Without Dogma: A Novel of Modern Poland

by Henryk Sienkiewicz

I know to what I have pledged myself, and shall keep to it; there is nothing else to do. In the face of Aniela's firmness of purpose there is no room for any agreeing or disagreeing. The fear that she may take back what she has given is enough curb for me. I rather exaggerate my caution and wariness, so as not to frighten away the bird which I call "spiritual love," and she calls "friendship." That word, which in the first moment was merely a prick, enough to make me wince, is gradually growing into a sore. At the time it seemed to me not expressive enough, and now it appears to me too cautious, too full of conditions. How strange that characteristic of feminine nature, not to call things by their name. Yet I explained distinctly to Aniela what I was asking for, and she understood me fully; and nevertheless she called the feeling "friendship," as if she wanted to veil herself with it before me, before herself and God.

Looking at it from another point, it is true that a feeling devoid of all earthly substance may be called by any name. There is sadness and bitterness in the thought. This caution, common to very pure-minded women, is undoubtedly the outcome of their modesty, but it does not permit them to be generous. I might go straight to Aniela and say to her: "I have sacrificed to you one half of my existence, and you grudgingly dole me out your words; is it right?" And I tell her so inwardly with reproachful eyes. It is difficult to imagine love without generosity, without a desire to make some sacrifices.

To-day on Windischgrätzhöhe we conversed together like two beings closely connected by the ties of love and friendship, but there was nothing in our speech that brother and sister might not have said to each other. If we had made such an excursion before we had entered into our compact, I should undoubtedly have taken some advantage of it, kissed her hands or feet or even tried, if only for a moment, to take her in my arms; to-day I walked quietly at her side, like one who is afraid of the slightest frown. Partly I restrained myself on purpose, thinking that in this way I should win her confidence and favor. By this silence I meant to say: "You will not be disappointed in me; I will take rather less than I have a right to,—so as not to break our compact."

But one feels hurt all the same, when the sacrifice is accepted promptly and cheerfully as soon as it is offered. Involuntarily one says inwardly to the beloved woman: "Do not let yourself be outdone in generosity." And I said so,—but in vain.

What is the result? A certain disappointment for myself. I used to think if such a compact existed between us, I should have perfect liberty within its boundaries; should be able to say, "I love you" as often as I liked, and hear the same from her lips; and that this would compensate me for all my torments, for the whole time of my suffering,—in short that I should be king in that restricted kingdom; but now it appears that my horizon gets narrower than ever, and doubts arise within me that might be compressed in the query: "What have you gained?" I try to chase the thoughts away. I have gained something. I have gained the sight of a bright and happy face; I have gained the smile; I have gained the delight of seeing her limpid eyes look fearlessly into mine. If I feel cramped and not quite at home in the new house, the reason is that I have not got used to it. Besides, formerly I was without a roof to shelter me; and if I cannot always see clearly what I have gained, I know perfectly well that I have lost nothing. I shall never forget that.

14 August.

My aunt begins to talk about going home. She is pining after her beloved Ploszow. I asked Aniela if she would like to go. She said she would; therefore I too am anxious to return. Formerly I attached some vague, undefined hope to a change of place. Now I expect nothing; but at Ploszow there are so many pleasant memories that I shall be glad to see the place again.

16 August.

The days flow now very evenly. I think much and I rest. My thoughts are often sad, at times not without bitterness, but my soul was so weary that I find this restfulness very soothing. It makes me feel conscious how much better off I am than I used to be. I am mostly with Aniela; we read together, and then discuss what we have read. Everything I say to her is only a definition, a development of love; everything tends in that direction; but strange to say I notice that now I never speak of it directly, as if that feminine objection to calling things by their proper names had also infected me. I do not know why this is so, but it is a fact. And it grieves me,—sometimes grieves me very much; and it pleases me, because I see that Aniela is pleased, and what is more, loves me for it. In order to cement the union of our souls, I have begun to speak much about myself so as not to have any secrets from her. I am reticent only about such things as might offend her delicacy of feeling or the purity of her thoughts. I tried to initiate her into the workings of a spirit undermined by scepticism and the want of a basis in life. I told her openly that I had nothing to live for except her; told her also what was going on within me after her marriage, what shocks had passed through my heart and brain since my return to Ploszow; I spoke of this all the more eagerly, as it was like a series of confessions, as it all meant: "I loved you then, as I love you now, beyond expression." She was deceived as to the meaning of these confidences and listened to them as if there had been no question about her, with emotion, sympathy, and possibly unconscious delight. I saw tears gathering in her eyes, her breast heaved as if her whole spiritual being went out to me with open arms saying: "Come to me; you have suffered enough and deserve some happiness." And I reply with my eyes: "I do not ask, do not remind you of anything; I am altogether at your mercy."

I made those confidences also for another reason, namely, to introduce the habit of mutual confidence between us, and make her tell me what was going on in her mind at the same time. But I could not manage it. I tried to ask, but the words seemed to come from her with such difficulty, there was such evident constraint and uneasiness, that I left off asking. To be quite open with me, she would have to reveal all she felt for me and what was her relation to her husband. I wanted her to come to that; but her modesty and her loyalty for the absent husband would not permit her to speak.