Without Dogma: A Novel of Modern Poland

by Henryk Sienkiewicz

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.

The prospect began to alarm me somewhat. If she goes, I shall have to help her in getting up a concert; and I would rather go straight on to Ploszow. As a last resource I could hand her over to Sniatynski, who would be more useful to her than I. Besides, Miss Hilst is the daughter of a rich mill-owner at Frankfurt, and it is not a question of material success with her. The eagerness with which she agreed to the journey made me thoughtful. I had half a mind to tell her that I did not object to the dumb piano so much as to the elderly relative. Men are so prone to lie in wait for women that few approach a young and pretty one without an after-thought. As to myself, though wholly absorbed by something else, the idea of the old relative travelling with us was unpleasant, the more so as my person evidently plays some part in this so quickly arranged journey. Paris presents a far wider scope for her musical talent, and she does not care for gain; why should she be so anxious to go to Warsaw? Laura, as I have said, has hinted more than once that Miss Hilst has more than a liking for me. A strange woman, Laura! Clara's innocence excites her envy, but only as it might be excited by a beautiful jewel, or by rare lace,—with her it is merely a question of adornment. Maybe for that reason she would like to push that big child into my arms. She does not care for me any longer; I am an ornament she has worn already.

That woman, though unconsciously, has wrought me such irreparable harm that I ought to hate her, but cannot,—first, because I am conscious that, had she never crossed my path, I should have probably found some other means to wreck my happiness; secondly, as Satan is a fallen angel, so hatred is degenerated love, and I never loved Laura. There is a little contempt for her, a little dislike, and she returns the feeling undoubtedly a hundredfold.