Kromitzki's letters have stirred me to such a degree that I cannot get over the impression. My unreasonable resentment towards Aniela is passing, and the more I feel how undeserved was my harshness, the more contrite I become, and the more tenderly I think of her. Yet more clearly than ever I see how these two are bound by the power of a simple fact. Since yesterday I have been in the clutches of these thoughts, and that is the reason I did not go to Ploszow. There I am obliged to keep watch upon myself and to put on an appearance of calmness, and at present I could not do it. Everything within me—thoughts, feelings, nerves—has risen up in revolt against what has been done. I do not know whether there can be a more desperate state of mind than when we do not agree with something, protest with every fibre of heart and brain, and at the same time feel powerless in presence of an accomplished fact. I understand that this is only a foretaste of what is awaiting me in the future. There is nothing to be done,—nothing. She is married, is Pani Kromitzka; she belongs to him, will always belong to him; and I who cannot consent, for to do so would mean losing my own self, am obliged to consent. I might as well protest against the earth turning round as against that other law which bids a woman stand by her husband. Does this mean that I ought to respect that law? How can I submit when my whole being cries out against it? At moments I feel inclined to go away, but I understand perfectly that beyond this woman the world has for me as much meaning as death,—that is, nothingness; moreover, I know beforehand that I shall not go, because I could not muster strength enough to do so. Sometimes I have thought that human misery goes far beyond human imagination,—imagination has its limits, and misery, like the vast seas, appears to be without end. It seems to me that I am floating on those seas. But no,—there is still something for me to do.
I read once, in Amiel's memoirs, that the deed is only the crystallized matter of thought. But thoughts may remain in the abstract,—not so feelings. Theoretically I was conscious of it before; it is only now I have come to prove it actually on myself. From the time of my arrival at Ploszow until now, I have never clearly and distinctly said to myself that I wanted to win Aniela's love, but it was merely a question of words. In reality I know that I wanted her, and want her still. Every look of mine, every word, and all my actions are tending that way. Affection which does not include desire and action is a mere shadow. Let it be understood,—I want her. I want to be for Aniela the most beloved being, as she is to me. I want to win her love, all her thoughts, her soul; and I do not intend to put any limit to my desires. I shall do everything my heart dictates, and use all means my intelligence sees most efficient to win her. I shall take from Kromitzki as much of Aniela as I can; I shall take her from him altogether if she be willing. In this way I shall have an aim in life; shall know why I wake up in the morning, take nourishment during the day, and recuperate myself in sleep. I shall not be happy; for I could be happy only if she were exclusively my own, and I could crush the man who had her before me. But I shall have something at least to live for. It will be my salvation. And this is not a resolution taken upon the spur of the moment; it is only a translation into words of all the forces that work within me,—the will and the desires which belong to the feeling and make an indivisible part of it.
I throw all my scruples to the winds. Even the fear that Aniela might be unhappy loving me must give way before the great truth, great as the universe, that the presence of Love fills the life; gives sustenance to it, and is a hundred thousand times worth more than emptiness and nothingness of existence.
Thousands of years ago it was known to the world that virtue and righteousness alone give power to life; that emptiness and nothingness dwell in the realm of evil. The moment when that dear head rests on my breast, when the beloved lips meet mine, truth and goodness will be with us. In the midst of doubts which crowd my brain, that one truth shines clearly,—of this I can say I believe in it. At last I have found something certain in life. I know perfectly what a gulf there is between my belief and the small conventional moralities created for every-day use. I know that to Aniela it will be a strange, fearsome world; but I will take her by the hand and lead her there, because I can tell her with sincere conviction that there are truth and goodness.
I find great solace in these thoughts. The greater part of the day passed miserably enough, because of the consciousness of my impotency to overcome the obstacles that stand in our, mine and Aniela's, way. The thought crossed my mind: "Suppose, after all, she loves her husband?"
Fortunately for me, a visit from Doctor Chwastowski interrupted my train of thoughts. He had come from Ploszow to consult with one of the physicians who at some time had attended Pani Celina. Before going back he had come to see me. He said Pani Celina was still neither better nor worse, but Pani Kromitzka was confined to her room with a severe headache. Then he began to speak about Aniela, and I listened with pleasure, as it seemed in some way to make up for the loss of seeing her. He spoke intelligently enough, for a young man of so little experience. He said he had made it a rule to look mistrustingly upon mankind in general, not because he thought it the right point of view, but because it was the safest. As to Pani Kromitzka, he was quite sure hers was a nature of exceptional goodness and nobility. He spoke of her with a scarcely disguised enthusiasm, and I had some suspicion he felt more than admiration for her. But this did not trouble me in the least; there is too great a distance between her and this young medical student. On the contrary, I felt pleased that he appreciated her, and asked him to stop as long as he could; his presence did me good, as it kept me from thinking.
In the course of our conversation I asked about his plans for the future. He replied that first he must save some money in order to go abroad and see something of foreign hospitals; afterwards he intended to settle at Warsaw.
"What do you understand by settling at Warsaw?"
"Work at some of the hospitals, and a possible practice."
"And then you will get married, I suppose?"