Генрик Сенкевич
Without Dogma
Besides, I have never been quick in forming ties of friendship. With Sniatynski my relations were closer than with anybody else, perhaps because we lived each of us in a different part of Europe. I had no other friends. I belong in general to the class of persons called singles. I remember there was a time when I considered this a sign of strength. In the animal world, for instance, the weak ones mostly cling together, and those whom nature has endowed with powerful claws and teeth go single, because they suffice unto themselves. This principle can be applied to human beings only in exceptional cases. Incapacity for friendship proves mostly dryness of heart, not strength of character. As to myself, the cause of it was a certain shyness and sensitiveness. My heart is like that plant which closes its leaves at the slightest touch. That I never formed ties of friendship with a woman is a different thing altogether. I had a desire for friendship in regard to those from whom I expected more. I feigned it sometimes, as the fox makes believe to be dead in order to secure the rooks. It does not follow that I disbelieve in friendship between man and woman. I am not a fool who measures the world according to his own standard, or a churl who is for ever suspecting evil; besides, various observations have proved to me that such a friendship is quite possible. As there exists the relation of brother and sister, the same feeling may exist between two persons who feel as brother and sister towards each other. Moreover, the capacity for that kind of friendship belongs to the choicer spirits who have a natural inclination for Platonic feasts, such as poets, artists, philosophers, and generally, people who cannot be measured by the common standard. If this be a proof that I was not made of the stuff artists, poets, and great men are made of, – the worse for me. Most likely it is so, since I am nothing but Leon Ploszowski. There was a time when I felt that if Aniela had become my wife, she would not only have been my love, but also my dearest friend. But I prefer not to think of it. Ghosts of this kind visit me far too often, and I shall never have any peace until I banish them altogether.
4 April.
I meet Mrs. Davis here pretty often, and call upon her at her house. And nothing else! There is some dislike, a little contempt under a thick layer of ashes, and for the rest, the usual social intercourse. She is still too beautiful to be classified among my idiosyncrasies. I cannot love her, and do not take the trouble to hate her. She understood that at once, and adapted herself to circumstances. All the same she cannot always conceal her irritation at my self-possession and cool independence; but for that very reason shows me greater consideration. It is very strange, that easiness with which women from closest relations pass on to mere acquaintanceship. Laura and I treat each other as if there had never been anything between us, – not only before people, but even when we are alone together. It does not seem to cost her the slightest effort; she is polite, cool, and self-possessed, affable in her way, and her manners influence me to such a degree that I should never dream of calling her by her Christian name.
The Neapolitan cousin, Maleschi, used to roll his eyes so ferociously at me that I almost considered it my duty to ask him not to injure his optics; he has now calmed down, seeing how very distant our relations to each other are, and is very friendly towards me. He has already fought a duel about Laura, and in spite of the reputation of coward he had in Italy, showed a deal of pluck. Poor Davis has passed to Nirvana some months ago, and I suppose after a decent interval of widowhood, Laura will marry Maleschi. They will make a splendid couple. The Italian has the torso and head of an Antinous; in addition to that, a complexion like pale gold, raven black hair, and eyes as blue as the Mediterranean. It may be that Laura loves him, but for some reason known only to herself, she bullies him a great deal. Several times in my presence she treated him so uncivilly that I was surprised, as I had thought her aesthetic nature incapable of such an exhibition of temper. Aspasia and Xantippe in one.
I have often noticed that women, merely beautiful, without striking qualities of the soul, who are looked upon as stars, are something more than stars; they are a whole constellation, two in fact, – a Great Bear to their surroundings, a Cross to their husbands. Laura was a Cross to poor Davis, and is now a Bear in regard to Maleschi. She would treat me a little in that way, too, if it were not that she is not familiar with the ways of Parisian society, and considers it safer to have me for an ally than an enemy. It is very strange, but she does not create here the same sensation as in Italy, or on the Mediterranean. She is simply too classical, too beautiful for Parisians, whose taste is to a certain degree morbid, as appears in their literature and art; and characteristic ugliness more strongly excites their blunted nerves than simple beauty. It is a noted fact that the most celebrated stars of the demi-monde are rather ugly than beautiful. In regard to Laura, there is another reason for her non-success with the Parisians. Her intelligence, though very uncommon, is upon too straight lines, wanting in that kind of dash so appreciated here. There are thinkers, and deep thinkers, too, in Paris, but in society those mostly win a reputation whose minds are nimble enough to cling to any subject, as a monkey to a branch by his tail or feet, turning head over heel. The more these jumps are sudden and unexpected, the surer the success. Laura understands this, and at the same time is conscious that to do this would be as easy for her as to dance on a rope. She considers me an adept in these kinds of gymnastics, and consequently wants me.
To increase the attraction of her salon, she has made it into a temple of music. She herself sings like a siren, and thereby attracts many people. I meet there often a pianiste, Clara Hilst, a young, good-looking German girl, very tall of figure, whom one of the painters here describes thus: "C'est beau, mais c'est deux fois grandeur naturelle." In spite of her German origin, she has met with a considerable success. As to myself, I evidently belong to the old school, for I do not understand the music of the present, which consists in a great deal of noise and confusion. Listening the last time to Miss Hilst's playing at Laura's, I thought to myself that if the piano were a man who had seduced her sister, she could not belabor him more mercilessly. She also plays on the harmonium. Her compositions are thought of a great deal here, and considered very deep; most likely because those who could not understand them, hearing them for the tenth time, hope the eleventh time will make them more intelligible. I must confess that these remarks sound malicious, perhaps bold in one who does not profess to be a judge. Yet it seems to me that music for the understanding of which one has to be a professor of the Conservatorium, and for which people intellectually developed, let alone simple folk, do not possess the key, is not what it ought to be. I am afraid that musicians following the same track will end by creating a separate caste, like the Egyptian priests, in order to keep knowledge and art exclusively to themselves.
I say this because I notice that since Wagner's time, music, compared, for instance, to painting, has taken a quite different direction. The newer school of painting is narrowing spontaneously the limit of its proportions, tries to divest itself from philosophical and literary ideas; does not attempt speeches, sermons, historical events that require a commentary, or allegory that does not explain itself at a glance; in fact confines itself with the full consciousness of doing so to the reproduction of shape and color. Music since Wagner's time goes in the opposite direction, – tries to be, not only a harmony of sound, but at the same time the philosophy of harmony. I sometimes think a great musical genius of the future will say, as Hegel did in his time: —
"There was only one who understood me, and he understood me wrongly."
Miss Hilst belongs to the category of musical philosophers, which is all the more strange, as her mind is full of simplicity. This caryatid has the limpid, innocent eyes of a child, and is unsophisticated and sincere like one. She is surrounded by a great throng of admirers, who are attracted by her beauty, and more still by the nimbus that makes a woman touched by the hand of the Muses always a centre of attraction; nevertheless, not a breath has touched her fair fame. Even the women speak well of her, for she disarms them by her invariable good humor and sincerity. She is as gay as any street urchin, and I have seen her laughing as schoolgirls laugh, the tears running down her face, which would be considered bad form in anybody but an artist, who is a privileged person. Hers, from a moral point of view, is a beautiful character, though beyond her art, she is not endowed with great intellectual gifts. Laura, who, in the main, does not like her, hinted to me several times that the caryatid is in love with me. I do not believe it; she might love me, perhaps, if I tried to make her. One thing is certain, she likes me very much, and felt sympathy for me the first time we met. I return the sentiment, and do not try to disturb her peace of mind. When I meet a woman for the first time I look upon her, from old habit I suppose, as a possible conquest; it is the first instinct. A second thought is quite different. Generally speaking, women interest me in the way precious stones interest a jeweller who has retired from business. Seeing a valuable gem, I say to myself it is worth having, and then I remember that I have sold out, and go on my way.
In spite of all that, I once, half in jest, urged her to go to Warsaw, and promised to escort her as honorary impresario. I do not say that such a journey would be without charm. I really intend going. My aunt has given me her town house, and wants me to come over in order to take the property. Besides, I always go to Warsaw for the races. Who would believe that my aunt, a grave, serious-minded lady, devoted to the management of the estate, to prayer and benevolent schemes, had such a worldly weakness as horse-racing. It is her one passion. Maybe the knightly instincts which women inherit as well as men, find an outlet in this noble sport. Our horses have been running for Heaven knows how many years, – and are always beaten. My aunt never fails to attend the races, and is an enthusiast about horses. While her own horses are running, she stands on the back seat of her carriage, leaning on a stick, her bonnet usually awry, and watches for the result, – then gets very angry, and for at least a month makes Chwastowski's life a burden to him. At present I hear she has reared a wonderful horse, and she bids me to come and witness the triumph of the black and orange colors. I shall go. There are other reasons too which make me inclined to go. As I have said, I am comparatively speaking calm, do not wish for anything, or expect anything, am resigned in fact to that kind of spiritual paralysis until the time comes when bodily paralysis carries me off, as it carried off my father. Nevertheless, I cannot forget altogether, therefore it is only a partial paralysis. The one being I ever loved presents herself before my mind in two shapes. The one is called Pani Kromitzka, the other Aniela. As far as Pani Kromitzka is concerned, I am indifferent and a stranger; but Aniela still haunts me and brings with her, as gifts, the consciousness of wrong, my foolishness, spiritual crookedness, pain, bitterness, disappointment, and loss. Verily a munificent spirit! I might be even now perfectly contented if somebody could take from my brain that particular part wherein memory dwells. I try to drive away the thoughts of what might have been if things had turned out differently, but cannot always manage it. My munificent, generous angel will come now and then, and from her cornucopia shower her gifts upon me. At times the idea comes into my mind that Pani Kromitzka will lay the ghost of Aniela, – and that is one reason I wish to go; to look upon her happiness, her married life, and all those changes which must have made her different from the old Aniela. Perhaps I may meet her at Ploszow, as she will want to see her mother, after so many months of separation.
I suppose that I do not delude myself, and that "ceci tuera cela." I count mostly upon my nerves, which are so easily worked upon. I remember that when I had made Aniela's acquaintance and her charm began to act upon me with such irresistible force, the very mention of Kromitzki in connection with her made her less desirable. This will be more so now, when she belongs to him body and soul. I am almost certain the remedy will prove efficacious, and that "ceci tuera cela." And if not, if it should turn out differently, what have I to lose? I do not wish to gain anything, but should not be sorry perhaps to know that the guilt was not on my side only, and that henceforth the burden would have to be divided between us two; this might give me a kind of satisfaction. I say, it might, because I am not sure that it would. Thoughts of revenge are very far from me. It is only on theatrical boards that disappointed lovers are thirsting for revenge; in real life they go away with distaste, that is all. Moreover, to make Pani Kromitzka believe that she had done wrong in rejecting my repentance I should have to believe firmly in it myself, – and strange to say, there are moments I am not sure of anything.
5 April.
I know for certain I shall meet Pani Kromitzka. Her husband has sold the estate, betaken himself to Baku on business speculation, and has sent his wife to join her mother at Ploszow; so my aunt tells me in her letter. I received the news if not indifferently, at least with perfect composure, but I notice that the impression gradually gained upon me. At present I cannot think of anything else, as the fact is of so great importance to the two women. After so short a space as ten months he sold the estate which over four hundred years had been in Aniela's family, and to the preservation of which Pani Celina had devoted her own life. Then comes a Pan Kromitzki and sells it with a light heart because he wants the money for his speculations. Suppose he does make millions – will that compensate the women for the loss of what they prized above money? What will they think of him now? My aunt writes that she is sitting by Pani Celina's bedside, who after receiving the news of the sale grew worse at once. I am quite certain that Aniela, when putting her signature to the deed which empowered her husband to dispose of the land, did not know what she was signing. She is even now defending her husband. My aunt quotes from Aniela's letter: "A great misfortune has happened, but it was not Charles's fault." Defend him, defend him, O loyal wife; but you cannot prevent my thinking that he has wounded you deeply, and that at the bottom of your heart you despise him. Neither kisses nor soft words will efface from your memory the one word "sold." And Pani Celina thought that after the marriage he would devote his money towards clearing off the debts and disincumbering the property! Dear ladies, I, a man who does not boast of civic virtues, would not have done it, if for no other reason than innate delicacy of feeling, affection for you, and fear to wound you. But for speculations, ready money is wanted. I hope it is not merely prejudice, but these millions I heard so much about appear to me like a great point of interrogation. Maybe he will get them; perhaps the capital realized from the sale will help him towards it; but if he had possessed the wealth he used to boast of, would he have dealt his wife and mother-in-law such a blow, and sold their ancestral seat? My aunt writes that he left immediately after the sale for Baku, and intends to go as far as Turkestan. Aniela being too young to live by herself must needs come to Ploszow, as her mother cannot leave it at present, because she is too ill to travel; and besides my aunt will not let her go, and she is afraid of crossing her in any way. I know Aniela too well to suspect her of any calculations. She is the very essence of disinterestedness. But the mother, who would grasp all the world for her only child, doubtless counts upon the chance of a legacy for Aniela. And she is not mistaken either. My aunt, who never quite believed in Kromitzki's millions, gave me to understand several times that she meant to do something for Aniela; she said it with a certain hesitation, almost humbly, as she considers everything ought to go to a Ploszowski, and that to leave anything to another would be a wrong to the family. How little she knows me! If Aniela were in want of a pair of shoes and I had to sell Ploszow and give all I possess, she should have them. I might be prompted by a less noble motive, – for instance, to appear different from a Kromitzki, – but from whatever motive, I should give it certainly. But there is no question of that now. I am thinking continually that she is living at Ploszow, and will remain there as long as Kromitzki's journeys last, which may be God only knows for how long. I shall see Pani Kromitzka every day. At the thought of this I feel a certain uneasiness, with a strong admixture of curiosity as to our future relations towards each other; and I clearly see what might happen if my disposition and feelings in regard to her were different. I never lie to myself; I repeat again that I am going there in order to cure myself, that I do not love Pani Kromitzka, and never will love her; that on the contrary, I am in hope that the sight of her will drive Aniela out of my heart far more successfully than all the fiords and geysers; but I would not be myself, the man who has lived much and thought much, if I did not see the danger which under other circumstances such a position might bring forth.
If I wanted to revenge myself, if the very name Pani Kromitzka did not excite my loathing, what could stand in my way or hinder me, – in quiet Ploszow, where would be we two only, and the elder ladies, as unsuspicious and unsophisticated in their stainless virtue as any babies? In regard to this I know my aunt and Pani Celina. In the higher spheres of society one meets sometimes women thoroughly corrupted; but there are many, especially among the older generation, who pass through life like angels, with no thought of evil ever coming near them. Neither my aunt nor Pani Celina would ever dream of any danger threatening Aniela now she is married. Aniela herself belongs to that kind. She would not have rejected my prayers had she not given her word to Kromitzki. But Polish women of this kind would rather break a heart than break their word. At the very thought of it a dull wrath seizes me. I crush down within me the desire every one has to prove the truth of his opinion. I do not want to argue at all with Pani Kromitzka, but if somebody else would do it, – point out to women like her that the laws of nature, laws of affection, cannot be broken with impunity, that they are stronger than any ethic laws, I should be glad of it. It is true I have sinned in regard to Aniela, but I wished to make amendment from the very depth of my heart, and she rejected me, – rejected me perhaps so as to be able to say to herself: "I am not a Leon Ploszowski; I have given a promise, and do not take it back." This is not virtue, it is want of heart; it is not heroism, but foolishness; not rectitude of conscience, but vanity. I cannot forget, I cannot; but Pani Kromitzka will help me. When I come to see her in her new matronly dignity, satisfied with her heroism, self-possessed, in love, or apparently so, with her husband, watching me furtively to see whether I have been punished, and punished sufficiently, full of happiness and her own virtues, the ghost of my old love will be laid, and I can go back to where the reindeer lives without Aniela's memory following me like the sea-gulls in the track of ships.
It is possible that Pani Kromitzka will put on the airs of an injured victim, and her whole manner to me may say: "It is your fault!" Very well. We have seen some of that in the world. As artificial flowers have one defect, the want of scent, artificial crowns of thorn have one advantage, they do not prick, and may be worn as a bonnet, very becoming to a pretty face. Whenever I met one of those victims who married out of despair I felt a desire to say: "It is not true! you were a victim maybe in good faith as long as the chosen one did not approach you in his slippers. From that moment you ceased to be pathetic, and are only ridiculous, and the more so if you pose as a victim."
6 April.
How beautiful and wise is the Greek word "ananke." It was fated that through a woman I should lose my peace of mind, though I had ceased to care for her. The news that her ancestral seat is sold, and she herself coming to live at Ploszow, moved me so deeply that I could not sleep. Various questions knocked at my brain, asking for admittance. I tried to solve the question whether I had any right to lead Pani Kromitzka from the path of virtue. I neither wish, nor will I endeavor to do so, because she has ceased to attract me; but would it be right? I fill my life with these questions of "to be, or not to be," because I have nothing else to do. Thoughts like mine are not reckoned among the delights of life. It is like the dog trying to catch his tail; he does not catch anything. I do not prove anything, only tire myself; but have the satisfaction that another day has passed, or another night gone by.
I observe at the same time, that with all my scepticism, I am still beset with scruples worthy of the vicar of Ploszow. The modern man is composed of so many threads that in trying to set himself right, he gets more and more entangled. It was in vain I repeated to myself, if only in theory, that I had the right. A voice, as from the parish church, seemed to say at intervals: "No! no! you have not the right!" But scruples like these ought to be kept down, as for me this is a question of keeping my mind evenly balanced. At this quiet evening time, I feel just in the humor for it. This afternoon, at a well-known painter's studio, I heard Mrs. Davis maintain, in discussion with two literary men, that a woman ought to be unapproachable all her life, if only "pour la netteté du plumage," and Maleschi repeated, "Oui, oui, – du plumaze." Oh, ye gods and fishes! I fancied all the crabs in the Mediterranean rolling on their backs in silent laughter, and raising their claws to heaven, imploring Jove for a thunderbolt! By the bye, Mrs. Davis borrowed that sentence from me, and I borrowed it from Feuillet. I kept my gravity, and did not permit myself the slightest smile, but it put me into a merry, cynical humor, the reflection of which still remains with me, and is for the moment the best weapon against scruples of conscience.
Now for the start. Would it be right for me to fall in love with Pani Kromitzka, and in case of success lead her from the path of duty? First, let us look at it from a point of honor, as people consider it who call themselves, and whom the world regards as, gentlemen. There is not a single paragraph there against it. It is one of the queerest codices ever invented under the sun. If, for instance, I steal somebody's money, the disgrace falls upon me, and not upon the man who is robbed, according to the world's rule of honor; but if I rob him of his wife, it is not I, but the robbed man who is disgraced. What does it mean? Is it a mere aberration of the moral sense, or is it that between stealing a man's purse and stealing his wife, there is such a vast difference that the two cases cannot be even compared? I have often thought over this, and have come to the conclusion that there is a great difference. A human being can never be as absolutely a property as a thing, and the taking away somebody's wife is an act of a double will. Why should I respect the rights of a husband if his own wife does not? What is he to me? I meet a woman who wants to be mine, and I take her. Her husband does not exist for me; her vows are no affair of mine. What should hold me back? Respect for the matrimonial institution? But if I loved Pani Kromitzka, I would cry out from the very depth of my soul: "I protest against this marriage; protest against her duties towards Kromitzki. I am the worm this marriage has crushed; and they tell me, writhing in anguish, to respect it, – me, who would sting it with my last breath." Why; for what reason? What do I care for a social institution that has wrung from me the last drop of blood, deprived me of my very existence? Man lives on fish. Go tell the fish to respect the order that it be skinned alive before being put on the fire. I protest and sting, – that is my answer. Spencer's ideal of a finally developed man, in whom the individual impulses will be in perfect harmony with social laws, is nothing but an assumption. I know perfectly that such as Sniatynski would demolish my theory with one question: "You are then for free-love?" No, nothing of the sort. I am for myself. I do not wish to hear anything about your theories. If you fall in love with another woman, or your wife with somebody else, we shall see what becomes of your rules, paragraphs, and respect for social institutions. At the worst, I might be called inconsequent. I was inconsequent, too, when I, a sceptic, had a mass offered up for Leon and Aniela, and prayed like a child, and swallowed my tears like any fool. In future I will always be inconsequent when it suits me and makes me happier. There is only one logic in the world, – the logic of passions. Reason holds the reins for a time, but when the horses tear along in mad career, she sits on the box and merely watches lest the vehicle should go to pieces. The human heart cannot be rendered love-proof, and love is an element strong as tidal waves. The very gates of hell cannot overcome a woman who loves her husband, for the marriage vows are only the sealing of love's compact; but if it be mere duty, the first tide will throw her on the sands like a dead fish. I cannot bind myself not to let my hair grow, or to remain always young; and as often as I did so, the laws of nature would take their course in spite of human bonds. It is strange, but all that I am writing is pure theory. I have no schemes I need justify before myself, and yet all these reflections have stirred my soul to such an extent that I had to leave off writing. My calmness is evidently artificial. I walked up and down the room for an hour, and at last found out what disturbed me.
It is very late. From the windows of my room I see the cupola of the Invalides gleaming in the moonlight, as once I saw St. Peter's cupola, when, full of hope, I walked on the Pincio, thinking of Aniela. Unconsciously I had given myself up to those memories. Whatever there be or awaits us in the future, one thing is certain: I could have been happy, and she might be ten, nay, a hundred times happier than she is. Even now, if I had any hidden schemes, or if she were to me the greatest temptation, I would respect her unhappiness. I would not hurt her for anything. The very thought of it would take away my courage and decision, I had such an amount of tenderness for her.
But all that is in the past. The sceptic dwelling within me creeps up again with another question: Would she be really so unhappy? I have verified, not once, but several times, the fact that women are unhappy only while they struggle. The battle once over, regardless of the result, there follows a period of calm and happiness. I knew at one time a woman in Paris who resisted most persistently for three years. When at last her heart got the upper hand and she gave in, she only reproached herself for not having done so sooner.
But what is the use of putting all these questions or trying to solve problems? I know that every principle is open to argument, and every proof to scepticism. The good old times when people doubted everything except their intelligence to recognize the true from the false, have gone. At present there is nothing but labyrinths upon labyrinths. I had better not think of anything but the journey before me. And Kromitzki sold his wife's ancestral home and thus inflicted on her a cruel blow! I had to write it down black on white once more, otherwise I could not believe it.
10 April.
I went towards evening to say good-by to Mrs. Davis, and dropped in for a regular concert. Laura seems really very fond of music. Miss Hilst was playing on the harmonium. I always like to see her, but especially when she sits down to the harmonium, and playing the prelude, keeps her eyes on the keys. There is so much earnestness and intentness in her face, combined with calmness. She reminds me of Saint Cecilia, the most sympathetic of all saints, with whom I should have fallen in love had she lived in our times. A pity Clara is so tall; but one forgets it when she is playing. From time to time she lifts her eyes, as if recalling to memory a note heard somewhere in the spheres, or seeking inspiration, and she herself looks like one inspired. She rightly bears the name of Clara, for it would be difficult to find a more transparent soul. I said I liked to see her; as to her music, it is still the same; I do not understand it, or rather I follow her meaning with the greatest difficulty. Nevertheless, in spite of my satirical remarks, I think she has a remarkable talent.
When she had finished I approached her, and still half jestingly said the time had come and I was ready to escort her to Warsaw according to our agreement. I was surprised to see her take my proposition so seriously. She said that she had wanted to go there for some time, and was quite ready; it was all a question of informing an old relative who always went with her, and of taking a dumb piano, as she practised even on her journeys.
