Генрик Сенкевич
Without Dogma
Part of the morning I spend with the lawyer. Sometimes I work at compiling a catalogue of the collections for my own use. My father did not leave any instructions as to his collections; consequently they are my property. I would hand them over to the city, in fulfilment of his wishes, if I were quite sure he did wish it. As he did not will them away, he, moved by my aunt's remonstrances, may have left it to me to bring them sometime or other over to Poland. That my father thought of this in later times is proved by the numerous bequests and codicils in his will. Among others there is one that touched me more deeply than I can tell: "The head of the Madonna by Sassoferrato I leave to my future daughter-in-law."
25 May.
The sculptor Lukomski began a month ago a full-length statue of my father, from a bust done by himself some years ago. I call upon him often in the middle of the day to watch the progress of the work. The studio is a barn-like building, with a huge skylight on the north side; consequently no sun comes in, and the light is cold. When I sit there I seem to be out of Rome altogether. To heighten the illusion, there is Lukomski, with his Northern features, light beard, and the dreamy blue eyes of a mystic. His two assistants are Poles, and the two dogs in the yard are called Kruk and Kurta, – in short, the place has the appearance of a northern isle in a southern sea. I like to go there for the quaintness of the thing, and I like to watch Lukomski at his work. There is in him at the same time so much power and simplicity. He is especially interesting when he stands back a short distance so as to get a better view of his work, and then suddenly goes back as to an attack. He is a very talented sculptor. The shape of my father seems to grow under his hand, and assume a wonderful likeness. It will be not only a portrait, but a work of art.
If anybody, it is he who is altogether absorbed in the beauty of form. It seems to me that he works out his thoughts by the help of Greek noses, heads, arms, and torsos, more than by help of ideas. He has lived fifteen years at Rome, and still goes to galleries and museums, as if he had arrived yesterday. This proves that worship of form may fill a man's life, and become his religion, provided he is its high priest. Lukomski has as much veneration for beauty in human shape as devotees for holy shrines. I asked him which he considered the most beautiful woman in Rome. He answered, without hesitation, "Mrs. Davis;" and there and then, with his plastic thumbs, with the expressive motion common to artists, he began to draw her outline in the air. Lukomski, as a rule, is self-contained and melancholy; but at this moment he was so animated that his eyes lost their mystic expression. "Like this, for instance," he said, drawing a new line, "or like that. She is the most beautiful woman not only in Rome, but in the whole world." He says that when she lifts her head, the neck is as the continuation of the face, – the same breadth, which is very rare; sometime on the Transtevere one might see women with similar necks; but never in that perfection. Really, who seeks to find a flaw in Laura's beauty, must seek in vain. Lukomski goes so far as to maintain that statues ought to be raised to women like her in their lifetime. Of course, I did not contradict him.
29 May.
The Italian law procedure begins to bore me. How slow they are, in spite of their vivacity! and how they talk! I am literally talked to shreds. I sent for some of the newest French novels, and read for whole days. The writers make upon me the impression of clever draughts-men. How quickly and skilfully each character is outlined! and what character and power in those sketches! The technical part can go no farther. As to the characters thus drawn, I can only say what I said before, – their love is only skin deep. This may be the case now and then; but that in the whole of France nobody should be capable of deeper feelings, let them tell this to somebody else. I know France too well, and say that she is better than her literature. That running after glaring, realistic truth makes the novel untrue to life. It is the individual we love; and the individual is composed not only of face, voice, shape, and expression, but also of intelligence, character, a way of thinking, – in brief, of various intellectual and moral elements. My relation to Laura is the best proof that a feeling founded upon outward admiration does not deserve the name of love. Besides, Laura is an exceptional case.
31 May.
Yesterday I lunched with Lukomski; in the evening I loitered as usual on the Pincio. My imagination sometimes plays me strange tricks. I fancied that Aniela was leaning on my arm. We walked together, and talked like people who are very fond of each other. I felt so happy, – so different from what I had felt near Laura! When the illusion vanished I felt very lonely; I did not want to go home. That night I could not sleep at all.
How utterly unprofitable my life is! These continual searchings of my mind are leading me into the desert. And it might have been so different! I am surprised that the memory of Aniela should be still so fresh and green. Why is it that I never dream of walking arm-in-arm with Laura? And since I come to mention her name, I add inwardly, "Perdition upon the memory!" I often think I have been holding happiness by both wings, and let it escape.
2 June.
I never was so amazed in my life as to-day, in regard to Lukomski. We went together to the museum on the Capitol. When near the Venus, he surprised me by saying he preferred the Neapolitan Psyche by Praxiteles, as being more spiritual. A strange confession from a sculptor like him; but a greater surprise was in store for me near "The Dying Gladiator." Lukomski looked at him for nearly half an hour, then said, through clenched teeth, as he does when deeply moved, – "I have heard it said a hundred times that he has a Slavonic face, but really the likeness is wonderful. My brother has a farm, – Koslowka, near Sierpiec. There was one of the laborers, Michna, who was drowned driving horses through the water. I tell you it is exactly the same face. I come here very often for an hour, because I feel a longing to look at it."
I could not believe my ears, and was surprised the roof of the Capitol did not come down on our heads. Sierpiec, Koslowka, Michna, here in the world of the antique, of classic forms! and from whose lips? – from those of Lukomski! I saw at once, peeping out from beneath the sculptor, the man. And that is the artist, I thought, – that the Roman, the Greek! You come here to look at the Gladiator, not so much for the sake of the form, as because he reminds you of Michna from Koslowka. I begin to understand now the taciturnity and melancholy. Lukomski evidently guessed my thoughts; for, the mystic eyes looking straight before him, he began in a broken voice to reply to my unuttered words: "Rome is well enough, – to live in, but not to die in! I am getting on fairly well, – no right to complain. I remain here because I must; but the longing for the old place tears me like all the devils. When the dogs bark at night in the garden, I fancy the sound comes from the village; and I feel as if I could scratch the walls. I should go mad if I did not go there once a year. I am going now, shortly, because I cannot breathe here any longer."
He put his hand to his throat, and screwed up his mouth as if to whistle, to hide the trembling of the lips. It was almost an explosion, – the more astounding, as it was so unexpected. A sudden emotion seized me at the thought of the vast difference between me and such men as he and Sniatynski. Even now I think of it with a certain apprehension. There are vast horizons out of my reach. What an intensity of feeling there is in those men! They may be happy or wretched with it; but how immeasurably richer they are than I! There is no danger of life becoming to them a desert and a barren wilderness. In each of them there is life enough for ten. I too feel conscious of ties to my country; but the consciousness is not so pressing, does not burn with the same steady light, and is not part of myself. My existence does not depend upon any Koslowka, Michna, or Ploszow. Where men such as Sniatynski or Lukomski find live springs from which they draw their motive vigor, I find dry sand. And yet, if they had not this basis, there remains still, for one his sculpture, for the other his literature. It seems incredible that a man possessing so many conditions of happiness should be not only so little happy, but clearly does not see the reason why he should exist at all.
It is doubtless my bringing up which has something to do with it, – those Metzes, Romes, Paris; I have always been as a tree taken from its soil and not firmly planted in another. Partly it is my own fault; because I am putting points of interrogation all along the road of life, and philosophize where others love only. The consequence is that philosophy, instead of giving me anything, has eaten my heart away.
8 June.
I note down the occurrences of a whole week. I received, among other letters, one from Sniatynski. The honest fellow is so concerned about the turn my affair with Aniela has taken that he does not even abuse me. He tells me, though, that his wife is angry past forgiveness, and does not allow my name to be mentioned in her presence, – considers me a perfect monster, who finds his only delight in gloating over fresh victims. For once I am a good Christian, and not only do not bear malice to the little woman, but feel very friendly towards her. What a warm, generous heart hers is! Sniatynski evidently thinks the question finally settled; for he refrains from advice, and only expresses sorrow.
"God grant," he writes, "you may find another like her." Strange, when I come to think of it! It seems to me that I do not want another like Aniela, or a better one either, – I want her. I say it seems to me; for it is a feeling without any definite shape. I carry within me something like an entangled skein; I weary myself, and yet am not able to reduce it to any kind of order. In spite of all my self-knowledge, I cannot quite make out what it is that makes me feel sad. Is it because I find I love her, or is it because I feel I could love her very much? Sniatynski unconsciously replies to this question in these words: "I have heard or read that gold nuggets have sometimes a large admixture of quartz, which must be crushed in order to get at the gold. I suppose your heart is thus covered with an incrustation, that only partly melted while you were staying at Ploszow. You did not remain long enough, and simply had no time to let your love grow sufficiently strong. You have, maybe, energy enough to act, but not enough to decide; but you would have found the energy if the feeling had been powerful enough. You went away, and according to your custom, began to ponder, to think it over; and it came to pass, as I was afraid it would, that you philosophized away your own happiness and that of another." What strikes me most in Sniatynski's words is that they are almost a repetition of what my father said to me. But Sniatynski penetrates deeper; for he adds almost immediately: "It is the old story, – he who inquires too deeply into his own mind ends by disagreeing with himself; and who disagrees with himself is incapable of any decision. Truly times must be out of joint, when only asses have any power of action left, and those who have a little more intelligence use it to doubt everything, and to persuade themselves that it is not worth while to attempt anything." I have read similar observations in one of the French authors; and by Jove! he is right.
I almost wish Sniatynski had given me a downright scolding, instead of larding his letter with sentences like this "In spite of all your good qualities it will come to this, that you will always be a cause of suffering and anxiety to those who love you." He brings it home with a vengeance. I have caused suffering to Aniela, her mother, and my-aunt, and to myself also. I feel inclined to laugh a little as I read further: "According to the laws of nature, there is always something growing within us; beware, lest it be a poisonous weed that will destroy your whole existence!" No, – I am not afraid of that. There is some mould sown by Laura's fair hands, but it grows only on the outward crust of which Sniatynski speaks, and has not struck any roots. There is no need of uprooting anything; it is as easily wiped off as dust. Sniatynski is more reasonable when he is himself again, and steps forth with his pet dogma that lies always close to his heart: "If you consider yourself a superior type, or even if you be such, let me tell you that the sum total of such superiority, is socially, a minus quantity."
I am far from considering myself a superior type, unless it be in comparison to such as Kromitzki; but Sniatynski is right. Men like me escape being minus quantities in society only when they are men of science or great artists, – not artists without portfolios. Often they take the part of great reformers. As to myself I could only be a reformer as regards my own person. I went about with that thought all the day.
It is surpassing strange that, knowing my own short-comings so well, I do not make any attempt to mend matters. For instance, after debating for half a day whether to go out or not, ought I not to take myself by the collar and thrust myself into the street? I am a sceptic? – very well! Could I not act for once as if I were not a sceptic? A little more or less conviction, what does it matter? What ought I to do now? Pack up my things and go straight to Ploszow. I could do it easily enough. What the result of such a step would be, I do not know, but at any rate it would be doing something. Then Sniatynski writes: "That ape is now every day at Ploszow, keeping watch over the ladies, who, without that additional trouble, are worn to shadows."
Perhaps it is too late. Sniatynski does not say when he was last at Ploszow, perhaps a week ago or maybe two; since then things may have gone much farther. Yes, but I do not know anything for certain, and when all is said how can it be worse than it is already? I feel that anybody with a little more energy in his composition would go at once, and I should feel more respect for myself if I brought myself to do it, especially as Sniatynski, who is usually so enterprising, does not urge me. The very thought brightens me up, and in this brightness I see a beloved face which at this moment is dearer to me than anything else in the world, and – per Baccho! I shall most probably do it.
9 June.
"La nuit porte conseil." I will not go at once to Ploszow, it would be a journey in the dark; but I have written a long letter to my aunt, quite different from that I wrote at Peli. Within a week, or at the most ten days, I shall get an answer, and according to it I shall either go or stay, – in fact, I do not know myself yet what I shall do. I might count upon a favorable answer if I had written for instance like this: "Dearest aunt, send Kromitzki about his business; I beg Aniela to forgive me. I love her, and my dearest wish is to make her my wife." Unless she were married already, – and things could not have been managed there so speedily, – such a letter could have but one result. But I did not write anything of that kind. My missive was intended to reconnoitre the position, sent in fact as a scout to find out how affairs were progressing, and partly, to learn what Aniela was thinking. To say the truth, if I did not express myself more definitely, it is because experience has taught me to mistrust myself. Ah! if Aniela, in spite of the wrong inflicted upon her by me, refused Kromitzki, how gratified I should feel towards her; and how immeasurably higher she would rise in my esteem if once removed from the ranks of marriageable girls whose only aim is to get a husband. What a pity I ever heard about Kromitzki. Once rid of the entanglement with Laura, I should have flown on wings to Aniela's side. This dear aunt has managed things with a clumsy hand in writing to me about Kromitzki and the encouragement he had from Aniela's mother. In these times of overwrought nerves, it is not only women that are like sensitive plants. A rough touch, and, the soul shrinks, folds itself up, maybe forever. I know it is foolish, even wrong, but I cannot help it. To change myself I should have to order at an anatomist's a new set of nerves, and keep those I have for special occasions. No one, not even Pani Sniatynski, can judge me more severely than I judge myself. But is Kromitzki better than I? Is his low, money-making neurosis better than mine? Without any boastfulness I may say that I have more delicacy of feeling, nobler impulses, a better heart, more tenderness, and – his own mother would be obliged to own it – more intelligence. It is true I could not make millions to save my life; but then Kromitzki has not achieved it yet; instead of that, I could guarantee that my wife would spend her life in a broader and warmer atmosphere; there would be more sincerity in it and nobler aims.
It is not the first time I have compared myself to Kromitzki, and it makes me angry considering what a vast difference there is between us. We are like inhabitants of different planets, and as to our souls, if one has to climb up to reach mine, such as Aniela would have to stoop very low to reach his. But would this be such a difficult task for her? It is a horrible question; but in regard to women I have seen so monstrous things, especially in my country where the women generally speaking are superior to the men, that I am obliged to consider it. I have seen girls, angels in all but wings, full of noble impulses, sensitive to everything beautiful and uncommon, not only marry louts of narrow and mean characters, but adopt after marriage their husbands' maxims of life, vanities, narrowness, and commonplace opinions. What is more, some of them did this eagerly, as if former ideals were only fit to be thrown aside with the bridal wreath. They seemed to labor under the conviction that only thus they could prove themselves true wives. It is true that sometimes a reaction follows, but in a general sense Shakspeare's Titania is a common enough type, to be met with every day.
I am a sceptic from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet, but my scepticism springs from pain, for it hurts me to think that such may be Aniela's fate. Perhaps she too will shrug her shoulders at the memory of her girlish aspirations, and consider contracts in Turkestan better adapted to practical life. A dull wrath seizes me at the thought, all the more as it will be partly my fault, that is, if it should come to that.
On the other side these reflections and vacillations are not merely the result of a want of decision, as Sniatynski seems to think. I have such a high conception about marriage, such lofty demands, that they take away my courage. It is true that often husband and wife fit each other like two warped boards, and yet jog through life contentedly enough; but this would not be enough for me. For the very reason that I believe in happiness so little, I should like to attain it; but can I attain it? It is not so much the unhappy marriages I have met with that make me so wavering, but the few happy ones I have seen; at the remembrance of these I ask myself, "Is it possible I could be so happy?" And yet happiness is not met with in fiction only, – but how to know where to look for it!
11 June.
In the last few days I have become quite intimate with Lukomski. He is not so self-contained and melancholy as he used to be. Yesterday, towards evening, he came to see me; we went out for a walk as far as the Thermes of Caracalla; then I asked him to come back with me, and he stopped until midnight. I had a long talk with him, which I note down, as it made upon me a certain impression. Lukomski seemed a little ashamed of the exhibition of feeling he had made near "The Dying Gladiator;" but I led him on and gradually came to know the man as he really was. As we were growing very friendly I ventured to remark, —
"Excuse the question, but I cannot understand why a man so fond of domestic life has not taken to himself a companion. Neither your studio, your assistants, nor your dogs can give you the feeling of a home you are missing, as a wife would."
Lukomski smiled, and pointing to the ring on his finger, said, —
"I am going to be married shortly. We are only waiting because the young lady is in mourning for her father; I am to join her in two months."
"At Sierpiec?"
"No, she comes from Wilkomierz."
"What took you to Wilkomierz?"
"I have never been there. I met her by accident on the Corso in Rome."
"That was a fortunate accident, was it not?"
"The most fortunate in my life."
"Was it during the Carnival?"
"No. It happened in this way: I was on my way to the studio when, in the Via Condotto, I saw two fair-haired women inquiring in very bad Italian the way to the Capitol. They were saying: 'Capitolio, Capitole, Capitol,' and nobody seemed to know what they wanted, because here, as you know, they call it 'Campidolio.' I could not have been mistaken, – they were Poles, evidently mother and daughter. They were overjoyed when I addressed them in Polish; I was very glad too, and so I not only showed them the way but went there with them."
"You have no idea how this interests me; and so you went together?"
"Yes, we went together. On the way I looked at the younger lady; a figure like a young poplar, graceful, pretty, a small head, ears a perfect model, the face full of expression, and eyelashes pure gold, such as, you find only at home; there is nothing of that kind here, unless now and then at Venice. She pleased me very much too because of that thoughtfulness for her mother, who was in grief, having lost her husband; I thought she must have a good heart. For about a week I went with them everywhere, and then asked for the young lady's hand."
"After a week's acquaintance; is it possible?"
"Yes, because the ladies were going back to Florence."
"At any rate you are not one of those who take a long time to make up their minds."
"At home it would have taken much longer; but here, sir, the very thought they were my countrywomen made me long to kiss their hands."
"Yes, but marriage is such an important step."
"That is true; but three or four weeks more would not help me to a clearer view of it. I had certain scruples, I confess; I feel a little reluctant to speak of it. In our family there is hereditary deafness. My grandfather at an advanced age became quite deaf. My father was deaf at forty. One can live with that, but it is a great drawback, because deaf people as a rule are irritable. I debated within myself whether it was right for a young girl to marry a man threatened with such a defect, and who in course of time might become a burden to her."
I began to observe now that Lukomski had in the expression of his eyes, and the way he listened to what was said to him, a certain peculiarity noticed in deaf people. His hearing was still excellent, but he evidently feared that he might be losing the faculty.
I told him he had no right to let that stand in his way.
"I thought so a little myself. It is not worth while to spoil one's life for a thing that may never happen. There is the cholera that sweeps now and then over Italy; it would be foolish for Italians not to marry for fear they might leave orphans and widows. Besides I have done what I considered my duty. I told Panna Vanda that I loved her and would give my life to call her my own, but there was this impediment. And do you know what her answer was? 'When you are no longer able to hear me saying I love you, I will write it.' All this did not come off without some crying, but an hour afterwards we made merry over it. I pretended to have suddenly grown deaf, to make her write, 'I love you.'"
This conversation fixed itself in my mind. Sniatynski is wrong when he maintains that among us only asses have still a kind of will. This sculptor had a real motive to reflect, and yet a week seemed sufficient for such a weighty decision. Maybe he does not possess the same knowledge of self as I, but he is a very intelligent fellow. What a plucky woman the future Pani Lukomska is; I like her ready answer. Aniela would do the same. If, for instance, I were to lose my eyesight, Laura would care only in so far as she could show me off, a picturesque Demadoc, singing at her feast; but Aniela would take care of me even if she were not my wife.
I must acknowledge that, having such convictions, a week of indecision seems a long time; and here I have been wavering for five months, and the letter I wrote to my aunt was not very decisive either.
But I comfort myself with the thought that my aunt is a clever woman, and loving me as she does, will guess what I meant to say, and will help me in her own way; and then there is Aniela who will assist her. Nevertheless, I regret now that I did not write more openly, and I feel half inclined to send another letter, but will not yield to the impulse. Perhaps it will be as well to wait for the reply. Happy those people, like Lukomski, whose first impulse is towards action.
15 June.
Whatever name I might give to the feeling I cherish for Aniela, it is different from anything I ever felt before. Either night or day she is never out of my thought; it has grown into a kind of personal affair for which I feel responsible to myself. This never used to be the case. My other love affairs lasted a longer or shorter time, their memories were pleasant sometimes, a little sad at others, or distasteful as the case might be, but never absorbed my whole being. In the idle, aimless life we are leading, woman, perforce, occupies a large space, – she is always before us; we bestow our attentions upon her until we become so used to it that she counts only as a venial sin in our lives. To disappoint a woman causes us but little trouble of conscience, though a little more perhaps than she feels in disappointing us. With all the sensitiveness of my nature, I have a rather blunted conscience. Sometimes it happened I said to myself, "Now is the time for a pathetic lecture!" but I only shrugged my shoulders and preferred to think of something more pleasant. This time it is altogether different. For instance, I think of something that has no connection with it whatever; presently I am overcome by a feeling that something is missing, a great trouble seizes me, a fear as if I had forgotten something of great importance, not done a thing I ought to have done; and I find out that the thought of Aniela has percolated through every nook and cranny of the mind, and taken possession of it. It knocks there night and day like the death-tick in the desk of Mickiewicz's poem. When I try to lessen or to ridicule the impression, my scepticism and irony fail me, or rather help me only for a moment; then I go back to the enchanted circle. Strictly speaking, it is neither a great sorrow nor a sting of conscience; it is rather a troublesome fastening upon one subject, and a restless, feverish curiosity as to what will happen next, – as if upon that next my very life depended. If I analyzed myself less closely, I should say it was an all-absorbing love that had taken possession of me; but I notice that there is something besides Aniela that causes me anxiety. There is no doubt as to her having made a deep impression upon me; but Sniatynski is right, – if I had loved her as much as Sniatynski loved his wife, I should have desired to make her my own. But I – and this is quite a fact – do not desire her so much as I am afraid to lose her. It is not everybody perhaps who could perceive the singular and great difference. I feel quite convinced that but for Kromitzki and the fear of losing Aniela, I should not feel either anxieties or trouble. My entangled skein is gradually getting straighter, and I can see now more clearly that it is not so much love for Aniela as fear of losing her, and with her some future happiness, that moves me, and still more the utter loneliness I see before me should Aniela go out from my life.
I have noticed that the stoutest pessimists, when fate or men try to take something out of their lives, fight tooth and nail, and cry out as loud as the greatest optimists. I am exactly in the like position. I do not cry out, but a terrible fear clutches at my heart, that a few days hence I shall not know what to do with myself in this world.
16 June.
I had indirect news of Laura through my lawyer, who is also their legal adviser. Mr. Davis is already in a lunatic asylum, and Laura at Interlaken, at the foot of the Jungfrau. Perhaps she has some ideas about climbing the mountain heights, drapes herself in Alps, eternal snow, and rising sun, sails gracefully on the lake, and bends over precipices. I expressed my regret at Mr. Davis's condition, and the lady's, who at so early an age was left without protection. Thereupon the old lawyer set my mind at rest, telling me that Count Maleschi, a Neapolitan, and Laura's cousin, had gone to Switzerland. I know him. He is beautiful as an Antinous, but an inveterate gambler, and somewhat of a coward. It appears I was a little out of my reckoning when I compared Laura to the tower of Pisa.
It has happened to me literally for the first time that the memory of a woman whom I did not love, though I made her believe I did, rouses within me much ill-feeling. I am so ungrateful and ungenerous to her that it makes me feel ashamed. Plainly, what reason have I for any ill-feeling, and what has she done to me that I cannot forgive? It is because, as I said before, from the very beginning of our relations, though not through any fault of hers, I did many things I have never done before in my life. I did not respect my sorrow, had no consideration for the weakness and helplessness of Davis, got corrupted, slothful, and finally sent off that fatal letter.
