even now, for I know that I shall not be to
her what I have been, nor what I might have been but for the combined
forces of circumstances. I might have been the dearest and only one
for her, attaching her to life and happiness; now it will be quite
different. But as long as there is a glimmering spark of feeling for
me I will not leave her, because I cannot; I have nowhere to go.

Therefore I return; I shall nurse that spark, fan it into life again,
and get some warmth from it for myself. I am reading again my aunt's
words: "If you only knew how she asks after you day by day, whether a
letter has arrived, and if you were well, when you will be going, and
how long you mean to stop at Berlin," and I cannot fill myself enough
with these words. It is as if I had been starving, and somebody had
given me a piece of bread. I am eating it, and feel as if I could cry
from sheer gratitude. Perhaps God's mercy toward me is beginning to
appear at last. For I feel that I am changed; the former self has
died in me. I shall not revolt against her will any more; I will bear
everything, will soothe and comfort her; I will even save her husband.

4 November.

After thinking it over, I remain two days more at Berlin. It is a
great sacrifice for me, because I can scarcely contain myself in my
impatience; but it is necessary to send a letter to prepare her for my
coming. A telegram might alarm her, as also my sudden arrival. I have
sent off a cheerful letter, winding up with a friendly message for
Aniela as if nothing ever had happened between us. I want her to
understand that I am reconciled to my fate, and that I come back the
same I was before I left her. My aunt must have counted upon my coming
on receipt of her letter.

Warsaw, 6 November.

I arrived this morning. My aunt awaited me at Warsaw. At Ploszow
things are a little better. Aniela is much calmer. There is no news
from Kromitzki.

The poor old aunt met me with a horrified exclamation,--"Leon,
whatever has happened to you?" She did not know I had been so ill,
and protracted illness alters one's appearance; and my hair has
grown quite gray on the temples. I even thought of darkening it
artificially. I do not want to look old now. My aunt, too, had changed
very much, and although it is not so long since we parted, I found a
great difference in her appearance. Her face has lost its familiar
determined expression, though her features have grown more immovable.
I noticed that her head is trembling a little, especially when she
is listening with deep attention. When with some inward trouble I
inquired after her health, she said, with her usual frankness, "After
my return from Gastein I felt very well; but now everything seems to
go wrong, and I feel that my time is coming. We Ploszowskis all end
with paralysis; and I feel a numbness in my arm every morning. But it
is not worth talking about; it will be as God ordains."

She would not say anything more. Instead of that we took counsel
together how to help Kromitzki, and we resolved not to let it come to
a criminal prosecution if we could help it. We could not save him from
ruin, as this would have involved our own ruin, which, if only in
consideration for Aniela, we must avoid. I made a proposition to
settle Kromitzki here, by giving him one of the larger farms. God
knows how my mind recoiled from, the very thought of his being always
with Aniela, but to make my sacrifice complete I had made up my mind
to swallow the bitter draught.

My aunt offers one of her farms, and I am furnishing the necessary
capital to establish him, which, taken together, will be Aniela's
dowry. Kromitzki will have to pass his word not to embark in further
speculation. But before that can be done we must get him free, and for
that purpose we are going to send out an able lawyer with instructions
and ample means.

When we had finished our consultation I began to inquire after Aniela.
My aunt told me, among other things, that she was very much changed,
and her former beauty almost gone. Hearing this, I felt the more pity
for her. Nothing will be able to turn my heart from her. She is the
very crown of my head. I wanted to start off at once for Ploszow, but
my aunt said she felt tired, and wanted to pass the night at Warsaw.
As I had told her about my having had inflammation of the lungs, I
suspect she remained on purpose so as not to let me travel in bad
weather. It has been raining since morning. Besides we should not have
been able to go, as Kromitzki's affairs must be dealt with at once.

7 November.

We arrived in Ploszow at seven in the evening. It is now midnight, and
the whole house is asleep. Thank God, the meeting did not excite her
much. She came out to me with hesitating step, and there was fear and
shame in her eyes; but I had vowed to myself to meet her as if we had
parted yesterday, and take care to avoid anything in the nature of
reconciliation, anything to remind her that we had parted under
unusual circumstances. When I saw her coming, I put out my hand,
saying cheerfully,--

"How do you do, dear Aniela? I have been longing to see you all, and
it made me put off my sea voyage for another time."

She understood at once that such a greeting meant reconciliation,
peace, and the sacrifice of myself for her sake. For a moment there
passed across her face a wave of such emotion that I felt afraid she
would lose command over herself. She wanted to say something and could
not; she only pressed my hand. I thought she might burst into tears,
but I did not give her time, and continued quickly in the same tone:--

"What about the portrait? The head was finished when you left Vienna,
was it not? Angeli will not send it soon, because he said to me it
would be his masterpiece. He will want to exhibit it in Vienna,
Munich, and Paris. It is lucky I asked him to make a copy, otherwise
we might wait a year before we got it. I wanted a copy for myself."

She was obliged to fall in with my humor in spite of all the emotions
that worked in her breast, especially as my aunt and Pani Celina took
part in the conversation. In this way the first awkward moments were
tided over. Everything I said was intended to divert our attention
from the real state of feelings. I kept on in the same strain all the
evening, although at times I felt the perspiration breaking out on my
forehead from the effort. I was still weak after my recent illness,
and all this told upon me terribly.

During supper Aniela looked at my pale face and the gray hairs. I
saw she guessed what I must have suffered. I spoke about my Berlin
experiences almost gayly. I avoided looking at her changed appearance,
so as not to let her see that I had noticed it, and that the sight
moved me deeply. Towards the end of the evening I felt faint several
times, but I fought against it, and she did not see anything in my
face except calmness, serenity, and boundless affection. She is very
keen-sighted; she knows, perceives, understands things very quickly;
but I fairly surpassed myself,--I was so natural and so much at my
ease. Even if there be still any lingering doubt in her mind as to my
submission, she has none as to my affection and her being to me the
same worshipped Aniela.

I noticed that she seemed better and evidently began to revive in the
warmer atmosphere. I had indeed reason to be proud of myself, for
I brought at once an appearance of cheerfulness into a house where
dulness had reigned paramount. My aunt and Pani Celina appreciated it
keenly. The latter said frankly when I wished her good-night:--

"Thank Heaven, you have come. Everything looks different at once with
you in the house."

Aniela, pressing my hand, said shyly, "You will not go away soon, will
you?"

"No, Aniela," I replied; "I will not go away again." And I went, or
rather fled, to my room, because I felt that I could bear the strain
no longer. There had been such an accumulation of misery and tears in
my heart during that evening that I felt half choked. There are small
sacrifices that cost more than great ones.

8 November.

Why do I repeat to myself so often that she is as the crown of my
head? Because one must love a woman more than life, consider her as
the crown of life, if he does not leave her under circumstances like
these. I am perfectly aware that mere physical repugnance would have
driven me from any other woman; and since I remain here the thought
occurs to me again that my love must be an aberration of the nerves,
which could not exist were I a normally healthy specimen of mankind.
The modern man, who explains to himself everything by the word
"neurosis," and is conscious of all that is going on within himself,
has not even the comfort which a conviction of his own faithfulness
might give him. For if he says to himself, "Your faithfulness
and perseverance are signs of disease, not virtues," it adds one
bitterness the more. If consciousness of all these things makes life
so much more difficult, why do we take so much care to cultivate it.

To-day, by daylight, I noticed how much Aniela is changed, and my
heart was torn at the sight. Her mouth is swollen, and the once so
pure brow has lost its purity and clearness. My aunt was right,--her
beauty is almost gone. But the eyes are the same as those of the
former Aniela, and that is enough for me. That changed face only
increases my pity and tenderness, and she is dearer to me than ever.
If she were ten times more changed I should love her still. If this be
disease, I am sickening with it, and do not wish to get well again; I
would rather die of this disease than of any other.

9 November.

A time will come when under changed circumstances she will recover her
beauty. I thought of it to-day and at once asked myself what would be
our relations towards each other in the future, and whether it would
make any change. I am certain it will not. I know already how it feels
to live without her, and shall not do anything which might make her
cast me off. She will always remain the same; I have now not the
slightest doubt that I am necessary to her life, but I know also that
she will never call the feeling she has for me by any other name than
great sisterly affection. What matters the name? it will be always the
ideal love of one soul towards another; and that is lawful, because
permitted to brother and sister. Were it otherwise, she would be in
arms against it at once.

In regard to this I have no illusion whatever. I have already said
that since she changed our mutual relations into ideal feelings, they
have become dear to her. Let it remain thus, provided they be dear to
her.

10 November.

It is an altogether wrong idea that the modern product of civilization
is less susceptible to love. I sometimes think it is the other way. He
who is deprived of one lung breathes all the harder with the remaining
one; we have lost much of what makes up the sum of life, and are
endowed instead with a nervous system more highly strung and more
sensitive than that of our ancestors. It is quite another matter that
a lack of red globules in our blood creates abnormal and unhealthy
feelings, and the tragedy of human life rather increases therefore
than grows less. It is increased for the very reason that, whereas the
former man in his disappointments found consolation in religion
and social duties, the modern man does not find it there. Formerly
character proved a strong curb for passions; in the present there is
not much strength in character, and it grows less and less because of
the prevailing scepticism, which is a decomposing element. It is like
a bacillus breeding in the human soul; it destroys the resistant power
against the physiological craving of the nerves, of nerves diseased.
The modern man is conscious of everything, and cannot find a remedy
against anything.

11 November.

There has been no news from Kromitzki for some time; even Aniela has
not heard from him. I sent him a telegram to inform him that a lawyer
was coming out to him to set his affairs straight; then I wrote to
him,--trusting to chance that he may get the letter; for we do not
know where he is at present. No doubt the telegram and letter will
find him in time, but where or when we do not know. The elder
Chwastowski has written to his son; perhaps he first will hear
something as to how matters stand.

I spend whole hours with Aniela, with nothing to disturb us. Pani
Celina, who knows now about Kromitzki's position, asked me to prepare
Aniela for any news she might be likely to receive. I have already
told Aniela what I think in regard to her husband's speculation, but
only from a personal point of view. I told her even that she ought not
to take it to heart if he lost all his money, which after all might be
the best thing that could happen to him, as then he might be able to
settle to a quiet, practical life. I set her mind at rest as to the
money I had lent him, and said that was all right; I also told her
something of my aunt's plans for their future. She listened with
comparative calmness and without showing signs of emotion. What most
gives her strength and comfort is the consciousness that so many
loving hearts are near her. I love her now beyond all words; she sees
it,--she reads it in my eyes, and in my whole manner towards her. When
I succeed in cheering her up, or call forth her smiles, I am beside
myself with delight. There is at present in my love something of the
attachment of the faithful servant who loves his mistress. I often
feel as if I ought to humble myself before her, as if my proper place
were at her feet. She never can grow ugly, changed, or old to me. I
accept everything, agree to everything, and worship her as she is.

12 November.

Kromitzki is dead! The catastrophe has come upon us like a
thunderbolt. God keep Aniela from any harm in her present state.
To-day came a telegram to the effect that, accused of fraud and
threatened with imprisonment, he has taken his life. I should have
expected anything but that! Kromitzki is dead! Aniela is free! But how
will she bear it? I have been looking again and again at the telegram,
to make sure I am not dreaming. I cannot yet believe my own eyes; but
the signature, "Chwastowski," vouches for its truth. I knew it could
not end well, but I never supposed the end would be so speedy and so
tragic. No! the thought never crossed my mind.

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