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Without Dogma by Henryk Sienkiewicz

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We touched personal matter very slightly, but had a lively discussion
about society in general. I told him what I thought about its
refinement; and as Sniatynski, though he criticises it himself
mercilessly, is always greedy to hear its praises sung, it put him
into capital spirits.

"I like to hear you say so," he remarked, "as you have so many chances
to make comparisons, and are rather inclined to look at the world from
a pessimist's point of view."

"I do not know whether what I just said does not lean that way."

"How do you prove that?" asked Sniatynski, quickly.

"You see, refined culture might be compared to cases with glass and
china, upon which is written, 'Fragile.' For you, a spiritual son of
Athens, for me and a few others, it is pleasant to be in touch with
it; but if you want to build anything on such foundation, you will
find the beams coming down on your head. Don't you think those refined
_dilettanti_ of life are bound to get the worst in a struggle with a
people of strong nerves, a tough skin, and iron muscles?"

Sniatynski, who is very lively, jumped up and walked about the room,
then rushed at me impetuously. "You have seen only one side of the
picture, and not the best one, either; do not think there is nothing
more to be seen. You come from abroad, and pronounce judgment upon us
as if you had lived here all your life."

"I do not know what else there may be, but I know that nowhere in the
world is there such a vast difference between the classes. On one
side, the most refined culture,--over-refined, if anything; on the
other, absolute barbarism and ignorance."

A long discussion followed, and it was dusk before I left them. He
said if I came oftener to see them, he would show me the connecting
link between the two classes, introduce me to men who were neither
over-refined, ignorant, nor sickening with dilettantism, but strong
men, who knew what they wanted, and were going straight for it.

When I was going away, Sniatynski called out after me:

"From such as you nothing good will come, but your children may
be men; but you and such like must lose every penny you possess,
otherwise even your grandchildren will do nothing useful."

I still think that on the whole I was right. I have taken special
notice of this conversation, as this discrepancy has occupied my
thoughts ever since my arrival. The fact is that between the classes
there is a vast gulf that precludes all mutual understanding, and
makes simultaneous efforts simply impossible. At least, I look upon
it in that light. Sevres china and common clay,--nothing between; one
_tres fragile_, the other, Ovidius's "rudis indigestaque moles." Of
course Sevres china sooner or later breaks, and from the clay the
future may mould anything it likes.


2 February.

Yesterday my aunt's entertainment took place. Aniela was the cynosure
of every eye. Her white shoulders peeping out from a cloud of muslin,
gauze, or whatever it is called, she looked like a Venus rising from
the foam. I fancy it is already gossiped about that I am going to
marry her. I noticed that her eyes often strayed in my direction, and
she listened to her partners with an absent, distracted expression.

Guileless child! she cannot hide the truth, and shows so plainly what
is going on in her heart that I could not help seeing it, unless I
were blind. And she is so humble and quietly happy when I am with her!
I like her immensely, and begin to waver. Sniatynski is so happy in
his home life! It is not the first time I have asked myself whether
Sniatynski be more foolish or wiser than I. Of the many problems of
life, I have not solved one. I am nothing; scepticism is sapping
my whole system; I am not happy, and am very tired. He, with less
knowledge than I, does useful work, has a good and handsome wife, the
rogue! and his very philosophical principles, adapted to life, help to
make him happy. No, it must be acknowledged, it is I who am the more
foolish of the two.

The keynote of Sniatynski's philosophy is found in his dogmas of life.
Before he was married he said to me: "There are two things I never
approach with scepticism, and do not criticise: to me as a literary
man, the community is a dogma; as a private individual, the beloved
woman." I thought to myself then: "My mind is bolder,--it analyzes
even that." But I see now that this boldness has not led me to
anything. And how lovely she is,--that little dogma of mine with the
long eyelashes! Decidedly, I am going the way I did not mean to go.
The singular attraction which draws me towards her cannot be explained
by the law of natural selection. Ho! there is something more, and I
know what it is. She loves me with all the freshness of her honest
heart, as I was never loved before. How different from the fencing
practice of former years, when thrusts were dealt or guarded against!
The woman who is much liked, and who in her turn loves, is sure to win
in the end if she perseveres.

"The stray bird," says the poet Slowacki, "comes back to his haven
of rest and peace all the more eagerly after the lonesomeness of his
stormy flight. Nothing takes so firm a hold upon a man's heart as the
consciousness that he is loved."

A few pages before, I wrote God knows what about Polish women; but if
any one fancies that for the sake of a few written sentences I feel
myself bound to pursue a certain course, he is vastly mistaken.

How that girl satisfies my artistic taste is simply wonderful. After
the ball, came the pleasantest moment when, everybody gone, we sat
down and had some tea. Wanting to see how the world looked outside, I
drew back the heavy curtains. It was eight o'clock in the morning and
a flood of daylight poured into the room. It was so perfectly blue,
seen by the glare of the lamps, that it reminded me of the Capri
grotto. And there stood Aniela, with that blue haze around her white
shoulders. She looked so lovely that all my resolutions tottered and
fell to pieces; I felt positively grateful to her for this glimpse of
beauty, as if it were her doing. I pressed her hand more tenderly than
I had ever done before when saying good-night to her.

"Good-morning, you mean, not good-night,--good-morning."

Either I am blind and deaf or her eyes and voice expressed: "I love
you, I love you."

I do the same--almost.

My aunt looking at us gave a low grunt of contentment. I saw tears
shining in her eyes.

To-morrow we leave here for Ploszow.


PLOSZOW, 5 February.

This is my second day in the country. We had a splendid drive. The
weather was clear and frosty. The snow creaked under the runners of
the sledge and glittered and sparkled in the fields. Towards sunset
the vast plain assumed pink and purple shades. The rooks, cawing and
flapping their wings, flew in and out the lime trees. Winter, the
strong, homely winter, is a beautiful thing. There is a certain vigor
in it, and dignity, and what is more, so much sincerity. Like a true
friend, who, regardless as to consequences, hurls cutting truths,
it smites you between the eyes without asking leave. By way of
compensation it bestows upon you some of its own vigor. We were all
of us glad to leave the town--the elder ladies, that their pet scheme
might be brought to a climax by closer companionship; I, because I was
near Aniela; she, maybe for the same reason, felt happy too. She bent
down several times to kiss my aunt's hands, apropos of nothing, out
of sheer content. She looked very pretty in a long, fluffy boa and
a coquettish fur cap, from under which the dark eyes and the almost
childish face peeped forth.

How young she looks.

I feel at home in Ploszow, it is so quiet and restful; and I like the
huge, old-fashioned chimneys. The woods are to my aunt as the apple of
her eye, but she does not grudge herself fuel; and big logs, which are
crackling and burning there from morning until night, make it look
bright and cheerful. We sat around the fire the whole afternoon. I
brought out some of my reminiscences, and told them about Rome and its
treasures. The three women listened with such devoutness that it made
me feel ridiculous in my own eyes. From time to time, while I was
talking, my aunt cast a searching glance at Aniela to see whether she
expressed enough admiration. But there is too much of that already.
Yesterday she said to me:--

"Another man might spend there his whole life and not see half the
beautiful things you do."

My aunt added with dogmatic firmness,--

"I have always said so."

It is as well that there is not another sceptic here, for his presence
would embarrass me not a little.

A certain dissonant chord in our little circle is Aniela's mother. The
poor soul has had so many sorrows and anxieties that her cheerfulness,
if ever she had any, is a thing of the past. She is simply afraid of
the future, and instinctively suspects pitfalls even in good fortune.
She was very unhappy in her married life, and afterwards has had
continual worries about her estate, which is very much involved. In
addition to all this she suffers from nervous headaches.

Aniela belongs to that category of women who never trouble themselves
about money matters. I like her for that, for it proves that she
thinks of higher things. For the matter of that, everything in her
pleases and delights me now.

Tenderness grows on the soil of attraction by the senses, as quick
as flowers after a warm rain. To-day, in the morning, I saw the maid
carrying up her gown and boots; this moved me very much, especially
the little, little boots, as if the wearing of them was the crown of
all virtues in Aniela.

PLOSZOW, 8 or 9 February.

My aunt has taken up her visual warfare with Pan Chwastowski. This
is such an original habit of hers that I must describe one of their
disputes. The dear lady can evidently not exist without it, or at
least not enjoy her dinner; Chwastowski, again, who, by the bye, is an
excellent manager, is a compound of brimstone and saltpetre, and does
not allow anybody to thwart him; therefore the quarrels sometimes
reach the acute state. When entering the dining-room they eye each
other with suspicious glances. The first shot is fired by my aunt
while eating her soup.

"It is a very long time, Pan Chwastowski, since I heard anything
about the winter crops, and Pan Chwastowski, instead of giving me the
information, speaks about anything but what I want to know."

"They were very promising in autumn, my lady; now they are covered by
a yard or two of snow,--how am I to know the state they are in? I am
not the Lord Almighty."

"I beg of you, Pan Chwastowski, not to take the Lord's name in vain."

"I do not look under His snow, therefore do not offend Him."

"Do you mean to insinuate that I do?"

"Most certainly."

"Pan Chwastowski, you are unbearable."

"Oho! bearable enough because he bears a great deal."

In this or that way the screw goes round. There is scarcely a meal but
they have some differences. Then my aunt at last subsides, and seems
to wreak the remnants of her anger on the dinner. She enjoys a hearty
appetite. As the dinner goes on she gradually brightens up and
recovers her usual spirits. After dinner, I offer my arm to Aniela's
mother, my aunt accepts Pan Chwastowski's, and presently they sip
their black coffee in peace and perfect amity. My aunt inquires after
his sons, and he kisses her hands. I saw those sons of his when they
were at the university, and I hear they are promising young men, but
great radicals.

Aniela used to get frightened at first at these prandial disputes,
until I gave her the clue to the real state of things. So now when
the first signal of battle is given, she looks at me slyly from under
those long lashes, and there is a little smile lurking in the corners
of her mouth. She is so pretty then I feel tempted to take her in
my arms. I have never met a woman with such delicate veins on her
temples.


12 February.

Truly a metamorphosis of Ovidius on the earth and within me! The frost
has gone, the fine weather vanished, and there is Egyptian darkness. I
cannot describe it better than by saying the weather is foul. What an
abominable climate! In Rome, at the worst, the sun shines at intervals
half a dozen times a day; here lamps ought to be lit these two days.
The black, heavy mist seems to permeate one's thoughts, and paint them
a uniform gray. My aunt and Pan Chwastowski were more intent than
usual upon warfare. He maintained that my aunt, by not allowing the
woods to be touched, causes the timber to spoil; my aunt replied that
others did their best to cut down all the timber, and not a bit of
forest would soon be left in the country. "I am getting old; let
the trees grow old too." This reminds me of the nobleman of vast
possessions who only allowed as much land to be cultivated as to where
the bark of his dog could be heard.

Aniela's mother, without intending it, gave me to-day a bad quarter of
an hour. Alone with me in the conservatory, she began telling me, with
maternal boastfulness, that an acquaintance of mine, a certain Pan
Kromitzki, had made overtures for Aniela's hand.

I had a sensation as if somebody tried to remove a splinter from my
flesh with a fork. As the blue waves of light had stirred up within me
a tender feeling for Aniela,--although it was no merit of hers,--so
now the wooing of such a man as Kromitzki threw cold water upon the
nascent affections. I know that ape Kromitzki, and do not like him. He
comes from Austrian Silesia, where it seems they had owned estates.
In Rome he used to say that his family had borne the title of count
already in the fifteenth century, and at the hotels put himself down
as "Graf von Kromitzki." But for his small, black eyes, not unlike
coffee-berries, and his black hair, his head looks as if cut out
from a cheese-rind,--for such is his complexion. He reminds me of a
death's-head, and I simply have a physical loathing for him. Ugh! how
the thought of him in connection with Aniela has spoiled her image.
I am quite aware that she is in no way responsible for Kromitzki's
intentions; but it has damaged her in my eyes. I do not know why her
mother should think it necessary to tell me these details; if it be a
warning, it has missed its aim. She must have some grand qualities,
this Pani P., since she has managed to steer her life through so many
difficulties, and at the same time educated her daughter so well; but
she is clumsy and tedious with her headaches and her macaronism.

"I confess," she said, "that the alliance suited me. At times I almost
break down under the weight of troubles. I am a woman with little
knowledge of business, and what I acquired I have paid for with my
health; but I had to think of my child. Kromitzki is very clever. He
has large concerns at Odessa, and is at present engaged in some large
speculations in naphtha at Baku, or some such place, 'que sais-je.' It
seems there is some difficulty about his not being a Russian subject.
If he married Aniela he might clear the estate; and as an extensive
landowner he would have no difficulty in getting naturalized."

"What does Aniela say to this?" I asked impatiently.

"She does not care for him, but is a good and obedient child. I am
anxious to see her married before I die."

I did not care to prolong the conversation, which irritated me more
than I can tell; and though I understand well enough, if that match
has not been arranged, it was Aniela's doing, yet I feel aggrieved
that she should allow a man like that even to look at her. For me this
would be a mere question of nerves. I forget, however, that others
are not constituted like me, and that Kromitzki, in spite of his
cadaverous face, passes among women as a good-looking man.

I wonder what his affairs are. I forgot to ask whether he is at
Warsaw; most likely he is, as he goes there every winter. As to his
business, it may be very magnificent, but I doubt whether it be on a
solid basis. I am not a speculator, and could not for the life of me
transact a stock-exchange affair; but I am shrewd enough to know
it. Besides I am a close observer, and quick to draw conclusions.
Therefore I do not believe in noblemen with a genius for speculation.
I am afraid Kromitzki's is neither an inherited nor innate quality,
but a neurosis driving him into a certain direction. I have seen
examples of that kind. Now and then blind fortune favors the
nobleman-speculator, and he accumulates wealth; but I have not seen
one who did not come to grief before he died.

Capacities such as these are either inherited or acquired by early
training. Chwastowski's boys will be able to do something in that way
because their father lost by accident all his fortune, and they
have to make a fresh start. But he who with ready capital, without
commercial tradition or professional knowledge, embarks upon commerce,
is bound to come to grief. Speculation cannot be based upon illusions,
and there is too much of that in the speculations of our noblemen.
Upon the whole, I wish Pan von Kromitzki every luck!


14 February.

Pax! pax! pax! The painful impression has vanished. What keen
perceptions Aniela has! I endeavored to be cheerful, though I felt out
of spirits, and I do not think there was any perceptible change in my
behavior; yet she perceived a change at once. To-day, when we looked
at the albums and were alone,--which happens pretty often, on purpose
I suppose,--she grew embarrassed and changed color. I saw at once she
wanted to say something, and did not dare. For a single moment the mad
thought flashed across my brain that she was about to confess her love
for me. But as quick as the thought, I remembered it was a Polish girl
I had before me. A mere chit of a girl--I beg her pardon, a young
princess,--would rather die than be the first to confess her love.
When asked she gives her assent rather as a favor. Besides, Aniela
very quickly corrected my mistake; suddenly closing the album she said
in a hesitating voice: "What is the matter with you, Leon? There is
something the matter, is there not?"

I began assuring her at once that there was nothing the matter with
me, and to laugh away her perturbation; but she only shook her head
and said: "I have seen that something was amiss these last two days. I
know that men like you may be easily offended, and I have asked myself
whether anything I might have done or said--" Her voice shook a
little, but she looked straight at me.

"I have not hurt you, have I?"

There was a moment I felt tempted to say, "If there is anything
wanting to my happiness it is you, Aniela, only you;" but a sudden
terror clutched me by the hair. Not terror of her, but of the
consequences that might follow. I took her hand, kissed it, and said
in the most cheerful voice I could assume, "You are a good and dear
girl; do not mind me,--there is nothing whatever the matter; besides,
you are our guest, and it is I who ought to see that you are
comfortable."

And I kissed again her hand, both hands in fact. All this could be
still put down to cousinly affection,--human nature is so mean that
the consciousness that there was still a door through which I could
escape lent me courage. I call this feeling mean for the very reason
that I am not responsible to anybody except to myself, and myself I
cannot deceive. Yet I feel that even to myself I shall not give a
strict account, because in so far as my relations to Aniela are
concerned I am carried away by my sensations. I still feel on my lips
the touch of her hand,--and my desires are simply without limit.
Sooner or later I shall myself close that door through which I could
still escape. But could I still escape? Yes, if some extraneous
circumstances came to my aid.

In the meanwhile she loves me, and everything draws me towards her.
To-day I asked myself, "If it is to be, why put it off?" I found
a ready answer: "Because I do not want to lose any of my present
sensations; the sudden thrills, the charm of the words unspoken, the
questioning glances, the expectations. I wish to spin out the romance
to the very end. I found fault with women that they preferred the
semblance of love to love itself, and now I am quite as anxious not to
lose any of its outward manifestations. But as one gets more advanced
in years one attaches greater importance to these things; and besides,
I am an Epicurean in my sensations."

After the above conversation with Aniela, we both recovered our
spirits. During evening I helped her in the cutting out of lampshades,
which gave me the opportunity to touch her hands and dress. I hindered
her with the work and she became as gay as a child, and in a child's
quick, plaintive voice called out, "Aunty, Leon is very naughty."


14 February.

Ill luck would have it that I accepted an invitation to attend a
meeting at Councillor S.'s, who always tries to bring together
representatives of all shades and opinions, and over a cup of tea and
a sandwich to bring about a mutual understanding. As a man almost
continually living abroad, I came to this meeting to find out what was
going on in the minds of my countrymen and listen to their reasonings.
The crush was very great, which made me feel uncomfortable, and at the
same time happened what usually happens at large gatherings. Those of
the same shade of opinion congregated in separate rooms to pay each
other compliments and so forth. I was made acquainted with various
councillors and representatives of the press. In other countries,
there is a considerable difference between writers and journalists.
The first is considered an artist and a thinker, the latter, a mere
paragraph-monger--I cannot find a better word. Here there is no such
distinction, and men of both occupations are known under the same
collective name as literary men. The greater part of them follow both
avocations, literature and journalism. Personally, they are more
refined than the journalists I met abroad. I do not like the daily
press, and consider it as one of the plagues sent down to torment
humanity. The swiftness with which the world becomes acquainted with
current events is equal to the superficiality of the information, and
does not compensate for the incredible perversion of public opinion,
as any one who is not prejudiced must perceive. Thanks to the daily
press, the sense which knows how to sift the true from the false
has become blunted, the notions of right and wrong have well-nigh
disappeared, evil stalks about in the garb of righteousness, and
oppression speaks the language of justice; in brief, the human soul
has become immoral and blind.

There was, among others, also Stawowski, who is considered a leader
among the advanced progressists. He spoke cleverly, but appeared to me
a man suffering from a two-fold disease: liver, and self. He carries
his ego like a glass of water filled to the brim, and seems to say,
"Take care, or it will spill." This fear, by some subtle process,
seems to communicate itself to his audience to such an extent that
nobody dares to be of a different opinion. He has this influence over
others because he believes in what he says. They are wrong, those who
consider him a sceptic. On the contrary, he is of the temperament
which makes fanatics. Had he been born a hundred years ago and been a
judge, he would have sentenced people to have their tongues cut out
for uttering blasphemy. Born as he is in the more enlightened times,
he hates what he would have loved then; but essentially it is the same
man.

I noticed that our conservatives crowded round Stawowski, not so
much out of curiosity to hear what he said as rather with a certain
watchful coquetry. Here, and maybe in other countries, this party has
little courage. They looked at the speaker with insinuating smiles, as
if they would say: "Although conservatives, nevertheless--" Ah! that
"nevertheless" was like an act of contrition, a kind of submission.
This was so evident that I who am a sceptic as to all party spirit,
began to contradict Stawowski, not as a representative of any party,
but simply as a man who is of a different opinion. My audacity excited
some astonishment. The matter in question was the position of the
working-men. Stawowski spoke of their hopeless condition, their
weakness and incapacity for defending themselves; the audience which
listened to his words grew every minute larger, when I interrupted:--

"Do you believe in Darwin's theory, the survival of the fittest?"

Stawowski, who is a naturalist by profession, took up the challenge at
once.

"Of course I do," he said.

"Then allow me to point out to you that you are inconsequent. If I,
as a Christian, care for the weak and defenceless, I do so by the
doctrine of Christ; but you, from a standpoint of a struggle-for-life
existence, ought to see it in a different light: they are weak, they
are foolish, consequently bound to succumb; it is a capital law of
nature,--let the weaker go to perdition. Why is it you do not take it
this way? please explain the contradiction."

Whether Stawowski was taken aback by the unexpected opposition, or
whether he really had never put the two things together, the fact was
that he was at a loss for a ready answer, grew confused, and did not
even venture upon the expression "altruism," which, after all, says
very little.