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Translated by Iza Young


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Title: Without Dogma

Author: Henryk Sienkiewicz

Release Date: March 23, 2004  [eBook #11686]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1


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WITHOUT DOGMA.

A NOVEL OF MODERN POLAND.

BY

HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ

AUTHOR OF
"WITH FIRE AND SWORD," "THE DELUGE," "QUO VADIS," ETC.

TRANSLATED FROM THE POLISH BY

IZA YOUNG.

1893






"A man who leaves memoirs, whether well or badly written, provided
they be sincere, renders a service to future psychologists and
writers, giving them not only a faithful picture of the times, but
likewise human documents that can be relied upon."




PUBLISHER'S PREFACE


In "WITHOUT DOGMA" we have a remarkable work, by a writer known
only in this country through his historical novels; and a few words
concerning this novel and its author may not be without interest.

Readers of Henryk Sienkiewicz in America, who have known him only
through Mr. Curtin's fine, strong translations, will be surprised to
meet with a production so unlike "Fire and Sword," and "The Deluge,"
that on first reading one can scarcely believe it to be from the pen
of the great novelist.

"Fire and Sword," "The Deluge," and "Pan Michael" (now in press) form,
so to speak, a Polish trilogy. They are, first and last, Polish in
sentiment, nationality, and patriotism. What Wagner did for Germany in
music, what Dumas did for France, and Scott for all English-speaking
people, the great Pole has achieved for his own country in literature.
Even to those most unfamiliar with her history, it grows life-like and
real as it speaks to us from the pages of these historical romances.
Only a very great genius can unearth the dusty chronicles of past
centuries, and make its men and women live and breathe, and speak to
us. These historical characters are not mere shadows, puppets, or
nullities, but very real men and women, our own flesh and blood.

His warriors fight, love, hate; they embrace each other; they laugh;
they weep in each other's arms; give each other sage counsels, with a
truly Homeric simplicity. They are deep-versed in stratagems of love
and war, these Poles of the seventeenth century! They have their
Nestor, their Agamemnon, their great Achilles sulking in his tent.
Oddly enough, at times they grow very familiar to us, and in spite of
their Polish titles and faces, and a certain tenderness of nature that
is almost feminine, they seem to have good, stout, Saxon stuff in
them. Especially where the illustrious knights recount their heroic
deeds there is a Falstaffian strut in their performance, and there
runs riot a Falstaffian imagination truly sublime.

Yet, be it observed, however much in all this is suggestive of the
literature of other races and ages, these characters never cease for a
moment to be Poles. Here is a vast, moving panorama spread before us;
across it pass mighty armies; hetman and banneret go by; the scene
is full of stir, life, action. It is constantly changing, so that
at times we are almost bewildered, attempting to follow the quick
succession of events. We are transported in a moment from the din
and uproar of a beleaguered town to the awful solitude of the vast
steppes,--yet it is always the Polish Commonwealth that the novelist
paints for us, and beneath every other music rises the wild Slavic
music, rude, rhythmical, and sad.

There is, too, a background against which these pictures paint
themselves, and it reminds us not a little of Verestchagin,--the same
deep feeling for nature, and a certain sadness that seems inseparable
from the Russian and Lithuanian temperaments, tears following closely
upon mirth. At times, after incident upon incident of war, the reader
is tempted to exclaim, "Something too much of this!" Yet nowhere,
perhaps, except from the great canvases of Verestchagin, has there
ever come a more awful, powerful plea for peace than from the pages of
"Fire and Sword."

In "Without Dogma" is presented quite another theme, treated in a
fashion strikingly different. In the historical novels the stage
is crowded with personages. In "Without Dogma," the chief interest
centres in a single character. This is not a battle between contending
armies, but the greater conflict that goes on in silence,--the battle
of a man for his own soul.

He can scarcely be considered an heroic character; he is to some
extent the creature of circumstances, the fine product of a
highly complex culture and civilization. He regards himself as a
nineteenth-century Hamlet, and for him not merely the times, but his
race and all mankind, are out of joint. He is not especially Polish
save by birth; he is as little at home in Paris or at Rome as in
Warsaw. Set him down in any quarter of the globe and he would be
equally out of place. He folds the mantle of his pessimism about him.
Life has interested him purely as a spectacle, in which he plays no
part save a purely passive one. His relation to life is that of the
Greek chorus, passing across the stage, crying "Woe, woe!"

Life has interested, entertained, and sometimes wearied him. He muses,
philosophizes, utters the most profound observations upon life, art,
and the mystery of things. He puts mankind and himself upon the
dissecting-table.

Here is a nature so sensitive that it photographs every impression,
an artistic temperament, a highly endowed organism; yet it produces
nothing. The secret of this unproductiveness lies perhaps in a certain
tendency to analyze and philosophize away every strong emotion that
should lead to action. Here is a man in possession of two distinct
selves,--the one emotional, active; the other eternally occupied in
self-contemplation, judgment, and criticism. The one paralyzes the
other. He defines himself as "a genius without a portfolio," just as
there are certain ministers-of-state without portfolios.

In such a character many of us will find just enough of ourselves to
make its weaknesses distasteful to us. We resent, just because
we recognize the truth of the picture. Leon Ploszowski belongs
unmistakably to our own times. His doubts and his dilettanteism are
our own. His fine aesthetic sense, his pessimism, his self-probings,
his weariness, his overstrung nerves, his whole philosophy of
negation,--these are qualities belonging to this century, the outcome
of our own age and culture.

If this were all the book offers us one might well wonder why it
was written. But its real interest centres in the moment when the
cultivated pessimist "without dogma" discovers that the strongest and
most genuine emotion of his life is its love for another man's wife.
It is an old theme; certainly two thirds of our modern French novels
deal with it; we know exactly how the conventional, respectable
British novel would handle it. But here is a treatment, bold,
original, and unconventional. The character of the woman stands out in
splendid contrast to the man's. Its simplicity, strength, truth, and
faith are the antidote for his doubt and weakness. Her very weakness
becomes her strength. Her dogmatism saves him.

The background of the book, its lesser incidents, are thoroughly
artistic, its ending masterly in its brevity and pathos; here again is
the distinguishing mark of genius, the power of condensation. The man
who has philosophized and speculated now writes the tragedy of
his life in four words: "Aniela died this morning." This is the
culmination towards which his whole life has been moving; the rest is
foregone conclusion, and matters but little.

One sees throughout the book the strong influence that other minds,
Shakespeare notably, have produced upon this mind; here its attitude
is never merely pessimistic. It does not criticise them, it has
absorbed them.

One last word concerning this novel. It does not seek to formulate, or
to preach directly. Its chief value and the keynote to its motive lie
in the words that Sienkiewicz at the beginning puts into the mouth of
his hero:--

"A man who leaves memoirs, whether well or badly written, provided
they be sincere, renders a service to future psychologists and
writers, giving them not only a faithful picture, but likewise _human
documents_ that may be relied upon."

A _human document_--the modern novel is this, when it is anything at
all. If Mr. Crawford's canons of literary art are true, and we believe
they are, they give us a standard by which to judge; he tells us that
the heart in each man and woman means the whole body of innate and
inherited instincts, impulses, and beliefs, which, when quiescent, we
call Self, when roused to emotional activity, we call Heart. It is to
this self, or heart, he observes, that whatever is permanent in the
novel must appeal; and whatever does so must live and find a hearing
with humanity "so long as humanity is human." If this be a test, we
cannot doubt as to what will be the reception of "Without Dogma."

A few words concerning the novelist himself. The facts obtainable
are of the most meagre kind. He was born in 1845, in Lithuania. The
country itself, its natural and strongly religious and political
influences, its melancholy, seem to have left their strong, lasting
impression upon him. He has a passionate fondness for the Lithuanian,
and paints him and his surroundings most lovingly.

His student days were spent at Warsaw. He devoted himself afterward to
literature, writing at first under a pseudonym. He does not seem to
have won immediate recognition. He spent some years in California;
a series of articles published in this connection in a Polish paper
brought him into notice.

In 1880, various novelettes and sketches of his production were
published in three volumes.

In 1884 were given to the Polish public the three historical novels
which immediately gave their author the foremost place in Polish
literature. It is a matter of pride that the first translation of
these great works into English is the work of an American, and offered
to the American public.

He is a prolific writer, and it would be impossible to attempt to give
even the names of all his minor sketches and romances. Some of them
have been translated into German, but much has been lost in the
translation.

Sienkiewicz is still a contributor to journalistic literature. He has
travelled much, and is a citizen of the world. He is equally at home
in the Orient or the West, by the banks of the Dnieper, or beside the
Nile. Probably there is scarcely a corner of Poland that he has not
explored. He depicts no type of life that has not actually come under
his own observation. The various social strata of his own country, the
condition of its peasantry, the marked contrast between the simplicity
of that life and the culture of the ecclesiastic and aristocratic
bodies, the religious, poetic, artistic temperament of the
people,--all these he paints in a life-like fashion, but always as an
artist.

So much of the writer. Of the man Sienkiewicz there is little to
be obtained. Like all great creative geniuses, he is so completely
identified with his work that even while his personality lives in
his creations it eludes them. He offers us no confidences concerning
himself, no opinions or prejudices. He does not divert the reader with
personalities. He sets before us certain groups of men and women, whom
certainly he knows and loves, and has lived among. He sets them in
motion; they become living, breathing creations; they assume relations
in time and space; they speak and act for themselves. If there be a
prompter he remains always behind the scenes. Admire or criticise or
love the actors as you will, you cannot for a moment doubt that they
are alive.

This is the supreme miracle of genius,--the fine union of dramatic
instinct, the aesthetic sense, and an intense, vital realism; not the
realism of the cesspool or the morgue, but the realism of the earth
and sky, and of healthy human nature. We are inclined to believe that
Henryk Sienkiewicz has answered an often discussed question that has
much exercised the keenly critical intellect of this age. One school
of thought cries out, "Let us have life as it is. Paint anything, but
draw it as it is. Let the final test of all literary works be, 'Is it
real and true?'"

To the romantic school quite another class of ideas appeals; to it
much of the so-called realistic literature seems very bad, or merely
"weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable." The profoundest utterances of
realism do not impress it much in themselves. It insists that art has
something to say to literature, that in this field as elsewhere
holds good the law of natural selection of types and survival of the
fittest.

While each school has its down-sittings and up-risings, its supporters
and its critics, neither school has yet exhausted the possibilities of
literature. The novel's aim is to depict Life, and life is neither all
romance nor all realism, but a curious mixture of both. Man is neither
a beast nor a celestial being, but a compound. Though he can crawl,
and may have clinging to him certain brute instincts that may be
the relics of his anthropoidal days, he has also, thank God, divine
desires and discontents, and certain rudimentary wings. And neither
school alone is competent to paint him as he is. The author of "La
Bête Humaine" fails as completely as the visionary À Kempis. Neither
realism nor romance alone will ever with its small plummet sound to
its depths the human heart or its mystery; yet from the union of the
two much perhaps might come.

We believe that just here lies the value of the novels of Henryk
Sienkiewicz. He has worked out the problem of the modern novel so as
to satisfy the most ardent realist, but he has worked it out upon
great and broadly human lines. For him facts are facts indeed; but
facts have souls as well as bodies. His genius is analytic, but also
imaginative and constructive; it is not forever going upon botanizing
excursions. He paints things and thoughts human.

The greatest genius assimilates unconsciously the best with which
it comes in contact, and by a subtle chemistry of its own makes new
combinations. Shakespeare, Dante, Goethe, and the realists, as well as
all the forces of nature, have helped to make Henryk Sienkiewicz; yet
he is not any one of them. He is never merely imitative. Originality
and imaginative fire, a style vivid and strong, large humor, a
profound pathos, a strong feeling for nature, and a deep reverence
for the forms and the spirit of religion, the breath of the true
cosmopolitan united with the intense patriotism of the Pole, a great
creative genius,--these are the most striking qualities of the work of
this modern novelist, who has married Romance to Realism.

       *       *       *       *       *




WITHOUT DOGMA.


ROME, 9 January.

Some months ago I met my old friend and school-fellow, Jozef
Sniatynski, who for the last few years has occupied a prominent place
among our literary men. In a discussion about literature Sniatynski
spoke about diaries. He said that a man who leaves memoirs, whether
well or badly written, provided they be sincere, renders a service
to future psychologists and writers, giving them not only a faithful
picture of the times, but likewise human documents that can be relied
upon. He seemed to think that most likely the novel of the future
would take the form of diary; finally he asserted that anybody who
keeps a diary works for the common good, and does a meritorious thing.

I am thirty-five, and do not remember ever having done anything for my
country, for the reason, maybe, that after leaving the University, my
life, with slight intervals, was spent abroad. This fact, so lightly
touched upon, has given me, in spite of all my scepticism, many a
bitter pang; therefore I resolved to follow my friend's advice. If
this indeed means work, with some kind of merit in it, I will try to
be of some use in this way.

I intend to be perfectly sincere. I enter upon the task, not only
because of the above-mentioned reasons, but also because the idea
pleases me. Sniatynski says that if a man gets accustomed to put down
his thoughts and impressions it becomes gradually one of the most
delightful occupations of his life. If it should prove the contrary,
then the Lord have mercy on my diary; it would snap asunder like a
string too tightly drawn. I am ready to do much for my community; but
to bore myself for its sake, oh, no! I could not do it.

Nevertheless, I am resolved not to be discouraged by first
difficulties, and shall give it a fair trial. "Do not adopt any style;
do not write from a literary point of view," says Sniatynski. Easier
said than done. I fully understand that the greater the writer, the
less he writes in a purely literary style; but I am a _dilettante_,
and have no command over any style. I know from experience that to one
who thinks much and feels deeply, it often seems that he has only
to put down his thoughts and feelings in order to produce something
altogether out of the common; yet as soon as he sets to work he falls
into a certain mannerism of style and common phraseology; his thoughts
do not come spontaneously, and one might almost say that it is not the
mind that directs the pen, but the pen leads the mind into common,
empty artificiality. I am afraid of this for myself, for if I am
wanting in eloquence, literary simplicity, or picturesqueness, I am
not wanting in good taste, and my own style might become distasteful
to myself, and thereby render my task impossible. But this I shall see
later on. I begin my diary with a short introductory autobiography.

My name is Leon Ploszowski, and I am, as I said before, thirty-five
years of age. I come from a wealthy family which has been able to
preserve its fortune. As to myself I shall not increase it, and at the
same time I am not likely to squander it. My position is such that
there is no necessity for me to enter into competition with struggling
humanity. As to expensive and ruinous pleasures, I am a sceptic who
knows how much they are worth, or rather, knows that they are not
worth anything.

My mother died a week after I was born. My father, who loved her
more than his life, became affected with melancholia. Even after he
recovered from this, at Vienna, he did not wish to return to his
estates, as the memories associated with them rent his very soul; he
left Ploszow under the care of his sister, my aunt, and betook himself
in the year 1848 to Rome, which, during thirty-odd years, he never
left once, so as to be near my mother's tomb. I forgot to mention that
he brought her remains to Rome, and buried her on the Campo Santo.

We have our own house on the Babuino, called Casa Osoria, from our
coat of arms. It looks more like a museum than anything else, as
my father possesses no mean collections, especially from the early
Christian times. In these collections his whole life is now absorbed.
As a young man, he was very brilliant in appearance as well as in
mind; his wealth and name added to this, all roads were open to him,
and consequently great things were expected from him. I know this from
his fellow-students at Berlin. He was deeply absorbed in the study of
philosophy, and it was generally believed his name would rank with
such as Cieszkowski, Libelt, and others. Society, and his being a
favorite in female circles, diverted him somewhat from scientific
studies. In society he was known by the nickname of "Leon
l'Invincible." In spite of his social success he did not neglect his
philosophical researches, and everybody expected that some day he
would electrify the world with a great work, and make his name
illustrious. They were disappointed in their expectations.

Of the once so beautiful appearance there still remains up to this day
one of the finest and noblest heads. Artists are of the same opinion,
and not long ago one of them remarked that it would be difficult to
find a more perfect type of a patrician head. As to his
scientific career, my father is and remains a cultured and gifted
nobleman-dilettante. I almost believe dilettantism to be the fate of
all Ploszowskis, to which I will refer later on, when I come to
write about myself. As to my father, there is in his desk a yellow
manuscript about Triplicity in Nature. I perused it, and it did not
interest me. I only remember a comparison between the transcendental
belief of Christianity in the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, and
the natural triplicity of oxygen, hydrogen, and ozone, with many other
analogous triplicities from absolute truth, goodness, and beauty,
to the syllogism of the minor premise, the major premise, and the
conclusion,--a quaint mixture of Hegel and Hoene-Wronski, and utterly
useless. I am quite convinced that my father did not intend to have
it published, if only for the reason that speculative philosophy had
failed in him even before it was set aside by the world. The reason
for this failure was the death of my mother. My father, who in spite
of his nickname, "Leon l'Invincible," and reputation of conqueror of
hearts, was a man of deep feelings and simply worshipped my mother,
put many terrible questions to his philosophy, and not obtaining
either answer or comfort, recognized its utter emptiness in the
presence of a great sorrow. This must have been an awful tragedy of
his life, since it almost shattered its foundations,--the brain
and heart. His mind became affected, as I said before, and when he
recovered he went back to his religious convictions. I was told that
at one time he prayed night and day, knelt down in the street when he
passed a church, and was carried away by his religious fervor to such
an extent that he was looked upon by some as a madman, by others as a
saint. It was evident he found more consolation in this than in his
philosophical triplicities, for he gradually calmed down and began
to lead a more rational life. His heart, with all his power for
affection, turned towards me, and his aesthetic bent found employment
in the study of early Christianity. The lofty, restless mind wanted
nourishment. After his first year in Rome he took up archaeology, and
by dint of hard study acquired a thorough knowledge of the antique.

Father Calvi, my first tutor and at the same time a great judge of
Roman antiquities, gave him the final impulse towards investigation of
the Eternal City. Some fifteen years ago my father became acquainted
and subsequently on terms of friendship with the great Rossi, in
whose company he spent whole days in the catacombs. Thanks to his
extraordinary gifts he soon acquired such consummate knowledge of Rome
as to astonish Rossi himself. Several times he began writing treatises
on the subject, but never finished what he had begun. Maybe the
completion of his collections took up too much of his time, but most
likely the reason he will not leave anything behind him except his
collections is that he did not confine himself to one epoch or any
specialty in his researches. Gradually mediaeval Rome began to
fascinate him as much as the first era of Christianity. There was a
time when his mind was full of Orsinis and Colonnas; after that he
approached the Renaissance, and was fairly captivated by it. From
inscriptions, tombs, and the first traces of Christian architecture he
passed to nearer times; from the Byzantine paintings to Fiesole
and Giotto, from these to artists of the fourteenth and fifteenth
centuries, and so on; he fell in love with statues and pictures; his
collections certainly increased, but the great work in Polish
about the three Romes remained forever in the land of unfulfilled
intentions.

As to these collections my father has a singular idea. He wants to
bequeath them to Rome under the condition they should be placed in
a separate gallery named after him, "Museum Osoria Ploszowski." Of
course his wishes will be respected. I only wonder why my father
believes that in doing this he will be more useful to his community
than by sending them to his own country.

Not long ago he said to me: "You perceive that scarcely anybody there
would see them, and very few derive any benefit, whereas here the
whole world can study them, and every individual that benefits thereby
carries the benefit to other communities." It does not befit me to
analyze how much family pride and the thought of having his name
engraved in marble in the Eternal City has to do with the whole
scheme. I almost think that such must be the case. As to myself, I
am perfectly indifferent where the collections are to remain. But my
aunt, to whom by the bye I am shortly going to pay a visit at Warsaw,
is very indignant at the idea of leaving the collections out of the
country, and as, with her, thought and speech go always together, she
expresses her indignation in every letter. Some years ago she was at
Rome, and they wrangled every day over the matter, and would have
quarrelled outright had not the affection she has towards me subdued
her temper.

My aunt is older than my father by several years. When my father,
after his great sorrow, left the country, he gave up the Ploszow
estate to her, and took instead the ready capital. My aunt has managed
the property for thirty years, and manages it perfectly. She is of a
rather uncommon character, therefore I will devote to her a few lines.
At the age of twenty she was betrothed to a young man who died in
exile just when my aunt was about to follow him abroad. From that time
forth she refused all offers of marriage and remained an old maid.
After my mother's death she went with my father to Vienna and
Rome, where she lived with him, surrounding him with the tenderest
affections, which she subsequently transferred to me. She is, in the
full meaning of the word, _une grande dame_, somewhat of an autocrat,
haughty and outspoken, with that self-possession wealth and a high
position give, but withal the very essence of goodness and kindliness.
Under the cover of abrupt manners she has an excellent and lenient
disposition, loving not only her own family, as for instance my father
and myself and her own household, but mankind in general. She is so
virtuous that really I do not know whether there be any merit in
it, as she could not be otherwise if she tried. Her charities are
proverbial. She orders poor people about like a constable, and tends
them like a Saint Vincent de Paul. She is very religious. No doubts
whatever assail her mind. What she does, she does from unshaken
principles, and therefore never hesitates in the choice of ways and
means. Therefore she is always at peace with herself and very happy.
At Warsaw they call my aunt, on account of her abrupt manners, _le
bourreau bienfaisant_. Some people, especially among women, dislike
her, but generally speaking she lives in peace with all classes.

Ploszow is not far from Warsaw, where my aunt owns a house in which
she spends the winter. Every winter she tries to inveigle me there in
the hope to see me married. Even now I received a mysteriously worded
missive adjuring me to come at once. I shall have to go, as I have not
seen her for some time. She writes that she is getting old and wishes
to see me before she dies. I confess I do not always feel inclined to
go. I know that my aunt's dearest wish is to see me married, therefore
every visit brings her a cruel disappointment. The very idea of such a
decisive step frightens me. To begin a new life when I am so tired
of the old one! Finally, there is another vexatious element in my
relations with my aunt. As formerly my father's friends looked upon
him as a genius, so she persists in regarding me as one exceptionally
gifted, from whom great things are to be expected. To allow her to
remain of this opinion seems an abuse of her good faith; to tell
her that nothing is to be expected from me would be a more likely
conclusion, but at the same time inflict upon the dear old lady a
cruel blow.

To my misfortune many of those near me share my aunt's opinion, and
this brings me to the point of drawing a sketch of my own character,
which is by no means an easy task, as my nature is rather a
complicated one.

I brought with me into the world very sensitive nerves, nerves
perfected by the culture of generations. During the first years of my
childhood I remained under the care of my aunt; after her departure,
according to the custom of our country, a nursery governess was
engaged for me. As we lived in Rome, among foreign surroundings, and
my father wished me to be well grounded in my own language, he engaged
a Polish governess. She is still with us as housekeeper at Babuino.
My father also bestowed some pains upon me, especially after my fifth
year. I used to go to his room to talk with him, and this developed my
mind prodigiously, too much so perhaps for my age. Later on, when his
studies and archaeologic researches took up his whole time, he engaged
a tutor, Father Calvi. This was an old man, with a mind and faith
exceedingly serene. He loved art beyond everything. I believe religion
even reacted upon him through its beauty. In the galleries before the
old masters, or listening to the music in the Sistine Chapel, he lost
himself altogether. There was nothing pagan in these feelings, as they
were not based upon sybaritism or sensual enjoyment. Father Calvi
loved art with the pure, serene feeling as maybe a Da Fiesole, a
Cimabue, or Giotto loved it. And he loved in all humility, as he
himself had no gifts that way. I could not say which of the fine arts
he loved best, but I believe he leaned mostly towards harmony, which
responded to the harmony of his own mind.

Whenever I think of Father Calvi, I am reminded at the same time of
the old man that stands beside Raphael's Saint Cecilia listening
intently to the music of the spheres.

Between my father and the priest sprang up a friendship which lasted
unto the latter's death. It was he who confirmed my father in his
archaeologic researches, especially about Rome. There was another
bond between these two,--their love for me. Both considered me as an
exceptionally gifted child, and of a God knows what promising future.
It strikes me at times that I formed for them a kind of harmony,--a
rounding of and completion to the world in which they lived; and they
loved me with the same absorbing passion with which they loved Rome
and its antiquities. Such an atmosphere, such surroundings, could not
fail to impress my mind. I was brought up in an original way. With
my tutor,--sometimes with my father,--I visited galleries, museums,
villas, ruins, catacombs, and the environs of Rome. Father Calvi was
equally sensitive to the beauties of nature and to those of art, and
taught me at an early age to understand poetic melancholy. The Roman
Campagna, the harmony of the arch-line on the sky of the arches in the
ruined aqueducts, the fine tracery of the pines,--I understood all
this before I could read or had mastered the first rudiments of
arithmetic. I was able to set English tourists right to whom the names
of Carracci and Caravaggio caused confusion. I learned Latin early and
without effort, from being familiar with the Italian language. I
gave my opinion about Italian and foreign masters,--which, however
unsophisticated, made both my father and my tutor look at each other
in astonishment. I did not like Ribera,--there was too great a
contrast of color in his pictures, and he frightened me a little; but
I liked Carlo Dolce. In short, my tutor, my father, and his friends
considered me a very prodigy; I heard myself praised, and it flattered
my vanity. But, all the same, it was not the healthiest of educations;
and my nervous system, developed too early, always remained very
sensitive. It seems strange that these influences were neither so deep
nor so lasting as might have been expected. That I did not become an
artist is owing, may be, to a lack of gifts that way,--although my
drawing and music masters opined differently; but how was it that
neither my father nor the priest was able to imbue me with that
love of art for art's sake? Have I a feeling for art? Yes. Is art a
necessity of my life? Yes, again. But they loved it; I only feel it as
a _dilettante_; it is a necessity in so far as it complements every
kind of pleasant and delightful sensation. It is one of my delights,
but not an all-absorbing passion; I should not like to live without
it, but could not devote my whole life to it.

As the schools at Rome left much to be desired, my father sent me to
a college in Metz, where I carried off honors and prizes with very
little effort. A year before the last term, I ran away to join Don
Carlos, and with Tristan's detachment wandered for some time about
the Pyrenees; until my father, with the help of the consul in Burgos,
found me, and I was sent back to Metz to be duly punished. The penalty
was not a heavy one, as my father and the teachers were secretly proud
of my escapade. A brilliant success at the examinations quickly earned
me a full absolution.

Among my schoolfellows, whose sympathies were naturally with Don
Carlos, I henceforth passed as a hero; and as I was at the same time
one of the foremost pupils, my position as the first at school was
beyond dispute. I was growing up with the conviction that later on, in
a larger sphere, it would be the same. This opinion was shared by
my teachers and schoolfellows; and yet the fact is that many of my
schoolfellows who at one time would not have dreamed of competing with
me, occupy to-day in France high places in literary, scientific, and
political spheres; whereas I, had I to choose a profession, should
feel considerably perplexed. My social position is excellent. I
possess independent means from my mother's side, shall inherit my
father's fortune in time to come, and administer the Ploszow estate
more or less wisely, as the case may be; but the very limitation
of the work excludes all hope of distinguishing myself in life, or
playing any prominent part in it.

I shall never be a great administrator or agriculturist; for though I
do not mean to shirk my duties, I could not devote my whole life to
them,--for the simple reason that my aspirations aim much higher.
Sometimes I ask myself whether we Ploszowskis do not delude ourselves
as to our abilities. But if such were the case, the delusion would be
only personal; other people, strangers, could not be deceived in the
same way. Besides, I know that my father is an extraordinarily gifted
man. As to myself, I will not enter more fully on the subject, as it
might appear mere boastfulness; nevertheless I have the conviction
that I could be something infinitely greater than I am.

For instance, at Warsaw (my father and my aunt wished me to enter the
university there) Sniatynski and I were fellow-students. We both were
drawn towards literature, and tried our hand at it. I do not say I was
looked upon as the more gifted of the two, but the truth is that my
work then was considered better and more promising than Sniatynski's.
Sniatynski has for some years past occupied a prominent position in
literature, and I am still the greatly promising Pan Ploszowski, of
whom here and there people are wont to say: "If he would only take up
something!"

Ah! there is the rub,--"if he would!" But they do not seem to take it
into account that one has to know how to will. I thought sometimes
that if I had no means of subsistence I should have to work. Certainly
I should have to do something in order to earn my bread; but even
then I am firmly convinced I should not derive the twentieth part of
advantage from my capacities. Besides, such men as Darwin or Buckle
were rich; Sir John Lubbock is a banker; most of the known men in
France are in easy circumstances. This proves that wealth is not a
hindrance, but rather a help towards attaining a proper standing in
the chosen field of labor. I confess that, as far as I am concerned,
it has done me some service, as it preserved my character from many a
crookedness poverty might have exposed it to. I do not mean by this
that I have a weak character,--although struggle for existence might
have made it stronger; but still I maintain that the less stony the
road, the less chance of a fall. It is not owing to constitutional
laziness, either, that I am a nullity. I possess alike a great
facility for acquiring knowledge, and a desire for it; I read much,
and have a good memory. Perhaps I could not summon energy enough for a
long, slow work, but the greater facility ought to serve instead; and
besides, there is no urgent necessity for me to write encyclopedias,
like Littré. He who cannot shine with the steady light of a sun
might at least dazzle as a meteor. But oh! that nothingness of the
past,--the most probable nothingness of the future! I am growing
peevish--and tired; and will leave off writing for to-day.


ROME, 10 January.

Last night, at Count Malatesta's reception, I heard by chance these
two words: "l'improductivité Slave." I experienced the same relief as
does a nervous patient when the physician tells him that his symptoms
are common enough, and that many others suffer from the same disease.
I have many fellow-sufferers, not only among other Slavs, a race which
I know but imperfectly, but in my own country. I thought about that
"improductivité Slave" all night. He had his wits about him who summed
the thing up in two words. There is something in us,--an incapacity to
give forth all that is in us. One might say, God has given us bow and
arrow, but refused us the power to string the bow and send the arrow
straight to its aim. I should like to discuss it with my father, but
am afraid to touch a sore point. Instead of this, I will discuss it
with my diary. Perhaps it will be just the thing to give it any value.
Besides, what can be more natural than to write about what interests
me? Everybody carries within him his tragedy. Mine is this same
"improductivité slave" of the Ploszowskis. Not long ago, when
romanticism flourished in hearts and poetry, everybody carried his
tragedy draped around him as a picturesque cloak; now it is carried
still, but as a jaegervest next to the skin. But with a diary it is
different; with a diary one may be sincere.


ROME, 11 January.

The few days which remain to me before my departure I will use in
retrospects of the past, until I come to note down day after day the
events of my present life. As I said before, I do not intend to
write an autobiography; who and what I am, my future life will show
sufficiently. I should not like to enter into minute details of the
past,--it is a kind of adding number to number, and a summing up. I
always hated the four rules of arithmetic, and especially the first.
But I want to have a general idea of the total, so as to have a
clearer view of myself. Therefore I go on with the mere outline.

After having finished my studies at the university I went to an
agricultural school in France. The work there was easy enough, but it
had no special attraction for me. I did it as one who knows that this
special branch of knowledge will be useful to him, but at the same
time feels that he lowers himself to it and that it does not respond
either to his ambition or his faculties. I derived a twofold gain from
my sojourn there. Agriculture became to me familiar enough to protect
me from being cheated by any agents or bailiffs, and it strengthened
my frame so that it could withstand the life I later on led in Paris.

The years following I spent either in Koine or in Paris, not to
mention short stays at Warsaw, where my aunt summoned me now and then
in order to introduce me to some special favorite of hers with a view
to matrimony.

Paris and its life attracted me greatly. With the truly excellent
opinion I had then of myself, with more confidence in my intelligence
and the self-possession an independent position gives, I still played
a very unsophisticated part on this scene of the world. I began by
falling desperately in love with Mademoiselle Richemberg of the
Comédie Française, and absolutely insisted upon marrying her. I will
not dwell now upon the many tragicomic imbroglios, as I am partly
ashamed of those times, and partly inclined to laugh at them. Still
later on it happened that I took counterfeits for pure gold. The
French women, and for the matter of that, my own countrywomen, of
whatever class and in spite of all their virtues when young, remind me
of my fencing lessons. As the fencer has his hour of practice with the
foils so as to keep his hand in, so women practise with sentimental
foils. As a mere youth, fairly good looking, I was sometimes invited
to a passage of arms, and as I took the matter seriously, received
many a scratch. They were not mortal wounds and healed quickly.
Besides, everybody has to pay for his apprenticeship in this
world, especially in a world like that. My time of probation was,
comparatively speaking, a short one. Then came a period one might call
"la revanche." I paid back in the same coin, and if now and then I was
still taken in, it was with my eyes open to the fact.

Myself of a good social standing, I came to know all shades of
society, from the old legitimist circles, where I was not a little
bored, to the new aristocracy created by the Bonapartes and the
Orléanists, representing the society, perhaps not of Paris, but let
us say, of _Nice_. Dumas the Younger, Sardou, and others, take
thence their counts, marquises, and princes, who, without historical
traditions, have titles and money in plenty, and whose principal aim
is to enjoy life. I frequented their salons mostly for the sake of
their female element. They are very subtle, the women there, with
highly strung nerves always in search for new pleasures, fresh
sensations, and truly void of any idealism. They are often as corrupt
as the novels they are reading, because their morality finds no
support either in religion or tradition. But it is a brilliant world
all the same. The hours of practice with the foils are so long
there that they look more like days and nights, and the weapons are
dangerous sometimes, as they are not blunted. There too I received a
few painful lessons until I got my hand in. It would be a sign of mere
vanity and still more of bad taste to write about my successes, and
I will only say this, that I tried to keep alive the tradition of my
father's youth.

The lowest circles of this world slightly merge into the higher sphere
of the great _demi-monde._ This _demi-monde_ is far more dangerous
than appears on the surface because it is not in the least
commonplace. Its cynicism has a certain air of refinement and art. If
I did not leave many feathers there it must be because my beak had
acquired a certain curve and my claws had grown. Generally speaking of
the life in Paris, a man who has passed through that mill feels rather
exhausted, and what then of such as I, who leave only to go back
again? It is only later on in life we begin to understand that
triumphs like these are somewhat like the victories of Pyrrhus. My
naturally strong constitution withstood this life, but my nerves are
somewhat shattered.

Paris, though, possesses one superiority over other centres of
civilization. I do not know of any other city in the world where the
elements of art, science, and all kinds of human ideas seem to float
in the air to be assimilated by the human brain. Almost unconsciously
it imbibes not only the newest ideas in the sphere of intellect,
but also loses some of its onesidedness, broadens out, becomes more
civilized. I say again, civilized, because in Italy, Germany, and
Poland, I met with brains and powerful brains too, but who would not
recognize any light but their own, so onesided and barbarian that for
one who did not want to sacrifice his own opinions, intercourse from
an intellectual point of view was simply impossible.

In France and still more in Paris, similar manifestations have no
existence. As a running stream smoothes and polishes the pebbles,
rubbing them against each other, so the swift current of life rubs
off the angles from the human mind. It is obvious that under such
influences my mind became that of a civilized being, that can make due
allowance for other people's opinions; I do not utter peacock cries
when I hear of anything opposed to my views or something utterly new.
It may be that such leniency and tolerance of all opinions leads
finally to indifferentism and weakens the active principle in the
human mind, but I could not be different now.

A certain mental current got hold of me and carried me along. If the
social circles, salons, boudoirs, and clubs took up a considerable
part of my time, they did not occupy it altogether. I made many
acquaintances in the literary and artistic world, and lived their
life, or rather I live it still. Prompted by innate curiosity I read
very much, and as I have the faculty of assimilating what I read, I
may say that I derived considerable benefit from it and am able to
keep step with every intellectual movement of the time.

My consciousness of self is highly developed. At times I feel inclined
to send that second self to the devil, that self which does not permit
yielding to any sensation, but is always there, searching, criticising
every action, feeling, delight, or passion. "Know thyself" may be a
wise maxim, but to carry about one's self an ever watchful critic
deadens the feeling, dividing as it were your soul in two parts. To
exist in a state of mind like this is about as easy as for the bird
to fly with one wing. Besides, selfconsciousness too much developed
weakens the power of action. But for this, Hamlet would have made a
hole in his uncle in the first act, and with the greatest composure
taken possession of the throne.

As far as I am concerned, it sometimes protects me or saves me
from heedless slips, yet more often tires me, preventing absolute
concentration upon one point of action. I carry within me two
beings,--the one that protests and criticises, the other leading only
half a life, losing gradually all power of decision. I am afraid I
shall never free myself from that yoke; on the contrary, the more my
mind expands, the more minute will be the knowledge of self, and even
on my deathbed I shall not leave off criticising the dying Ploszowski
unless disease has fogged my brain.

I must have inherited from my father a synthetic mind, because I
always try to generalize matters, and for that reason science attracts
me more than philosophy. In my father's time philosophy embraced no
more nor less than the whole universe and all being; consequently
it had a ready answer for all questions. In our times it has become
rational in so far as to confess that it has ceased to exist in the
old meaning of the word and remains only as a philosophy of special
scientific branches. Truly, when I come to think of it it seems that
the human mind too has its tragedies, and it began by confessing its
own powerlessness. As I write a personal diary I will treat these
matters from a personal point of view. I am not a professed
philosopher, because I am nothing by profession; but as a thinking
being I am interested in the new philosophic movement; I have been
and am under its influence, and have a full right to speak about what
entered the composition, and contributed to the creation, of my moral
and intellectual being.

To begin with, I note down that my religious belief I carried still
intact with me from Metz did not withstand the study of natural
philosophy. It does not follow that I am an atheist. Oh, no! This was
good enough in former times, when he who did not believe in spirit,
said to himself, "Matter," and that settled for him the question.
Nowadays only provincial philosophers cling to that worn-out creed.
Philosophy of our times does not pronounce upon the matter; to all
such questions it says, "I do not know!" and that "I do not know"
sinks into and permeates the mind. Nowadays psychology occupies itself
with close analysis and researches of spiritual manifestations; but
when questioned upon the immortality of the soul it says the same,--"I
do not know;" and truly it does not know, and it cannot know. And now
it will be easier to describe the state of my mind. It all lies in
these words: I do not know. In this--in the acknowledged impotence
of the human mind--lies the tragedy. Not to mention the fact that
humanity always has asked, and always will ask, for an answer, they
are truly questions of more importance than anything else in the
world. If there be something on the other side, and that something an
eternal life, then misfortunes and losses on this side are as nothing.
In this case we might exclaim with Hamlet: "Nay, then, let the devil
wear black, for I'll have a suit of sables."

"I am content to die," says Renan; "but I should like to know whether
death will be of any use to me."

And philosophy replies, "I do not know."

And man beats against that blank wall, and like the bedridden sufferer
fancies, if he could lie on this or on that side, he would feel
easier. What is to be done? Are we to abuse philosophy that, instead
of building up new systems which, like a house of cards, fall at a
touch, it has confessed its impotence, and begun to search for and
classify manifestations within reach of the human intellect? Methinks
that I and everybody else has a right to say: "Philosophy, I am struck
by your common sense, admire your close analysis; but with all that,
you have made me supremely wretched. By your own confession you have
no answer for a question, to me of the greatest importance, and yet
you had power enough to destroy that faith which not only cleared up
all doubts, but soothed and comforted the soul. And do not say that,
since you do not lay down the law, you permit me to adhere to my old
beliefs. It is not true! Your method, your soul, your very essence is
doubt and criticism. This, your scientific method, this scepticism,
this criticism you have implanted in the soul till they have become a
second nature. As with lunar caustic, you have deadened the spiritual
nerves by the help of which one believes simply and without question,
so that even if I would believe I have lost the power. You permit me
to go to church if I like; but you have poisoned me with scepticism
to such a degree that I have grown sceptical even with regard to
you,--sceptical in regard to my own scepticism; and I do not know, I
do not know. I torture myself, and am maddened by the darkness."


ROME, 12 January.

Yesterday I allowed myself to be carried away by my writing. But all
the same it seems to me that I laid a finger upon the rottenness of my
soul and that of humanity. There are times when I am indifferent to
these questions; then again they seem to tear at me without mercy; all
the more as those are matters kept within the privacy of the soul.
It would be better to put them aside; but they are too important for
that. We want to know what we are to expect, and arrange our life
accordingly. I have tried to say to myself: "Stop, you will never
leave that enchanted circle; why enter it at all?" I have every
qualification to render myself a well-satisfied, cheerful animal;
but I cannot always be satisfied with that. It is said the Slav
temperament has a tendency towards mysticism. I have noticed that
our greatest writers and poets end by becoming mystics. It is not
surprising that lesser minds should be now and then troubled. As to
myself I feel obliged to take notice of those inward struggles in
order to get a faithful image of myself. Perhaps I feel also the want
of justifying myself before my own conscience. For instance, with the
great "I do not know" before me, I still observe the regulations of
the Church; yet do not consider myself a hypocrite. This would be the
case if, instead of the "I do not know," I could say "I know there is
nothing." But our scepticism is not an open negation; it is rather a
sorrowful, anxious suspicion that perhaps there is nothing,--a dense
fog around our minds that stifles the breath and hides from us the
light. I therefore stretch out my hands towards that sun that maybe
shines beyond the mist. I fancy that not I alone am in that position,
and that of all those who go to church and mass on Sundays the prayers
might be condensed in these words: "O God! lift the mist!"

I cannot write coldly or dispassionately about all this. I keep
religious observances for the simple reason that I long to believe,
and since the sweet teaching of my childhood tells me that faith is a
gift of grace, I am waiting for that grace. I am waiting that it may
be given unto me; that my soul may believe unquestioningly, even as it
believed in childhood. Those are my motives; no self-interest prompts
me; it would be much easier to be a cheerful, contented animal. Since
I am justifying my outward semblance of piety, I have some other less
noble and more practical reasons. From the days of my childhood I have
been accustomed to keep certain rules, and they have grown into a
habit. Henry the Fourth said Paris was well worth a mass; so say I
that the peace of those nearest is worth a mass; people of my class,
as a rule, observe religious prescriptions, and I should protest
against the outward symbols only in such a case if I could find
something more conclusive to say than "I do not know." I go to church
because I am a sceptic in regard to my own scepticism. It is not a
comfortable feeling, and my soul drags one wing along the earth.
But it would be much worse with me if I always pondered over these
questions so earnestly as I have done while writing these last pages.
Fortunately for me this is not the case. I have mentioned already that
at times I am indifferent to them. Life carries me along, and although
in the main I know what to think of its hollow pleasures, I give
myself up to it altogether, and then the moral "to be, or not to be"
has no meaning for me. A strange thing, about the power of which not
much has been said, is the influence of social suggestion on the mind.
In Paris, for instance, I feel happier not only because the continual
mill deafens me,--I am swallowed up by the surging masses, and my
mind is diverted by tricks of the fencing ring,--but also because the
people there, without being conscious of it, live as if it were worth
their while to put all their energies into this life, and as if beyond
there was nothing but a chemical process. My pulse begins to beat in
unison with theirs; I feel myself in harmony with my surroundings;
amuse myself or bore myself, conquer or am conquered, but enjoy a
comparative rest.


ROME, BABUINO, 13 January.

I have only four days left before my departure, and will now sum up
what I said about myself. I am an individual rather worn out, very
sensitive, and of a highly nervous temperament. I have a strongly
developed consciousness of self, seconded by comparative culture, and
taken altogether, may consider myself an intellectually developed
being.

My scepticism debars me from all firm convictions. I look, observe,
criticise, sometimes fancy I get hold of some essential truth, but
am ready always to doubt even that. I have already said all that was
necessary in reference to religion. As to my social creed I am a
conservative so far as a man in my position is bound to be, and so
far as conservatism suits me. No need to mention that I am far from
considering conservatism as a dogma, which no one is allowed to touch
or to criticise. I am too much civilized to take a party view of
either aristocracy or democracy. I leave that as a pastime to those
who live in the country, or in remote places where ideas, like
fashions, are some ten years late. From the time when privileges were
done away with, the question has been closed; but in remoter parts,
where the world remains more or less stagnant, it has become not
so much a question of principle as rather a question of vanity and
nerves. In regard to myself, I like well-bred people,--people with
brains and nerves, and look for them where they are most readily
found. I like them as I like works of art, fine scenery, and beautiful
women. From an aesthetic point of view, I possess refined nerves,--too
refined, perhaps, owing to my early training and a naturally
impressionable temperament. This aesthetic sensitiveness gives me
as many delights as torments, and renders me one great service: it
preserves me from cynicism or otherwise extreme corruption, and serves
me instead of moral principle. I recoil from many things, not because
they are wicked, but because they are ugly. From my aesthetic nerves I
derive also a certain delicacy of feeling. Taken all in all, it seems
to me that I am a man a little marred by life, decent enough though to
say the truth, rather floating in mid-air because not supported by any
dogma, either social or religious. I am also without an aim to which I
could devote my life.

One word more about my abilities before concluding the synthesis. My
father, my aunt, my colleagues, and sometimes strangers, consider them
simply prodigious. I allow that my intellect has a certain glitter.
But will the _improductivité Slave_ scatter all the hopes invested in
me? Considering all I have, or rather have not done up to this day,
either for others or myself, I feel inclined to think that such
will be the case. This confession costs me more than appears on the
surface. My irony when I think of myself tastes bitter on the palate.
There was something barren in the clay from which God formed the
Ploszowskis, since on that soil everything springs up and grows so
luxuriously, yet produces no fruit. Truly, if with this barrenness,
this powerlessness to act, I possessed the abilities of a genius, it
would be a strange kind of genius,--a genius without portfolio, as
there are ministers of state without portfolio.

This definition, "a genius without portfolio" seems to fit me to
perfection. I shall take out a patent of invention for the word. But
the definition does not apply to me alone. Its name is legion. Side
by side with the _improductivité Slave_ goes the genius without
portfolio; it is a pure product of the Slav soil. Once more I say its
name is legion. I do not know another part of the world where so much
ability is wasted, in which even those who bring forth something give
so little, so incredibly little, in comparison with what God gave
them.


ROME, BABUINO, 14 January.

Another letter from my aunt urging me to come. I am coming, I am
coming, dear aunt, though God knows I am doing it out of love for you;
otherwise I should greatly prefer to remain where I am. My father
seems not well; from time to time he feels a strange numbness on
the whole of his left side. At my urgent entreaties he has seen a
physician, but I am quite sure the physic he received is safely stowed
away in a cupboard, according to an old custom he has. Once he opened
the mysterious receptacle and showed me a whole collection of bottles,
pill-boxes, and powders, saying: "For mercy's sake! this would kill
a strong man, let alone a sick one." Up to now, this quaint way of
looking upon medicine has not done him any harm, but I am troubled
about the future. Another reason for my unwillingness to go is my
aunt's plan of campaign. Of course she is anxious to see me married. I
do not know whether she has anything definite in view. God grant I
may be wrong; but she does not deny the intention. "About an eligible
_parti_ like you," she writes, "there will be at once a war of the
roses, you may be sure of that." I am tired and do not wish for any
war, and least of all to end it like Henry VII. by a marriage. On the
other hand,--I dare not tell my aunt, but may confess it to myself,--I
do not like Polish women. I am thirty-five, and like other men that
live much in society, I had my sentimental passages, among others,
with Polish women, and from these encounters I carried away the
impression that they are the most impossible and most wearying women
in the world. I do not know whether, generally speaking, they are more
virtuous than their French or Italian sisters; I only know that they
are more pathetic. The very remembrance of it gives me a creepy
sensation. I can understand an elegy over a broken pitcher when you
behold the shards for the first time; but to go on with the same
pathos over a much mended pitcher, looks more like a comic opera. A
pleasant role that of the listener, whom courtesy bids to take it
seriously.

Strange, fantastic women with fiery imagination and cold temperaments!
In their sentiments there is neither cheerfulness nor even simplicity.
They are in love with the outward forms of love, caring less for
its intrinsic value. With French or Italian women after the first
skirmishes, you may be sure of your "ergo." With a Pole it is
different. Somebody said that if a man is mistaken and says two and
two makes five, you may be able to set him right; a woman says two and
two is a lamp, and you come against a blank wall. In a Polish woman's
logic two and two may be not four, but a lamp, love, hatred, a cat,
tears, duty, scorn; in brief, you cannot foresee anything, calculate
upon anything, or guard against anything. It may be, after all,
because of these very pitfalls that their virtue is better guarded
than that of other women, if only for the reason that the beleaguering
forces get mortally tired. But what struck me, and what I resented
most, is that those pitfalls, barricades, and the whole array of
defence are not so much erected for the repulse of the enemy as to
give them the sensation of warfare. I spoke of this in a roundabout
way with a clever woman only half a Pole, for her father was an
Italian.

She listened to me for a while, then said at last:--

"It seems to me you are very much like the fox looking at the
dovecote. He does not like, and it makes him wroth, to see the doves
dwelling so high, and unlike the hens, always on the wing. All you
have said tells in favor of Polish women."

"How do you make that out?"

"The more a Polish woman seems intolerable as somebody else's wife,
the more desirable she is to have for one's own."

She had driven me into a corner, and I could not find an answer.
Perhaps she is right, and I look upon it from a fox's point of view.
There is also not the slightest doubt that if I were to marry,
especially a Pole, I not only should search for her among the high
flying doves, but I should choose a perfectly white one.

But I am like the chickens when asked in what sauce they would like to
be served; I do not want to be dished up at all. Now, to return to my
grievance against you, dear ladies, you are before everything in love
with love, and not with the lover. Every one of you is a queen in her
own rights, and in this you differ from other women; every one seems
to confer a boon and a favor in permitting herself to be loved; none
agrees to be only an addition or completion of a man's life, who,
besides matrimony, has some other aims in life. You want us to live
for you, instead of living for us. Last, but not least, you love your
children more than your husband. His final fate is that of a satellite
turning forever round in the same orbit. I have seen this and noticed
it very often in a general way; but now and then there happens to
be found a pure diamond too among the chaff. No, my queens and
princesses, permit me to worship you from a safe distance.

Fancy putting aside all other aims, all ideals, in order to burn
incense every day at the shrine of a woman, and that woman one's own
wife. No, dear ladies, that is not sufficient to fill a man's life.

Nevertheless, that second self sometimes mutters, "And what else is
there for you to do? If, anybody it is you who are fittest for the
sacrifice, for what are your aims or your intentions? No! the deuce
and all! To change the whole tenor of one's life, renounce old habits,
comforts, pleasures, it must be a great love, indeed, that could
induce me to such a venture. Marriage means a most amazing act of
faith in a woman, I could never summon courage enough to commit. No,
most decidedly, I do not wish to be served up in any sauce whatever."


WARSAW, 21 January.

I arrived here to-day. I broke my journey at Vienna which made it less
tiring, but my nerves do not let me sleep, so I take up my journal
which has grown as a friend to me. What joy there was in the house
at my arrival, and what a dear, kind soul that aunt of mine is! I do
believe she is awake now for very joy. She could scarcely eat any
dinner. When in the country at Ploszow, she is continually wrangling
with her land-agent, Pan Chwastowski, a burly old nobleman who does
not give in to her one whit. Sometimes their disputes reach to such
a pitch that a catastrophe seems imminent; then suddenly my aunt
relaxes, falls to with an appetite and eats her dinner with a certain
determination. To-day she had only the servants to scold, and that was
not sufficient to give her an appetite. She was in capital spirits
though, and the loving glances she bestowed on me beggar description.
In intimate circles I am called my aunt's fetich, which makes her very
angry.

Of course my fears and presentiments have not deceived me. There are
not only plans, but also a definite object. After dinner my aunt is
in the habit of walking up and down the room, and often thinks aloud.
Therefore, in spite of the mystery she deems fit to surround herself
with, I heard the following monologue:--

"He is young, handsome, rich, intelligent; she would be a fool if she
did not fall in love with him at once."

To-morrow I am to go to a picnic the gentlemen are giving for the
ladies. They say it is going to be a grand entertainment.


WARSAW, 25 January.

I am often bored at balls. As a _homo sapiens_ and an _éligible
parti_, I abhor them; as an artist, that is, artist without portfolio,
I now and then like them. What a splendid sight, for instance, that
broad staircase well lit up, where, amid a profusion of flowers the
women ascend to the ball-room. They all appear tall, and when not seen
from below (because the training robes destroy the illusion) they
remind one of the angels on Jacob's ladder. I like the motion, the
light, the flowers, and the gauzy material which enwraps the young
girls as in a soft mist; and then those shoulders, necks, and arms
which released from the warm cloaks seem at once to grow firm and
crisp as marble. My sense of smell, too, is gratified, for I delight
in good perfumes.

The picnic was a great success. To give Staszewski his due, he knows
how to arrange these things. I arrived together with my aunt, but lost
sight of her in the entrance hall, for Staszewski himself came down to
lead her upstairs. The dear old lady had on her ermine cloak she uses
on great occasions, and which her friends call her robe of state. When
I entered the ballroom I remained near the door and looked around.
What a strange sensation when, after a long interval, one comes back
to once familiar scenes. I feel I am a part of them, and yet I look at
them and criticise them as if I were a stranger. Especially the women
attracted my attention,--I must admit, fastidious as I am, that our
society is very choice. I saw pretty faces and plain faces, but all
stamped with the same well-bred refinement. The necks and shoulders,
in spite of the softly rounded contours, simply reminded me of Sevres
china. There is a restful elegance, something daintily finished, in
all of them. Truly, they do not imitate Europe,--they are Europe.

I remained there about a quarter of an hour indolently musing which of
all these dainty damsels my aunt had chosen for me, when Sniatynski
and his wife came up. I had seen him only a few months ago at Rome,
and had known her, too, for some time. I like her very much; she has a
sweet face and belongs to those exceptional Poles that do not absorb
their husband's whole life, but surrender their own. Presently a young
girl slipped in between us, and while greeting Pani Sniatynska, put
out a small hand encased in a white kid glove and said:--

"Don't you know me, Leon?"

I felt slightly perplexed at this question, for indeed I did not know
who it was that greeted me thus familiarly; but not wishing to seem
rude, I smiled and pressed the little hand, saying, "Of course I do."
I must have looked a little foolish because, presently Pani Sniatynska
burst out laughing and said, "But he does not recognize you; it is
Aniela P."

Aniela, my cousin! No wonder I did not recognize her. The last time
I saw her, some ten or eleven years ago at Ploszow, she wore a short
frock and pink stockings. I remember the midges had stung her about
the legs, and she stamped on the ground like a little pony. How could
I dream that these white shoulders, this breast covered with violets,
this pretty face with the dark eyes, in short, this girl in the full
bloom of maidenhood, was the same as the little wagtail on thin feet
I had known formerly. How pretty she had grown; a fine butterfly
had come from that chrysalis. I renewed my greeting very heartily.
Afterwards when the Sniatynskis had left us she told me that my aunt
and her mother had sent her to fetch me. I offered my arm and we went
across the room.

All at once it burst in upon me. It was she, Aniela, my aunt had in
her mind. That then was the secret, the surprise meant for me. My aunt
always used to be fond of her, and troubled herself not a little over
Pani P.'s financial difficulties. I only wondered why these ladies
were not stopping with my aunt; but I did not ponder over it long; I
preferred to look at Aniela, who naturally interested me more than the
average girl. As we had to make our way to the other end of the
room and the crush was great, I had ample time for conversation and
scrutiny. Fashion this year has it that gloves should be worn halfway
up the elbow, so I noticed that the arm which rested on mine had a
slightly dusky shade, covered as it was with a light down. And yet she
could not be called a brunette. Her hair is a light brown with a gleam
of bronze. Her eyes are light too, but appear dark, shaded as they are
by long eyelashes; the eyebrows, on the contrary, are dark and very
pretty. The characteristic of this little head with the low brow is
that exuberance of hair, eyebrows, eyelashes, and that down, which
on the face is very slight. This at some future time may spoil her
beauty, but at present she is so young that it points only to an
exuberance of organism, and shows that she is not a doll, but a woman
full of warm, active life.

I do not deny that, fastidious as are my nerves and not easily
thrilled, I fell under a spell. She is my type exactly. My aunt, who,
if she ever heard about Darwin would call him a wicked writer, has
unconsciously adopted his theory of natural selection. Yes, she is my
type. They have baited the hook this time with a dainty morsel.

An electric current seemed to pass from her arm into mine. Besides I
noticed that she too seemed pleased with me, and that naturally raises
one's spirits. My scrutiny from an artistic point of view proved
highly satisfactory. There are faces that seem to be a translation
from music or poetry into human shape. Such a face is Aniela's. There
is nothing commonplace about it. As children are inoculated for
small-pox so the upper classes inoculate modesty in their girls; there
is something so very innocent in this face, but through that very
innocence peeps out a warm temperament. What a combination!--as if
some one said, "An innocent Satan!"

Unsophisticated as Aniela is, she is yet a little bit of a coquette,
and quite conscious of her attractions. Knowing for instance that she
has beautiful eyelashes, she very often drops her eyes. She has also
a graceful way of lifting her head and looking at the person she
is speaking to. In the beginning she was slightly artificial, from
shyness I fancy, but soon afterwards we chatted together as if we had
never been separated since those times at Ploszow. My aunt is highly
amusing with her absentmindedness, but I should not care to have her
for a fellow-conspirator. Scarcely had we approached the two elderly
ladies and I exchanged greetings with Aniela's mother, when my aunt,
noticing my animation, turned to her companion and said aloud, "How
pretty she looks in those violets! It was, after all, a happy thought
that he should see her the first time at a ball."

Aniela's mother grew very confused, and so did Aniela, and the truth
began to dawn upon me why it was the ladies were not staying with my
aunt. This had been Pani P.'s idea; she and my aunt had been plotting
together. I suppose Aniela had not been taken into confidence, but
thanks to female perspicacity could not help guessing how matters
stood.

To put an end to the embarrassing situation I turned to her and said,
"I warn you that I am not very proficient at dancing, but as they will
carry you off any moment, will you grant me a waltz?"

Aniela for all answer handed me her tablets and said resolutely, "Put
down as many as you like."

I confess that I do not like the rôle of a puppet pulled by a string,
therefore I resolved to take an active part in the old ladies'
politics. I took the tablets and wrote, "Did you understand that they
want us to marry?"

Aniela read it and changed color. She remained silent for a moment,
as if not trusting her voice, or hesitating what to say; at last she
lifted her eyelashes and looking straight into my eyes she replied,
"Yes."

It was now her turn to question me, not in words but with her eyes. I
already knew I had made a favorable impression on her, and if she had
an inkling of the truth her mind must needs dwell a good deal on me.
I interpreted the look of her eyes thus: "I am aware my mother and my
aunt want us to become acquainted, to know each other well. And you?"

Instead of an answer I put my arm around her waist, and lightly
drawing her towards me, led her into the mazes of a waltz. I
remembered my fencing practice.

A mute answer could not but stir up fancies in a girl's mind,
especially after what I had written on the tablets. I thought to
myself: "What harm is there if her fancy turns into my direction? As
far as I am concerned I shall not go a step further than I intend,
and if her fancy travels further I cannot help it." Aniela dances
exquisitely, and she danced this waltz as a woman should, with a
certain vehemence and self-abandon at the same time. I noticed that
the violets on her breast rose and fell far quicker than the quiet
step of the dance warranted. I understood that she felt agitated. Love
is a law of nature, kept under control by a careful bringing-up. But
once the girl is told that she may love this one or that, the chance
is she will obey very readily. Aniela evidently expected that after
I had been bold enough to write those few words I would allude to it
further, but I kept aloof on purpose to leave her in suspense.

I wished also to look at her from a distance. Decidedly she is my
type. Women of that kind have a special attraction for me. Oh, if only
she were thirty, and not a girl they expect me to marry!


WARSAW, 30 January.

They have come to stay with us. Yesterday I spent all the day with
Aniela. She has more pages to her soul than most girls at her age. On
many of these pages the future will write, but there is room for many
beautiful things. She feels and understands everything, and is an
excellent listener, and follows the conversation with her large,
intelligent eyes. A woman that can listen possesses one more
attraction, because she flatters man's vanity. I do not know whether
Aniela is conscious of this, or whether it be her womanly instinct.
Maybe she has heard so much about me from my aunt that she deems every
word I say an oracle. She is decidedly not without coquetry. To-day
I asked her what she wished for most in life. She answered, "To see
Rome;" then her eyelashes fell, and she looked indescribably pretty.
She sees that I like her, and it makes her happy. Her coquetry is
charming, because it comes straight from a delighted heart, and tries
to please the chosen object. I have not the slightest doubt that her
heart is fluttering towards me, as a moth flutters into the candle.
Poor child! she feels the elders have given their mute consent, and
she obeys only too willingly. I can watch the process from hour to
hour.

Perhaps I ought to inquire of myself, "If you do not want to marry
her, why are you trying to make her love you?" But I do not choose to
answer that question. I feel at peace here, and restful! After
all, what is it I am doing? I try not to appear more foolish or
disagreeable or less courteous than I am by nature, that is all.

Aniela appeared to-day at breakfast in a loose sailor-dress,
which only just betrayed the outline of her shape, and she looked
bewitching. Her eyes were still full of dreaminess and sleep. It is
something wonderful what an impression she is making on me.


31 January.

My aunt is giving an entertainment in honor of Aniela. I am
paying visits and leaving cards right and left. I called upon the
Sniatynskis, and sat with them for a long time, because I feel there
at home. Sniatynski and his wife are always wrangling with each other,
but their life is different from that of most other married people.
As a rule, it happens when there is one cloak, each tries to get
possession of it; these two dispute because he wishes her to have
it, and she wants it all for him. I like them immensely,--it is so
refreshing to see there is still happiness out of novels. With all
that, he is so clever; as sensitive as a Stradivarius violin, and
quite conscious of his happiness. He wanted it, and has got it. I envy
him. I always used to like his conversation. They offered me some
black coffee; it is only at literary people's houses one can get such
coffee. He asked me what I thought of Warsaw after so long an absence.
There was also some talk about the ball, especially from the lady's
part. She seems to guess something about my aunt's plans, and wants to
have one of her rosy fingers in the pie,--especially as she comes from
the same part of the country as Aniela.

We touched personal matter very slightly, but had a lively discussion
about society in general. I told him what I thought about its
refinement; and as Sniatynski, though he criticises it himself
mercilessly, is always greedy to hear its praises sung, it put him
into capital spirits.

"I like to hear you say so," he remarked, "as you have so many chances
to make comparisons, and are rather inclined to look at the world from
a pessimist's point of view."

"I do not know whether what I just said does not lean that way."

"How do you prove that?" asked Sniatynski, quickly.

"You see, refined culture might be compared to cases with glass and
china, upon which is written, 'Fragile.' For you, a spiritual son of
Athens, for me and a few others, it is pleasant to be in touch with
it; but if you want to build anything on such foundation, you will
find the beams coming down on your head. Don't you think those refined
_dilettanti_ of life are bound to get the worst in a struggle with a
people of strong nerves, a tough skin, and iron muscles?"

Sniatynski, who is very lively, jumped up and walked about the room,
then rushed at me impetuously. "You have seen only one side of the
picture, and not the best one, either; do not think there is nothing
more to be seen. You come from abroad, and pronounce judgment upon us
as if you had lived here all your life."

"I do not know what else there may be, but I know that nowhere in the
world is there such a vast difference between the classes. On one
side, the most refined culture,--over-refined, if anything; on the
other, absolute barbarism and ignorance."

A long discussion followed, and it was dusk before I left them. He
said if I came oftener to see them, he would show me the connecting
link between the two classes, introduce me to men who were neither
over-refined, ignorant, nor sickening with dilettantism, but strong
men, who knew what they wanted, and were going straight for it.

When I was going away, Sniatynski called out after me:

"From such as you nothing good will come, but your children may
be men; but you and such like must lose every penny you possess,
otherwise even your grandchildren will do nothing useful."

I still think that on the whole I was right. I have taken special
notice of this conversation, as this discrepancy has occupied my
thoughts ever since my arrival. The fact is that between the classes
there is a vast gulf that precludes all mutual understanding, and
makes simultaneous efforts simply impossible. At least, I look upon
it in that light. Sèvres china and common clay,--nothing between; one
_très fragile_, the other, Ovidius's "rudis indigestaque moles." Of
course Sèvres china sooner or later breaks, and from the clay the
future may mould anything it likes.


2 February.

Yesterday my aunt's entertainment took place. Aniela was the cynosure
of every eye. Her white shoulders peeping out from a cloud of muslin,
gauze, or whatever it is called, she looked like a Venus rising from
the foam. I fancy it is already gossiped about that I am going to
marry her. I noticed that her eyes often strayed in my direction, and
she listened to her partners with an absent, distracted expression.

Guileless child! she cannot hide the truth, and shows so plainly what
is going on in her heart that I could not help seeing it, unless I
were blind. And she is so humble and quietly happy when I am with her!
I like her immensely, and begin to waver. Sniatynski is so happy in
his home life! It is not the first time I have asked myself whether
Sniatynski be more foolish or wiser than I. Of the many problems of
life, I have not solved one. I am nothing; scepticism is sapping
my whole system; I am not happy, and am very tired. He, with less
knowledge than I, does useful work, has a good and handsome wife, the
rogue! and his very philosophical principles, adapted to life, help to
make him happy. No, it must be acknowledged, it is I who am the more
foolish of the two.

The keynote of Sniatynski's philosophy is found in his dogmas of life.
Before he was married he said to me: "There are two things I never
approach with scepticism, and do not criticise: to me as a literary
man, the community is a dogma; as a private individual, the beloved
woman." I thought to myself then: "My mind is bolder,--it analyzes
even that." But I see now that this boldness has not led me to
anything. And how lovely she is,--that little dogma of mine with the
long eyelashes! Decidedly, I am going the way I did not mean to go.
The singular attraction which draws me towards her cannot be explained
by the law of natural selection. Ho! there is something more, and I
know what it is. She loves me with all the freshness of her honest
heart, as I was never loved before. How different from the fencing
practice of former years, when thrusts were dealt or guarded against!
The woman who is much liked, and who in her turn loves, is sure to win
in the end if she perseveres.

"The stray bird," says the poet Slowacki, "comes back to his haven
of rest and peace all the more eagerly after the lonesomeness of his
stormy flight. Nothing takes so firm a hold upon a man's heart as the
consciousness that he is loved."

A few pages before, I wrote God knows what about Polish women; but if
any one fancies that for the sake of a few written sentences I feel
myself bound to pursue a certain course, he is vastly mistaken.

How that girl satisfies my artistic taste is simply wonderful. After
the ball, came the pleasantest moment when, everybody gone, we sat
down and had some tea. Wanting to see how the world looked outside, I
drew back the heavy curtains. It was eight o'clock in the morning and
a flood of daylight poured into the room. It was so perfectly blue,
seen by the glare of the lamps, that it reminded me of the Capri
grotto. And there stood Aniela, with that blue haze around her white
shoulders. She looked so lovely that all my resolutions tottered and
fell to pieces; I felt positively grateful to her for this glimpse of
beauty, as if it were her doing. I pressed her hand more tenderly than
I had ever done before when saying good-night to her.

"Good-morning, you mean, not good-night,--good-morning."

Either I am blind and deaf or her eyes and voice expressed: "I love
you, I love you."

I do the same--almost.

My aunt looking at us gave a low grunt of contentment. I saw tears
shining in her eyes.

To-morrow we leave here for Ploszow.


PLOSZOW, 5 February.

This is my second day in the country. We had a splendid drive. The
weather was clear and frosty. The snow creaked under the runners of
the sledge and glittered and sparkled in the fields. Towards sunset
the vast plain assumed pink and purple shades. The rooks, cawing and
flapping their wings, flew in and out the lime trees. Winter, the
strong, homely winter, is a beautiful thing. There is a certain vigor
in it, and dignity, and what is more, so much sincerity. Like a true
friend, who, regardless as to consequences, hurls cutting truths,
it smites you between the eyes without asking leave. By way of
compensation it bestows upon you some of its own vigor. We were all
of us glad to leave the town--the elder ladies, that their pet scheme
might be brought to a climax by closer companionship; I, because I was
near Aniela; she, maybe for the same reason, felt happy too. She bent
down several times to kiss my aunt's hands, apropos of nothing, out
of sheer content. She looked very pretty in a long, fluffy boa and
a coquettish fur cap, from under which the dark eyes and the almost
childish face peeped forth.

How young she looks.

I feel at home in Ploszow, it is so quiet and restful; and I like the
huge, old-fashioned chimneys. The woods are to my aunt as the apple of
her eye, but she does not grudge herself fuel; and big logs, which are
crackling and burning there from morning until night, make it look
bright and cheerful. We sat around the fire the whole afternoon. I
brought out some of my reminiscences, and told them about Rome and its
treasures. The three women listened with such devoutness that it made
me feel ridiculous in my own eyes. From time to time, while I was
talking, my aunt cast a searching glance at Aniela to see whether she
expressed enough admiration. But there is too much of that already.
Yesterday she said to me:--

"Another man might spend there his whole life and not see half the
beautiful things you do."

My aunt added with dogmatic firmness,--

"I have always said so."

It is as well that there is not another sceptic here, for his presence
would embarrass me not a little.

A certain dissonant chord in our little circle is Aniela's mother. The
poor soul has had so many sorrows and anxieties that her cheerfulness,
if ever she had any, is a thing of the past. She is simply afraid of
the future, and instinctively suspects pitfalls even in good fortune.
She was very unhappy in her married life, and afterwards has had
continual worries about her estate, which is very much involved. In
addition to all this she suffers from nervous headaches.

Aniela belongs to that category of women who never trouble themselves
about money matters. I like her for that, for it proves that she
thinks of higher things. For the matter of that, everything in her
pleases and delights me now.

Tenderness grows on the soil of attraction by the senses, as quick
as flowers after a warm rain. To-day, in the morning, I saw the maid
carrying up her gown and boots; this moved me very much, especially
the little, little boots, as if the wearing of them was the crown of
all virtues in Aniela.

PLOSZOW, 8 or 9 February.

My aunt has taken up her visual warfare with Pan Chwastowski. This
is such an original habit of hers that I must describe one of their
disputes. The dear lady can evidently not exist without it, or at
least not enjoy her dinner; Chwastowski, again, who, by the bye, is an
excellent manager, is a compound of brimstone and saltpetre, and does
not allow anybody to thwart him; therefore the quarrels sometimes
reach the acute state. When entering the dining-room they eye each
other with suspicious glances. The first shot is fired by my aunt
while eating her soup.

"It is a very long time, Pan Chwastowski, since I heard anything
about the winter crops, and Pan Chwastowski, instead of giving me the
information, speaks about anything but what I want to know."

"They were very promising in autumn, my lady; now they are covered by
a yard or two of snow,--how am I to know the state they are in? I am
not the Lord Almighty."

"I beg of you, Pan Chwastowski, not to take the Lord's name in vain."

"I do not look under His snow, therefore do not offend Him."

"Do you mean to insinuate that I do?"

"Most certainly."

"Pan Chwastowski, you are unbearable."

"Oho! bearable enough because he bears a great deal."

In this or that way the screw goes round. There is scarcely a meal but
they have some differences. Then my aunt at last subsides, and seems
to wreak the remnants of her anger on the dinner. She enjoys a hearty
appetite. As the dinner goes on she gradually brightens up and
recovers her usual spirits. After dinner, I offer my arm to Aniela's
mother, my aunt accepts Pan Chwastowski's, and presently they sip
their black coffee in peace and perfect amity. My aunt inquires after
his sons, and he kisses her hands. I saw those sons of his when they
were at the university, and I hear they are promising young men, but
great radicals.

Aniela used to get frightened at first at these prandial disputes,
until I gave her the clue to the real state of things. So now when
the first signal of battle is given, she looks at me slyly from under
those long lashes, and there is a little smile lurking in the corners
of her mouth. She is so pretty then I feel tempted to take her in
my arms. I have never met a woman with such delicate veins on her
temples.


12 February.

Truly a metamorphosis of Ovidius on the earth and within me! The frost
has gone, the fine weather vanished, and there is Egyptian darkness. I
cannot describe it better than by saying the weather is foul. What an
abominable climate! In Rome, at the worst, the sun shines at intervals
half a dozen times a day; here lamps ought to be lit these two days.
The black, heavy mist seems to permeate one's thoughts, and paint them
a uniform gray. My aunt and Pan Chwastowski were more intent than
usual upon warfare. He maintained that my aunt, by not allowing the
woods to be touched, causes the timber to spoil; my aunt replied that
others did their best to cut down all the timber, and not a bit of
forest would soon be left in the country. "I am getting old; let
the trees grow old too." This reminds me of the nobleman of vast
possessions who only allowed as much land to be cultivated as to where
the bark of his dog could be heard.

Aniela's mother, without intending it, gave me to-day a bad quarter of
an hour. Alone with me in the conservatory, she began telling me, with
maternal boastfulness, that an acquaintance of mine, a certain Pan
Kromitzki, had made overtures for Aniela's hand.

I had a sensation as if somebody tried to remove a splinter from my
flesh with a fork. As the blue waves of light had stirred up within me
a tender feeling for Aniela,--although it was no merit of hers,--so
now the wooing of such a man as Kromitzki threw cold water upon the
nascent affections. I know that ape Kromitzki, and do not like him. He
comes from Austrian Silesia, where it seems they had owned estates.
In Rome he used to say that his family had borne the title of count
already in the fifteenth century, and at the hotels put himself down
as "Graf von Kromitzki." But for his small, black eyes, not unlike
coffee-berries, and his black hair, his head looks as if cut out
from a cheese-rind,--for such is his complexion. He reminds me of a
death's-head, and I simply have a physical loathing for him. Ugh! how
the thought of him in connection with Aniela has spoiled her image.
I am quite aware that she is in no way responsible for Kromitzki's
intentions; but it has damaged her in my eyes. I do not know why her
mother should think it necessary to tell me these details; if it be a
warning, it has missed its aim. She must have some grand qualities,
this Pani P., since she has managed to steer her life through so many
difficulties, and at the same time educated her daughter so well; but
she is clumsy and tedious with her headaches and her macaronism.

"I confess," she said, "that the alliance suited me. At times I almost
break down under the weight of troubles. I am a woman with little
knowledge of business, and what I acquired I have paid for with my
health; but I had to think of my child. Kromitzki is very clever. He
has large concerns at Odessa, and is at present engaged in some large
speculations in naphtha at Baku, or some such place, 'que sais-je.' It
seems there is some difficulty about his not being a Russian subject.
If he married Aniela he might clear the estate; and as an extensive
landowner he would have no difficulty in getting naturalized."

"What does Aniela say to this?" I asked impatiently.

"She does not care for him, but is a good and obedient child. I am
anxious to see her married before I die."

I did not care to prolong the conversation, which irritated me more
than I can tell; and though I understand well enough, if that match
has not been arranged, it was Aniela's doing, yet I feel aggrieved
that she should allow a man like that even to look at her. For me this
would be a mere question of nerves. I forget, however, that others
are not constituted like me, and that Kromitzki, in spite of his
cadaverous face, passes among women as a good-looking man.

I wonder what his affairs are. I forgot to ask whether he is at
Warsaw; most likely he is, as he goes there every winter. As to his
business, it may be very magnificent, but I doubt whether it be on a
solid basis. I am not a speculator, and could not for the life of me
transact a stock-exchange affair; but I am shrewd enough to know
it. Besides I am a close observer, and quick to draw conclusions.
Therefore I do not believe in noblemen with a genius for speculation.
I am afraid Kromitzki's is neither an inherited nor innate quality,
but a neurosis driving him into a certain direction. I have seen
examples of that kind. Now and then blind fortune favors the
nobleman-speculator, and he accumulates wealth; but I have not seen
one who did not come to grief before he died.

Capacities such as these are either inherited or acquired by early
training. Chwastowski's boys will be able to do something in that way
because their father lost by accident all his fortune, and they
have to make a fresh start. But he who with ready capital, without
commercial tradition or professional knowledge, embarks upon commerce,
is bound to come to grief. Speculation cannot be based upon illusions,
and there is too much of that in the speculations of our noblemen.
Upon the whole, I wish Pan von Kromitzki every luck!


14 February.

Pax! pax! pax! The painful impression has vanished. What keen
perceptions Aniela has! I endeavored to be cheerful, though I felt out
of spirits, and I do not think there was any perceptible change in my
behavior; yet she perceived a change at once. To-day, when we looked
at the albums and were alone,--which happens pretty often, on purpose
I suppose,--she grew embarrassed and changed color. I saw at once she
wanted to say something, and did not dare. For a single moment the mad
thought flashed across my brain that she was about to confess her love
for me. But as quick as the thought, I remembered it was a Polish girl
I had before me. A mere chit of a girl--I beg her pardon, a young
princess,--would rather die than be the first to confess her love.
When asked she gives her assent rather as a favor. Besides, Aniela
very quickly corrected my mistake; suddenly closing the album she said
in a hesitating voice: "What is the matter with you, Leon? There is
something the matter, is there not?"

I began assuring her at once that there was nothing the matter with
me, and to laugh away her perturbation; but she only shook her head
and said: "I have seen that something was amiss these last two days. I
know that men like you may be easily offended, and I have asked myself
whether anything I might have done or said--" Her voice shook a
little, but she looked straight at me.

"I have not hurt you, have I?"

There was a moment I felt tempted to say, "If there is anything
wanting to my happiness it is you, Aniela, only you;" but a sudden
terror clutched me by the hair. Not terror of her, but of the
consequences that might follow. I took her hand, kissed it, and said
in the most cheerful voice I could assume, "You are a good and dear
girl; do not mind me,--there is nothing whatever the matter; besides,
you are our guest, and it is I who ought to see that you are
comfortable."

And I kissed again her hand, both hands in fact. All this could be
still put down to cousinly affection,--human nature is so mean that
the consciousness that there was still a door through which I could
escape lent me courage. I call this feeling mean for the very reason
that I am not responsible to anybody except to myself, and myself I
cannot deceive. Yet I feel that even to myself I shall not give a
strict account, because in so far as my relations to Aniela are
concerned I am carried away by my sensations. I still feel on my lips
the touch of her hand,--and my desires are simply without limit.
Sooner or later I shall myself close that door through which I could
still escape. But could I still escape? Yes, if some extraneous
circumstances came to my aid.

In the meanwhile she loves me, and everything draws me towards her.
To-day I asked myself, "If it is to be, why put it off?" I found
a ready answer: "Because I do not want to lose any of my present
sensations; the sudden thrills, the charm of the words unspoken, the
questioning glances, the expectations. I wish to spin out the romance
to the very end. I found fault with women that they preferred the
semblance of love to love itself, and now I am quite as anxious not to
lose any of its outward manifestations. But as one gets more advanced
in years one attaches greater importance to these things; and besides,
I am an Epicurean in my sensations."

After the above conversation with Aniela, we both recovered our
spirits. During evening I helped her in the cutting out of lampshades,
which gave me the opportunity to touch her hands and dress. I hindered
her with the work and she became as gay as a child, and in a child's
quick, plaintive voice called out, "Aunty, Leon is very naughty."


14 February.

Ill luck would have it that I accepted an invitation to attend a
meeting at Councillor S.'s, who always tries to bring together
representatives of all shades and opinions, and over a cup of tea and
a sandwich to bring about a mutual understanding. As a man almost
continually living abroad, I came to this meeting to find out what was
going on in the minds of my countrymen and listen to their reasonings.
The crush was very great, which made me feel uncomfortable, and at the
same time happened what usually happens at large gatherings. Those of
the same shade of opinion congregated in separate rooms to pay each
other compliments and so forth. I was made acquainted with various
councillors and representatives of the press. In other countries,
there is a considerable difference between writers and journalists.
The first is considered an artist and a thinker, the latter, a mere
paragraph-monger--I cannot find a better word. Here there is no such
distinction, and men of both occupations are known under the same
collective name as literary men. The greater part of them follow both
avocations, literature and journalism. Personally, they are more
refined than the journalists I met abroad. I do not like the daily
press, and consider it as one of the plagues sent down to torment
humanity. The swiftness with which the world becomes acquainted with
current events is equal to the superficiality of the information, and
does not compensate for the incredible perversion of public opinion,
as any one who is not prejudiced must perceive. Thanks to the daily
press, the sense which knows how to sift the true from the false
has become blunted, the notions of right and wrong have well-nigh
disappeared, evil stalks about in the garb of righteousness, and
oppression speaks the language of justice; in brief, the human soul
has become immoral and blind.

There was, among others, also Stawowski, who is considered a leader
among the advanced progressists. He spoke cleverly, but appeared to me
a man suffering from a two-fold disease: liver, and self. He carries
his ego like a glass of water filled to the brim, and seems to say,
"Take care, or it will spill." This fear, by some subtle process,
seems to communicate itself to his audience to such an extent that
nobody dares to be of a different opinion. He has this influence over
others because he believes in what he says. They are wrong, those who
consider him a sceptic. On the contrary, he is of the temperament
which makes fanatics. Had he been born a hundred years ago and been a
judge, he would have sentenced people to have their tongues cut out
for uttering blasphemy. Born as he is in the more enlightened times,
he hates what he would have loved then; but essentially it is the same
man.

I noticed that our conservatives crowded round Stawowski, not so
much out of curiosity to hear what he said as rather with a certain
watchful coquetry. Here, and maybe in other countries, this party has
little courage. They looked at the speaker with insinuating smiles, as
if they would say: "Although conservatives, nevertheless--" Ah! that
"nevertheless" was like an act of contrition, a kind of submission.
This was so evident that I who am a sceptic as to all party spirit,
began to contradict Stawowski, not as a representative of any party,
but simply as a man who is of a different opinion. My audacity excited
some astonishment. The matter in question was the position of the
working-men. Stawowski spoke of their hopeless condition, their
weakness and incapacity for defending themselves; the audience which
listened to his words grew every minute larger, when I interrupted:--

"Do you believe in Darwin's theory, the survival of the fittest?"

Stawowski, who is a naturalist by profession, took up the challenge at
once.

"Of course I do," he said.

"Then allow me to point out to you that you are inconsequent. If I,
as a Christian, care for the weak and defenceless, I do so by the
doctrine of Christ; but you, from a standpoint of a struggle-for-life
existence, ought to see it in a different light: they are weak, they
are foolish, consequently bound to succumb; it is a capital law of
nature,--let the weaker go to perdition. Why is it you do not take it
this way? please explain the contradiction."

Whether Stawowski was taken aback by the unexpected opposition, or
whether he really had never put the two things together, the fact was
that he was at a loss for a ready answer, grew confused, and did not
even venture upon the expression "altruism," which, after all, says
very little.

The hero of the evening worsted, the conservatives came over to me in
a body, and I might have become the hero now; but it was getting late,
I was bored, and wanted to get back to Ploszow. Gradually the others
too began to disperse. I was already in my fur coat and searching
for my eyeglasses, that had slipped between the coat and furs, when
Stawowski, who evidently had found his answer, came up to me and
said:--

"You asked why--"

I, still searching for the eyeglasses and rather put out, said
impatiently:--

"Plainly speaking, the question does not interest me very much. It is
getting late and everybody is leaving; besides I can guess what you
are going to say, therefore permit me to wish you good-night."

I fancy I have made an enemy of the man, especially by my last remark.

It was one o'clock when I arrived at Ploszow, and there a pleasant
surprise awaited me; Aniela was sitting up to make some tea for me. I
found her in the dining-room, still fully dressed, with the exception
of her hair, which was done up for the night. From the intense delight
I felt in seeing her thus unexpectedly, I perceived how deeply she had
entered into my heart. What a dear girl she is, and how pretty she
looks with the tresses coiled low down her neck. And to think that I
have only to say the word and in a month or two I might have the right
to undo those tresses and let them fall on her shoulders. I cannot
think of it quietly. It seems past all belief that happiness should be
so easy to get.

I began to scold her a little for sitting up so late, and she
replied:--

"But I was not in the least sleepy, and begged mamma and aunty to let
me sit up for you. Mamma would not allow it, said it was not proper;
but I explained to her that we were cousins, and that makes all the
difference. And do you know who took my part?--auntie."

"Dear aunt! You will take some tea with me, will you not?"

I watched her handling the cups with those deft, graceful fingers, and
felt a desire to kiss them.

She looked at me now and then, but upon meeting my eyes her eyelashes
drooped. Presently she inquired how I had spent the evening, and what
impressions I had carried away. We spoke in a low voice, though the
sleeping-rooms were far enough away to make it unnecessary. There was
such confidence and heartiness in our intercourse as among relatives
who are fond of each other.

I told her what I had seen and noticed, as one tells a friend. I spoke
about the general impression the society of the country makes upon a
man that has chiefly lived abroad. She listened quietly with wide-open
eyes, happy to be thus taken into confidence. Then she said:--

"Why do you not write about all that, Leon? That I do not think
of such things is not to be wondered at; but nobody else here has
thoughts like these."

"Why do I not write?" I replied. "There are many reasons for it. I
will explain to you some time; one of them is that I have nobody near
me who, like you, says: 'Leon, why do you not do something?'"

After this we both became silent. I had never seen Aniela's lashes
veil her eyes so closely, and I could almost hear the beating of her
heart.

And indeed she had a right to expect me to say: "Will you remain with
me always and put the same question?" But I found such a keen delight
in skirting the precipice before making the final plunge, and feeling
that heart palpitating almost in my hand that I could not do it.

"Good-night," I said, after a short time.

And that angelic creature gave not the slightest sign that she had met
with a disappointment. She rose, and with the least touch of sadness
in her voice, but no impatience, replied: "Good-night."

We shook hands and parted for the night. My hand was already on the
latch, when I turned round and saw her still standing near the table.

"Aniela! Tell me," I said, "do you not think me a fantastic kind of
man, full of whims and fancies?"

"Oh, no, not fantastic; sometimes I think you a little strange, but
then I say to myself that men like you are bound to be different from
others."

"One question more; when was it you thought me strange the first
time?"

Aniela blushed to the tips of her ears. How pretty she looked with the
pink flame spreading over her face and neck.

"No, I could not tell you."

"Then let me guess, and if I am right say yes. It is a single word."

"What word?" she asked, with increased confusion.

"Tablets. Yes, or no?"

"Yes," said Aniela, with drooping eyes.

"Then I will tell you why I wrote those words. First, because I wanted
a link connecting us together, a little secret shared by both of us,
and also--"

I pointed at the flowers the gardener had brought from the hot-house.

"You know flowers want light to bring out all their beauty, and I
wanted plenty of light for our atmosphere."

"I cannot always follow you," she said, after a momentary silence,
"but I trust you, yes, and believe in you."

We remained once more silent; I pressed her hand again, saying
good-night. We stopped near the door, and our eyes met. The waters
begin to rise and to rise. They will overstep their boundary any
moment.


23 February.

The human being, like the sea, has his ebb and flood tides. To-day my
will, my energy, the very action of life are at a very low tide. It
came upon me without warning, a mere matter of nerves. But for that
very reason my thoughts are full of bitterness. What right have I,
a man physically worn out and mentally exhausted, to marry at all?
Involuntarily the words of Hamlet come in my mind: "Get thee to a
nunnery; why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners?" I shall not bury
myself within cloister walls. The future sinners will be like me,
all nerves, oversensitive, not fit for any practical life,--in fact,
artists without portfolios. But the deuce take it, it is not they, but
Aniela I am thinking of. Have I a right to marry her,--to link that
fresh budding life, full of simple faith in God and the world, to my
doubts, my spiritual impotence, my hopeless scepticism, my criticism
and nerves? What will be the result of it for her? I cannot regain
another spiritual youth, and even at her side cannot find my old self;
my brains cannot change, or my nerves grow more vigorous,--and what
then? Is she to wither at my side? It would be simply monstrous. I to
play the part of a polypus that sucks the life-blood of its victims in
order to renew its own life! A heavy cloud weighs on my brain. But if
such be the case why did I allow it to go so far? What have I been
doing ever since I met Aniela? Playing on her very heartstrings to
bring forth sweet music. And yet, what for me was "Quasi una fantasia"
may prove to her "Quasi un dolore." Yes, I have played on that
sensitive instrument from morning until night; and what is more,
I feel that in spite of my self-upbraidings, I shall do the same
to-morrow and the days following, for I cannot help it; she attracts
me more than any woman I ever met, I desire her above all things--I
love her!

Why delude myself any longer?--I love her!

What is to be done? Must I go away back to Rome? That means a
disappointment and sorrow for her; for who knows how deeply rooted
her feelings may be? To marry her is the same as to sacrifice her for
myself, and make her life unhappy in another way. A truly enchanted
circle! Only people of the Ploszowski species ever get into such
dilemmas. And there is devilish little comfort in the thought that
there are more such as I, or that their name is legion.

Whether the species be gradually dying out, as badly fitted for the
struggle of life, remains to be seen; for in addition to an incapacity
for life, there is ill luck as well. I might have met such an Aniela
ten years ago, when my sails were not, as now, worn to shreds and
patches.

If that honest soul, my aunt, knew how, with the best of intentions,
she brought me to this pass, she would be truly grieved. There was
tragedy enough in my life,--the consciousness of utter failure, the
dark mist in which my thoughts were straying; now there is a new,--to
be, or not to be; but no, it is far worse than that!


26 February.

Yesterday I went again to Warsaw by appointment, to meet a certain Pan
Julius Keo, on whose estates I lodged part of the capital I inherited
from my mother. Pan Julius Keo wants to pay off the mortgage, and
asked me to meet him at a fixed time; and I waited for him the whole
day. The devil take their ways of managing any business in this
country! He will make five other appointments, and not keep one. He is
very rich, wants to get rid of the mortgage, and is able to pay it off
any time; and yet--such is our way of transacting business.

From my own observations I long since came to the conclusion that in
money matters we are the most flighty and unbusinesslike people in the
world. I, who like to go to the root of matters, often pondered over
this phenomenon.

According to my ideas, this is the result of the purely agricultural
occupation of the people. Commerce was in the hands of the Jews, and
these could not teach us accuracy; the cultivator of the soil is
unreliable because the soil is unreliable, he is unpunctual because
nature has no punctuality. Working in the soil, they gradually take
some of its characteristics, which enters into their moral being, and
in the course of time becomes an inherited defect.

The knowledge of cause and effect does not restore me to an equable
temper. I had to tear myself away from Aniela for a whole day, and
what is more, shall have to go through the some process a few
days hence; but it cannot be helped. In my aunt's house I found
visiting-cards from Kromitzki,--one for me and two for the elder
ladies. I was afraid he might take it into his head to pay us a
visit at Ploszow; to avoid that, I went out to leave my card on him.
Unfortunately for me, he was at home, and I had to stay half an hour.
He began his conversation by telling me that he had promised to call
at Ploszow; to which I replied that we had gone there merely for a few
days, and would be back in town almost immediately. He asked after
Aniela's mother, and very guardedly after Aniela herself. He evidently
wanted to impress me with the fact that he inquired as a mere
acquaintance. I am so impressionable that even this gave me a twinge;
how I loathe that man! I fancy the Tartars under Batu Khan must have
played many pranks in what is to-day Austrian Silesia, when looting
the country after the battle of Liegnitz. That those black eyes, like
roasted coffee-berries, did not come from Silesian ancestors, I have
not the slightest doubt.

He was exceedingly polite to me, because I am rich. It is true, he
wants nothing from me,--I do not give him anything, and my being rich
is of no advantage to him; but as a financier he worships money. We
spoke about the difficulties in which Aniela's mother was and is still
involved. According to Kromitzki, a great deal of her fortune might
still be saved if she would part with the estate. Kromitzki looks upon
the reluctance to part with ancestral lands as a mere fad. He said he
might be able to understand it if she had the means to prevent it, but
as the case stood it was mere sentimentality.

He is very talkative, and discussed at some length our national
idiocy. Money was lying on the pavement, to be had for the picking up.
His father, like other noblemen, had left scarcely any fortune; when
all debts were cleared off there remained a paltry hundred thousand
florins, and the world knew how he, Kromitzki, stood at present.

"If that business in Turkestan comes off, I shall be able to wind up
my affairs. The Jews and Greeks have made millions in the contract
business; why should not we be able to do as well? I do not put
myself as an example; but I say, why should we not? There is room for
everybody,--why not go in for it?"

According to my opinion, Kromitzki has a certain aptness for business,
but is foolish in a general sense. That we are shiftless, everybody
knows that; and that here and there somebody makes a fortune by
contracts, I can well believe; but the greater part of the people must
work at home, and not look for millions from contracts in Turkestan.

May God save Aniela from an alliance with that man. He may have some
good qualities, but he belongs to a different moral type. If there be
a worse fate in store for her, ought I to hesitate any longer?


28 February.

The elder ladies seem uneasy that the affair is not going on as
speedily as they had fancied; my aunt, who is of an impatient temper,
must chafe inwardly not a little. But the expression of happiness on
Aniela's face soothes them, and allays their fears. I can read in her
eyes endless trust and thorough belief in me. She fills my thoughts so
that I cannot think of anything but her. I desire her more and more,
and do not want to play upon her feelings any longer,--I want her.


4 March.

This day has been to me of so much importance that I am obliged to
muster all my calmness and self-possession to put down everything in
its proper order. Nevertheless, I cannot contain myself. The die is
cast, or as good as cast. I could not have gone on quietly, had I not
put that down.

And now I can begin. Sniatynski and his wife arrived here towards
noon, for an early dinner. He had to go back, as a new play of his
is coming out at the theatre. However happy we may be in our rural
seclusion, we are always delighted to see them. Aniela is great
friends with Pani Sniatynska, and I suppose there will be an exchange
of confidences. Pani Sniatynska guessed at the state of things, and
tried to put her hand to the wheel, to make the cart go a little
faster. She had only just arrived, when she said to my aunt:--

"How lovely and peaceful everything is here! No wonder the young
people there do not pine after the dissipations of town."

We both, Aniela and I, understood perfectly well that Pani Sniatynska,
calling us the young people, was not referring only to our age.
Besides, she repeated the same thing several times during dinner: "the
young people," "the young couple," as if making a pointed difference
between us two and the elder ladies. But there was such real sympathy
for us in the friendly eyes; such a pricking up of her little ears to
hear what we were saying to each other; and the little woman looked so
charming withal that I forgive her readily her good-natured meddling.
I have arrived at such a state of infatuation that this coupling of
our names rather gladdens than irritates me. Aniela too seemed to hear
it with pleasure. In her efforts to please the Sniatynskis and the
attentions she bestowed on them during dinner, she truly looked like a
young bride, who receives dear visitors for the first time in her new
home. At the sight of this my aunt's heart seemed to swell, and she
said many kind and polite things to both Sniatynskis. I noticed a
wonderful thing, which I should not believe had I not seen it with my
own eyes. Pani Sniatynska blushes up to her ears when anybody praises
her husband! To blush with pleasure when her husband is praised after
eight years of married life! Surely, I committed an egregious mistake
writing as I did about Polish women.

The dinner passed off very pleasantly. A married couple, like these
two, are born matchmakers. The very sight of them sets people
thinking: "If married life is like that, let us go and commit
matrimony." I at least saw it for the first time in a quite different
light,--not as the prose of life, a commonplace, more or less
skilfully disguised indifference, but as a thing to be desired.

Aniela evidently read our future in the same light; I saw it in her
eyes shining with happiness.

After dinner I remained in the dining-room with Sniatynski, who liked
a quiet talk over a glass of cognac after his coffee. The elder ladies
went to the drawing-room, and Aniela took Pani Sniatynska upstairs to
show her some photographs of Volhynia. I questioned Sniatynski about
his new play, the fate of which seemed to make him a little anxious.
Our conversation drifted on to those times when we both tried our
sprouting wings. He told me how afterwards, step by step, he had
worked his way upward; how he had been full of doubts, and still
doubted his power, in spite of having acquired a certain reputation.

"Tell me," I asked, "what do you do with your fame?"

"How do you mean what I do with my fame?"

"For instance, do you wear it as a crown on your head, or as a golden
fleece round your neck? do you put it over your writing-desk, or hang
it up in your drawing-room? I only ask as a man who has no idea what
to do with it if he once obtains it?"

"Let us suppose I have won it; the man must be deuced ill-bred
mentally either to wear the so-called fame as an ornament or to put it
up for show. I confess that at first it gratifies one's vanity; but
only a spiritual parvenu would find it sufficient to fill the whole
life, or take the place of real happiness. It is quite another thing
to be conscious you are doing good work; that the public appreciates
it, and that your work calls forth an echo in other minds,--a public
man has the right to feel pleased with that. But as to feeling
gratified when somebody, looking more or less foolish, comes up and
says: 'We are indebted to you for so much pleasure;' or, when a dinner
does not agree with me, our daily press remarks: 'We communicate
to our readers the sad news that our famous XX suffers from a
stomachache,'--pshaw! what do you take me for, that such a thing could
give me satisfaction?"

"Listen," I said, "I am not inordinately vain; but I confess that,
when people speak of my extraordinary talents, and regret that I make
not a better use of them, it flatters me; and though I feel more
than ever my uselessness, it gives me pleasure; humankind is fond of
approbation."

"That is because you pity yourself, and in that you are quite right.
But you are turning away from the question. I do not say that it would
give one pleasure to be called an ass."

"But the public esteem that goes hand in hand with fame?"

Sniatynski, who is very lively and always walks about the room,
sitting down on any table or chair, now sat on the window-sill, and
replied:--

"Public esteem? You are wrong there, old fellow; there is no such
thing. Ours is a strange society, dominated by a pure republican
jealousy. I write plays, work for the stage; very good. I have gained
a certain reputation; better still. Now, these plays excite the
jealousy,--of another playwright, you think? Not at all; it is the
engineer, the bank clerk, the teacher, the physician, the railway
official,--in short, people who never wrote a play in their
lives,--that envy you. All these in their intercourse will show that
they do not think much of you, will speak slightingly of you behind
your back, and belittle you on purpose, so as to add an inch or two to
their own height. 'Sniatynski? who is he? Yes, I remember; he dresses
at the same tailor as I.' Such is fame, my dear fellow."

"But if must be worth something, since people risk their lives for
it?"

Sniatynski grew thoughtful, and replied with a certain gravity:--

"In private life it is worth something; you can make a footstool of it
for the woman you love."

"You will gain a new fame by this definition."

Sniatynski rushed at me with lively impetuosity.

"Yes, yes; put all your laurels into a cushion, go to the dear one,
and say to her: 'This for which people risk their lives; this which
they consider supreme happiness, appreciate more than wealth,--I have
got it, striven for it; and now put your dear feet on it at once.' If
you do this, you will be loved all your life. You wanted to know what
fame is good for, and there you are."

Further discussions were cut short by the entrance of Pani Sniatynska
and Aniela. They were dressed for going out to the hot-houses. What an
imp of mischief lurks in that little woman. She came up to her husband
to ask his permission to go out, which he granted, insisting only that
she should wrap herself up warm; she turned to me and said with a
roguish smile,--

"You will let Aniela go, will you not?"

That Aniela should blush furiously was only natural, but that I,
an old stager, a razor sharpened against the strops of so many
experiences, should have betrayed so much confusion, I cannot forgive
myself. But, putting on a semblance of self-possession, I went up to
Aniela, and raising her hand to my lips, said:--

"It is Aniela who gives orders at Ploszow, and I am her humble
subject."

I should have liked to take Sniatynski with me and join the excursion,
but refrained. I felt a want to speak about Aniela, my future
marriage, and I knew that sooner or later Sniatynski himself would
broach the question. I gave him an opening after the ladies had left
us by saying:--

"And do you still believe as firmly as ever in your life-dogmas?"

"More than ever, or rather, the same as ever. There is no expression
more worn to tatters than the word 'love;' one scarcely likes to use
it; but between ourselves, I tell you; love in the general meaning,
love in the individual sense does not permit of criticism. It is one
of the canons of life. My philosophy consists in not philosophizing
about it at all,--and the deuce take me if for the matter of that, I
consider myself more foolish than other people. With love, life is
worth something; without, it is not worth a bag of chaff."

"Let us see what you have to say about individual love,--or better
still, put in its place woman."

"Very well, let it be woman."

"My good friend, do you not perceive on what brittle foundation you
are building human happiness?"

"On about as brittle a foundation as life,--no more nor less!"

I did not want to drift into a discussion of life and death, and
pulled Sniatynski up.

"For mercy's sake, do not generalize about individual happiness. You
chanced to find the right woman, another might not."

He would not even listen to that. According to his view, ninety out of
a hundred were successful. Women were better, purer, and nobler than
men.

"We are rascals all, in comparison with them!" he shouted, waving his
arms and snaking his leonine mane. "Nothing but rascals! It is I who
say it,--I, who study mankind closely, if only for the reason that I
am a playwright."

He was sitting astride on his chair, attacking me, as it were, with
the chairback, and went on with his usual impetuosity:--

"There are, as Dumas says, apes from the land of Nod, who know neither
curb nor bridle; but what are eyes given for but to see that you do
not take to wife an ape from Nod? Generally speaking a woman does not
betray her husband nor deceive him, unless he himself corrupts her
heart, tramples on her feelings, or repulses and estranges her by his
meanness, his selfishness, narrowness, and his miserable, worthless
nature. You must love her! Let her feel that she is not only your
female, but the crown of your head, as precious as your child and
friend; wear her close to your heart, let her feel the warmth of it,
and you may rest in peace; year after year she will cling closer to
you, until you two are like Siamese twins. If you do not give her all
that, you pervert her, estrange her by your worthlessness,--and she
will leave you. She will leave you as soon as she sees nobler hands
stretched out for her; she is forced to do it, as this warmth, this
appreciation, are as necessary to her life as the air she breathes."

He charged me with the chairback as with a battering ram. I retreated
before him until we had come close to the window; there he jumped up.

"How blind you are! In presence of such social drought, such utter
absence of general happiness as stamps our time, not to grasp this
felicity that is within reach! Shiver on the forum, and not light a
fire at home! Idiotism can go no farther! I tell you plainly, go and
get married."

He pointed through the window at Aniela, who with his wife was coming
back from the hot-houses, and added: "There is your happiness. There
it patters in fur boots on the frozen snow. Take her by weight of
gold, by weight in carats rather! You simply have no home, not only in
a physical sense, but in a moral, intellectual meaning; you have no
basis, no point of rest, and she will give you all that. But do not
philosophize her away as you have philosophized away your abilities
and your thirty-five years of life!"

He could not have told me anything better, nobler, or what chimed in
more with my own desires. I pressed his hands and replied:--

"No, I will not philosophize her away, because I love her."

Upon this the ladies entered, and Pani Sniatynska observed:--

"We heard some disputes when we were leaving, but I see peace is
restored. May I ask what you have been discussing?"

"Woman, madame," I said.

"And what was the result?"

"As you see, a treaty of peace sealed by a grasp of the hand, and
something further may come of it in the course of time."

The sledge was already waiting at the door. The short day was drawing
to its close, and they had to go back; but as the weather was calm,
and the snow on the drive as smooth as a parquetted floor, we
resolved, Aniela and I, to accompany them as far as the high-road.

And so we did. After having said good-by to our charming visitors, we
went slowly homeward. It was already dusk; in the dim light I could
still see Aniela's face. She seemed moved, perhaps had opened her
heart to Pani Sniatynska, and even now hoped for the long deferred
word. It was almost burning on my tongue; but, oh, wonder! I who never
yet had lost all my self-possession, I who was used to play upon
heartstrings, who at a fencing match of that kind, if not cleverly, at
least with perfect composure guarded myself against the most masterly
strokes, I was as deeply moved as a lad in his teens. What a
difference from former sentiments. I was afraid I could not find words
to express myself,--and remained silent.

Thus in silence we approached the veranda. The snow was slippery;
I offered her my arm, and when she leaned on it I felt how all my
desires were centred in her. The feeling grew so intense that it
thrilled my nerves like electric sparks. We entered the hall. There
was nobody there; not even the lamps were lit, the only light came in
fitful gleams from the open stoves. In this half-light and in silence
I began to relieve Aniela of her furs, when suddenly the warmth
emanating from her body seemed to enter into my veins; I put my arm
around her, and drawing her close to me I pressed my lips on her brow.

It was done almost unconsciously, and Aniela must have been greatly
startled, for she made not the slightest resistance. Presently a
footstep became audible; it was the servant with the lamps. She went
upstairs, and I, deeply moved, entered the dining-room.

To every man who is ever so little enterprising, similar events occur
in the course of life. I am no exception, but, as a rule, I always
kept the mastery over myself. Now it was different. Thoughts and
sensations whirled across my brain like leaves before a gale.
Fortunately the dining-room was empty; my aunt and Aniela's mother
were in the drawing-room, where I joined them after a while. My
thoughts were so far away that I scarcely heard what they were saying
to me. I felt restless. I seemed to see Aniela sitting in her room,
pressing her hands to her temples, trying to realize what it all
meant. Soon Aniela herself came down. I felt relieved, as I had feared
she might not come down again for the evening. She had two burning
spots on either side of her face, and eyes bright as if from recent
slumber. She had tried to cool her face with powder; I saw the traces
on her left temple. The sight of her moved me; I felt that I loved her
deeply.

Presently she stooped over some needlework. I saw that her breath came
and went irregularly, and once or twice I intercepted a quick glance
full of unsettled questions and trouble.

In order to set her mind at rest I thrust myself into the conversation
of the elder ladies, who were speaking about Sniatynski, and said:--

"Sniatynski considers me a kind of Hamlet, and says I philosophize too
much; but I am going to show him that he is mistaken, and that not
later than to-morrow."

I laid some stress on the "to-morrow," and Aniela caught the meaning,
for she gave me a long look; but my aunt, all unconscious, asked:--

"Are you going to see him to-morrow?"

"We ought to go and see his play, and if Aniela agrees we will all go
to-morrow."

The dear girl looked at me shyly but trustingly, and said, with
indescribable sweetness:--

"I will go with great pleasure."

There was a moment when I could scarcely contain myself, and felt
I ought to speak there and then; but I had said "to-morrow," and
refrained.

I feel like a man who shuts his eyes and ears before taking the final
plunge. But I really think it is a costly pearl I shall find at the
bottom of the deep.


CASA OSORIA, 6 March.

Yesterday I arrived at Rome. My father is not quite so bad as I
had feared. His left arm and the left side of his body are almost
paralyzed, but the doctor tells me his heart is not threatened, and
that he may live for years.


7 March.

I left Aniela in doubt, expectation, and suspense. But I could not do
otherwise. The day following the Sniatynskis' visit, the very day I
was going to ask Aniela to be my wife, I received a letter from my
father telling me about his illness.

"Make haste, dear boy," he wrote, "for I should like to see you before
I die, and I feel my bark very close to the shore."

After the receipt of such a letter I took the first train, and never
stopped until I reached Rome. When leaving Ploszow I had very little
hope to find my father alive. In vain my aunt tried to comfort me,
saying if things were so bad he would surely have sent a telegram
instead of a letter.

I know my father's little oddities, among which is a rooted dislike to
telegrams. But my aunt's composure was only put on, at the bottom she
felt as frightened as myself.

In the hurry, the sudden shock, and under the horror of my father's
likely death, I could not speak of love and marriage. It seemed
against nature, almost a brutal thing, to whisper words of love, not
knowing whether at the same time my father might not be breathing his
last. They all understood that, and especially Aniela.

"I will write to you from Rome," I said before starting; to which she
replied: "May God comfort you first."

She trusts me altogether. Rightly or wrongly, I have the reputation
of fickleness in regard to women, and Aniela must have heard remarks
about it; maybe it is for that very reason the dear girl shows such
unbounded confidence in me. I understand, and can almost hear the
pure soul saying: "They wrong you,--you are not fickle; and those who
accuse you of fickleness do not know what love means, and did not love
you as truly and deeply as I love you."

Perhaps I am a little fickle by nature, and this disposition,
developed under the influence of the barren, empty, worthless
sentiments I met with in the world,--this might have dried up my heart
and corrupted it altogether; in which case Aniela would have to pay
for the sins of others. But I believe the case is not hopeless, and
the blessed physician has not come too late. Who knows whether it be
ever too late, and that the pure, honest love of a woman does not
possess the power to raise the dead? Perhaps, too, the masculine heart
has a greater power of recuperation. There is a legend about the rose
of Jericho, which, though dry to the core, revives and brings forth
leaves when touched by a drop of dew. I have noticed that the male
nature has more elasticity than the female. A man steeped in such
utter corruption that half of its venom would cover the woman with
moral leprosy is able to throw off the contagion, and recover easily
not only his moral freshness, but even a certain virginity of heart.
It is the same with the affections. I have known women whose hearts
were so used up that they lost every capacity of loving, even of
respecting anything or anybody. I have never known men like that.
Decidedly, love cleanses our hearts. Definitions like these sound
strange from a sceptic's pen; but in the first place I have no more
belief in my doubts than I have in any other kind of assertions,
axioms, and observations which serve general humanity as a basis of
life. I am ready to admit at any moment that my doubts are as far
removed from the essence of things as are these axioms. Secondly, I
am writing now under the influence of my love for Aniela, who, maybe,
does not know herself how wisely she is acting, and how by that very
trust in me she has secured a powerful hold on my affections. Lastly,
whenever I speak of love, or any other principle of life, I speak and
write of it as it appears to me in the present. What my opinion about
it will be to-morrow, I do not know. Ah, if I but knew that whatever
view I take or principle I confess would withstand the blasting
scepticism of to-morrow or the days following, I would make it my
canon of life, and float along with sails unfurled, like Sniatynski,
in the light, instead of groping my way in darkness and solitude.

But I do not intend to go back now to my inner tragedy. As to love in
general, from the standpoint of a sceptic in regard to the world and
its manifestations, I might say with Solomon, "Vanitas vanitatum;"
but I should be utterly blind did I not perceive that of all active
principles this is the most powerful,--so powerful indeed that
whenever I think of it or my eyes roam over the everlasting ocean
of all-life, I am simply struck with amazement at its almightiness.
Though these are known things, as much known as the rising of the sun
and the tides of the ocean, nevertheless they are always wonderful.

After Empedocles, who divined that Eros evolved the worlds from Chaos,
metaphysics have not advanced one step. Only death is a power equally
absolute; yet in the eternal struggle between the two, love is the
stronger; love conquers death by night and day, conquers it every
spring, follows death step by step, throwing fresh grain into the gulf
it creates. People occupied with every-day affairs forget or do not
wish to remember that they are love's servants. It is strange when we
come to think of it that the warrior, the chancellor of state, the
cultivator of the soil, the merchant, the banker, in all their
efforts, which apparently have nothing to do with love, are merely
furthering its ends; that is, they serve the law of nature which bids
the man to stretch out his arms for the woman. A mad paradox it would
seem to a Bismarck if he were told that the final and only aim of all
his endeavors is to further the love of Hermann and Dorothea. It seems
even to me a paradox; and yet Bismarck's aim is the consolidation of
the German empire, and this can be achieved only through Hermann and
Dorothea. What else, then, has a Bismarck to do but to create by
the help of politics and bayonets such conditions that Hermann and
Dorothea may love each other in peace, unite in happiness, and bring
up new generations?

When at the university I read an Arabian ghazel in which the poet
compares the power of love to that of infernal torments. I forget the
name of the poet, but the idea remained in my memory. Truly, love is
the one power that lasts for all times, holds the world together, and
creates new worlds.


10 March.

To-day I tore up three or four letters to Aniela. After dinner, I went
into my father's room to talk with him about my aunt's plans. I found
him looking through a lens at some epilichnions with the earth still
adhering to them, he had received from the Peloponnesus. How splendid
he looked in that light coming through stained windows in the large
room full of Etruscan vases, statues more or less mutilated, and all
kinds of Greek and Roman treasures. Among these surroundings his face
reminded me of a divine Plato or of some other Greek sage. When I
entered he interrupted his work, listened attentively to what I had to
say, and then asked, "Do you hesitate?"

"No, I do not hesitate, but I am reflecting. I want to know why I want
it."

"Then I will tell you this; I was once like you, inclined to analyze
not only my own feelings but all manifestations of life. When I came
to know your mother I lost that faculty at once. I knew one thing
only, that I wanted her, and did not care to know anything else.
Therefore if you have a like powerful desire, marry. I express myself
wrongly, for if you wish it very much you will do it without anybody's
help or advice, and be as happy as I was until your mother died."

We remained silent for some time. If I were to apply my father's words
closely to my own case, I should feel small comfort. I love Aniela,
there is no doubt; but I have not arrived yet at a state that
precludes all reflection. But I do not consider this as a bad sign;
it simply means that I belong to a generation that has gone a step
farther on the way to knowledge.

There are always two persons within me,--the actor, and the spectator.
Often the spectator is dissatisfied with the actor, but at present
they both agree.

My father was the first to interrupt the silence.

"Tell me what she is like."

Since a description is an unsatisfactory way of painting a portrait, I
showed my father a large and really excellent photograph of Aniela, at
which he looked with the keenest interest. I was no less interested in
the study of his face, in which I saw not only the roused artist,
but also the refined connoisseur of female beauty, the old Leon
_l'Invincible_. Resting the photograph on the poor hand half
paralyzed, he put on his eyeglass with the right, and then holding the
likeness at a longer or shorter distance he began to say: "But for
certain details, the face is like one of those Ary-Schaeffer liked to
paint. How lovely she would look with tears in her eyes. Some people
dislike angelic faces in women, but I think that to teach an angel
how to become a woman is the very height of victory. She is very
beautiful, very uncommon looking. 'Enfin, tout ce qu'il y a de plus
beau au monde--c'est la femme.'"

Here he fumbled with his eyeglass, and then added: "Judging by the
face, or rather by the photograph (sometimes one makes mistakes, but I
have had some practice), hers is a thoroughly loyal nature. Women of
this type are in love with the whiteness of their plumage. God bless
you, my boy! I like her very much, this Aniela of yours. I used to be
afraid you might end by marrying a foreigner--let it be Aniela."

I came up close to him and he put his arm round my neck.

"I should like to see my future daughter before I die."

I assured him that he would certainly see her shortly. Then I unfolded
my plans of bringing Aniela and her mother over to Rome. After a
betrothal by letter I might expect as much, and the ladies would not
refuse, if only out of consideration for my father. In this case the
marriage ceremony would take place at Rome, and that very soon.

My father was delighted with the plan; old and sick people like to see
around them life and motion. I knew that Aniela would be pleased with
this turn of affairs, and let my thoughts dwell upon it with more and
more pleasure. Within a few weeks everything would be settled. Such
quick decision would be against my nature, but the very idea that I
could exert myself if I wished raised my spirits. I already saw myself
escorting Aniela about Rome. Only those who live there understand
what a delight it is to show to anybody the endless treasures of that
city,--a much greater delight when the somebody is the beloved woman.

Our conversation was interrupted by a visit from Mr. and Mrs. Davis,
who come every day to see my father. He is an English Jew, and she
an Italian nobleman's daughter who married him for the sake of his
wealth. Mr. Davis himself is a valetudinarian, who took out of his
life twice as much as his poor organization could bear. He is ill,
threatened with softening of the brain, indifferent to everything that
goes on around him,--one of those specimens of mankind one meets at
hydropathic establishments. Mrs. Davis looks like a Juno; her eyebrows
meet on her forehead, and she has the figure of a Greek statue. I do
not like her; she reminds me of the leaning tower at Pisa,--leans but
does not fall. A year ago I paid her some attentions; she flirted with
me outrageously, that was all. My father has a singular weakness for
her; I thought at times he was in love with her. At any rate, he
admires her from a thinker and artist's point of view; for beautiful
she is,--there can be no two opinions as to that,--and of more than
average intelligence. Their conversations, which my father calls
"causeries Romaines," are endless, and they never seem to get tired of
them; maybe these discussions about life's problems with a beautiful
woman appear Italian to him, poetical, and worthy of the times of the
Renaissance. I very seldom take part in these conversations because
I do not believe in Mrs. Davis' sincerity. It seems to me that her
intellect is merely a matter of brain, and not of soul, and that in
reality she does not care for anything except her beauty and the
comforts of life. I have often met women who seem full of lofty
aspiration; upon closer acquaintance it seems that religion,
philosophy, art, and literature, are only so many items of their
toilet. They dress themselves in either as it suits their style of
beauty. I suppose it is the same with Mrs. Davis; she drapes herself
in problems of life, sometimes in Greek and Roman antiquities, in the
Divina Commedia, or the Renaissance, the churches, museums, and so
forth. I can understand a powerful intellectual organism making itself
the centre of the universe; but in a woman, and one who is bent upon
futile things, it is mere laughable egoism and vanity.

I ask myself what makes Mrs. Davis so fond of my father; and I fancy
I know the reason. My father, with his fine head of a patrician
philosopher, and his manners reminding one of the eighteenth
century, is for her a kind of _objet d'art_, and still more, a grand
intelligent mirror, in which she can admire her own beauty and
cleverness; besides, she feels grateful that he never criticises her,
and likes her very much. Upon this basis has sprung up a friendship,
or rather a kind of affection for my father which gradually has become
a necessity of her life. Moreover, Mrs. Davis has the reputation of a
coquette, and coming here to see my father every day, she says to
the world: "It is not true; this old man is seventy, and nobody can
suspect me of flirting with him, and yet I show him more attentions
than to any one else." Finally, though she herself comes from an old
family, Mr. Davis, in spite of his wealth, is a mere nobody, and their
friendship with my father strengthens their position in society. There
was a time when I asked myself whether these daily visits were not
partly for my sake--and who knows? At any rate, it is not my qualities
which attract her, nor any real feeling on her part. But she feels
that I do not believe in her, and this irritates her. I should not
wonder if she hated me, and yet would like to see me at her feet. I
might have been, for she is a splendid specimen of the human species;
I would have been, if only for the sake of the meeting eyebrows and
the Juno shoulders,--but at a price she does not feel inclined to pay.

Soon after the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Davis my father began a
philosophical discussion, which, going from one question to another,
concluded with an analysis of human feelings. Mrs. Davis made
several very shrewd remarks. From the studio we went to the terrace
overlooking our gardens. It is only the tenth of March, and here
spring is at its best. This year everything is much advanced,--fierce
heat in the daytime, the magnolias covered with snow-white blossoms,
and the nights as warm as in July. What a different world from that of
Ploszow. I breathe here with all my lungs.

Mrs. Davis on the terrace with the moon shining upon her was
beautiful as a Greek dream. I saw she was under the influence of that
indescribable Roman night. Her voice was softer, even, and more mellow
than usual. Perhaps even now she only thinks of herself, is impressed
because it is herself who feels it, dresses herself in moonbeams,
restfulness, and magnolia scent as in a new shawl or bonnet. But all
the same the dress suits her splendidly. Were it not that my heart is
full of Aniela, I should fall under the spell of the picture. Besides
this, she said things which not many could have conceived.

All the same, whenever I am present at these _causeries Romaines_
I have always a feeling that my father, I, such as Mrs. Davis, and
generally speaking, all the people of the so-called upper classes do
not live a true, real life. Below us something is always going
on, something always happens; there is the struggle for life, for
bread,--a life full of diligent work, animal necessities, appetites,
passions, every-day efforts,--a palpable life, which roars, leaps, and
tumbles like ocean waves; and we are sitting eternally on terraces,
discussing art, literature, love, woman, strangers to that other
life far removed from it, obliterating, out of the seven, the six
work-days. Without being conscious of it, our inclinations,
nerves, and soul are fit only for holidays. Immersed into blissful
dilettantism as in a warm bath, we are half awake, half dreaming.
Consuming leisurely our wealth, and our inherited supply of nerves and
muscles, we gradually lose our foothold upon the soil. We are as the
down, carried away by the wind. Scarcely do we touch ground, when the
real life pushes us back, and we draw aside; for we have no power of
resistance.

When I think of it I see nothing but contradictions in us. We consider
ourselves the outcome and highest rung of civilization, and yet have
lost faith in ourselves; only the most foolish believe in our _raison
d'être._ We look out instinctively for places of enjoyment, gayety,
and happiness, and yet we do not believe in happiness. Though our
pessimism be wan and ephemeral as the clouds from our Havanas, it
obscures our view of wider horizons. Amidst these clouds and mists
we create for ourselves a separate world, a world torn off from the
immensity of all life, shut up within itself, a little empty and
somnolent. If this merely concerned the aristocracy, whether by
descent or wealth, the portent would be less weighty. But to this
isolated world belong more or less all those who boast of a higher
culture,--men of science, literature, and art. This world does not
dwell within the very marrow of life, but parting from it creates a
separate circle; in consequence withers within itself and does not
help in softening down the animalism of those millions which writhe
and surge below.

I do not speak as a reformer, because I lack the strength. Besides,
what matters it to me? Who can avoid the inevitable? But at times I
have the dim presentiment of a terrible danger which threatens the
cultured world. The great wave which will wash us from off the surface
of the earth will carry off more than that one which washed away
hairpowder and shirtfrills. It is true that to those who perished then
it seemed that with them the whole civilization was perishing.

In the mean while it is pleasant to sit on moonlit terraces and talk
in subdued tones about art, love, and woman, and look at the divine
profile of such a woman as Mrs. Davis.


10 March.

Mountains, towers, rocks, the further they recede from our view,
appear as a mere outline through a veil of blue haze. There is a kind
of psychical blue haze that enfolds those who are removed from us.
Death itself is a removal, but the chasm is so wide that the beloved
ones who have crossed it disappear within the haze and become as
beloved shadows. The Greek genius understood this when he peopled the
Elysian fields with shadows.

But I will not enlarge upon these mournful comparisons, especially
when I want to write about Aniela. I am quite certain my feelings
towards her have not changed, but I seem to see her a long distance
off, shrouded in a blue haze and less real than at Ploszow. I do not
feel her through my senses. When I compare my present feelings with
those I had at Ploszow, she is more of a beloved spirit than a desired
woman. From a certain point of view it is better, as a desired woman
might be even such a woman as Mrs. Davis; but on the other hand this
is not one of the reasons that have prevented me from writing to
Aniela. Doubtless that profile of Mrs. Davis which I still see before
me is a mere passing impression. When I compare these two women my
feeling for the other becomes very tender; and yet I leave her in
cruel suspense and uncertainty.

To-day my father wrote to my aunt, setting her mind at rest as to his
health, and I added a postscript from myself, sending kind regards
to Aniela and her mother. I could not say much in a few lines, but I
might have promised them a longer letter. Such a promise would have
comforted Aniela and the elder ladies. I did not do it because I could
not. To-day my spirits are at a very low ebb. My wish for another
life, and my trust in the future have retreated into the farthest
distance; I can see them no more, see only the barren, sandy
wilderness. I cannot get rid of the idea that I can only marry Aniela
if I can conscientiously believe that our union would lead to mutual
happiness. I cannot represent it otherwise to Aniela without uttering
a lie; for I have none of that belief, and instead of it an utter
hopelessness almost a dislike of life. She is ill at ease with longing
and uncertainty, but I am worse, all the more so because I love her.


11 March.

Mrs. Davis, to whom, during our _causerie_ on the moonlit terrace, I
unfolded my view as to the all-powerfulness of love, more or less as I
have written it down, called me Anacreon, and advised me to crown my
head with vine leaves, and then said more soberly, "If such be your
opinions, why play the part of pessimist? Belief in such a deity ought
to make any man happy."

Why? I did not tell her, but I know why. Love conquers death, but
saves from it only the species. What matters it to me that the species
be preserved, when I, the individual, am sentenced to a merciless,
unavoidable death? Is it not rather a refined cruelty that the very
affections, which can be felt only by the individual, should serve the
future of the species only? To feel the throbbing of an eternal power,
and yet to die,--that is the height of misery. In reality there
exists only the individual; the species is an abstract idea, and in
comparison to the individual, an utter Nirvana. I understand the love
for a son, a grandson, a great grandson,--for the individual, in fact,
that is sentenced to perish,--but to profess love for one's species
one needs be insincere, or a fanatical sectarian. I can understand now
how centuries after Empedocles there came Schopenhauer and Hartmann.

My brain feels as sore as the back of the laborer who carries burdens
beyond his strength. But the laborer stooping to his work earns his
daily bread and is at peace.

I still seem to hear Sniatynski's words: "Do not philosophize
her away, as you have philosophized away your abilities and your
thirty-five years of life." I know it leads to nothing, I know it is
wrong, but I do not know how not to think.


13 March.

My father died this morning. He was ill only a few hours.


PELI, VILLA LAURA, 22 March.

Death is such a gulf, and though we know that all have to go thither,
yet when it swallows up one of our dear ones, we who remain on the
brink are torn with fear, sorrow, and despair. On that brink all
reasoning leaves us, and we only cry out for help which cannot come
from anywhere. The only solace and comfort lies in faith, but he who
is deprived of that light gets well-nigh maddened by the impenetrable
darkness. Ten times a day it seems to me impossible, too horrible,
that death should be the end of everything,--and then again, a dozen
times I feel that such is the case.


23 March.

When I arrived from Ploszow I found my father so much better that it
never even entered my mind that the end could be so near. What strange
twists there are in the human mind. God knows how sincerely I rejoiced
when I found my father so much better than I had thought, and yet
because throughout that anxious journey I had fancied him sick unto
death, and already saw myself kneeling at his coffin, I was sorry
for my wasted anxieties. Now the memory of this fills me with keen
remorse.

How thoroughly unhappy is the individual whose heart and soul have
lost their simplicity. Thus not less bitter, not less of a reproach is
the remembrance that at my father's deathbed there were two persons in
me: one of them the son full of anguish, who gnawed his hands to keep
back his sobs; the other the philosopher, who studied the psychology
of death. I am unutterably unhappy because my nature is an unhappy
one.

My father died with full consciousness. Saturday evening he felt a
little worse. I sent for the doctor, that he might be at hand in case
we should want him. The doctor prescribed some physic, and my father,
according to his habit, disputed the point, demonstrating that the
physic would bring on a stroke. The doctor calmed my fears, and said
though there was always fear of another stroke, he saw no immediate
danger, and that my father most likely would live for many years to
come. He repeated the same to the patient, who, hearing of the many
years to come, incredulously shook his head and said: "We will see."
As he has always been in the habit of contradicting his doctors, and
proving to them that they know nothing, I did not take his words
seriously. Towards ten at night, when taking his tea, he suddenly rose
and called out:--

"Leon, come here, quick!"

A quarter of an hour later he was in his bed, and within an hour he
was dying.


24 March.

I am convinced that people preserve their idiosyncracies and
originality to the last minute of their life. Thus my father, in the
solemn dignity of thoughts at the approaching end, still showed a
gratified vanity that he, and not the doctor, had been right, and that
his unbelief in medicine was well founded. I listened to what he said,
and besides, read his thoughts in his face. He was deeply impressed
with the importance of the moment; there was also curiosity as to the
future life,--not a shadow of doubt as to its existence, but rather a
certain uneasiness about how he would be received, joined to an almost
unconscious, unsophisticated belief that he would not be treated as a
mere nobody in particular. I shall never die like this, because I have
no basis to uphold me in the hour of death. My father parted with his
life in absolute faith and the deep contrition of a true Christian. At
the moment when he received the last sacraments he was so venerable,
so purely saintly, that his image will remain with me always.

How futile, how miserable, appears to me my scepticism in presence of
that immense power of faith that, stronger even than love, triumphs
over death at the very moment when it extinguishes life. After having
received the last sacraments, a great tenderness took possession of
him. He grasped my hand strongly, almost convulsively, and did not let
it go again, as if through me he wanted to hold fast to life. And yet
it was neither fear nor despair that moved him, he was not in the
least afraid. Presently I saw the eyes riveted upon my face grow dim
and fixed, his forehead became moist, as if covered by a gentle dew;
he opened his mouth several times as if to catch his breath,--sighed
deeply once more,--and died.

I was not present at the embalming of the body,--I had not the
strength; but after that I did not leave the dear remains for a
minute, out of fear they might treat him as a thing of no consequence.
How truly awful are those last rites of death,--the whole funereal
paraphernalia, the candles, the misericordia, with the covered faces
of the singers. It still clings to my ears, the "Anima ejus," and
"Requiem aeternam." There breathes from it all the gloomy, awful
spirit of Death. We carried the remains to Santa Maria Maggiore, and
there I looked for the last time at the dear, grand face. The Campo
Santo looks already like a green isle. Spring is very early this
year. The trees are in bloom and the white marble monuments bathed in
sunshine. What an awful contrast, the young, nascent life, the budding
trees, the birds in full song,--and a funeral. Crowds of people filled
the cemetery, for my father was known for his benevolence in Rome as
much as my aunt is at Warsaw. All these people so full of life, as
if reflecting the joys of spring, jarred upon my feelings. Crowds,
especially in Italy, consider everything as a spectacle got up
for their special benefit, and even now their faces betrayed more
curiosity to see a grand funeral than any sympathy. Human selfishness
knows no limit, and I am convinced that even people morally and
intellectually educated, when following a funeral, feel a kind of
unconscious satisfaction that this has happened to somebody else, and
it is not they who are to be interred.

My aunt arrived, as I had summoned her by telegram. She, from the
standpoint of faith, looks upon death as a change essentially for the
better; therefore received the blow with far more calmness than I.
This did not prevent her from, shedding bitter tears at her brother's
coffin.

Afterwards she spoke to me long and tenderly,--a conversation full
of exceeding goodness, I took much amiss at the time, for which I am
sorry now. She did not mention Aniela's name,--spoke only of my future
loneliness, and insisted upon my coming to Ploszow; where, surrounded
by tender hearts, especially the one old heart which loved me beyond
everything on earth, I would feel less sad. I saw in all this only
her desire to continue her matchmaking; and in presence of my recent
bereavement this seemed to me improper, and irritated me very much. I
felt not inclined to think of the life before me, nor of love-speeches
or weddings, with the shadow of death across my path. I refused
peremptorily, even curtly; told my aunt I was going away,--most likely
to Corfu, then would come back to Rome in order to arrange my father's
affairs, and after that would come to Ploszow.

She did not insist upon having her own way. Feeling deeply for me, she
was even more gentle than usual, and left Rome three days after the
funeral. I did not go to Corfu; instead of that, Mr. and Mrs. Davis
carried me off to their villa at Peli, where I have been now for
several days. Whether Mrs. Davis is sincere or not I do not know, and
will not even enter upon that now; I know only that no sister could
have shown more sympathy and solicitude. With a nature poisoned by
scepticism, I am always prone to suspect and misjudge those around me;
but if it should be proved that I misjudged this woman, I should feel
truly guilty,--because her goodness to me is quite extraordinary.


26 March.

My windows look out upon the vast blueness of the Mediterranean,
encompassed by bands of a darker blue on the far horizon. Close to the
villa, the crisped waves glitter like fiery scales; in the distance,
the sea is glassy and still, as if lulled to sleep in its blue veil.
White lateen sails flash in the sun, and once a day a steamer from
Marseilles for Genoa passes hence, dragging in her wake woolly coils
of smoke that hang over the sea like a dark cloud, until it
gradually dissolves and disappears. The restfulness of the place is
indescribable. Thoughts dissolve like yonder black cloud between the
blue sky and azure sea, and life is a blissful vegetation.

I felt very tired yesterday, but to-day I inhale with eager lungs the
fresh sea-breezes, that leave a salty taste on my lips. Say what they
like, the Riviera is one of the gems of God's creation. I fancy to
myself how the wind whistles at Ploszow; the sudden changes from mild
spring weather to wintry blasts; the darkness, sleet, and hail, with
intermittent gleams of sunshine. Here the sky is transparent and
serene; the soft breeze which even now caresses my face comes through
the open window together with the scent of heliotropes, roses, and
mignonette. It is the enchanted land, where the orange blossoms, and
also an enchanted palace; because everything that millions can buy,
combined with the exquisite taste of Mrs. Davis, is to be found in
this villa. I am surrounded by masterworks of art,--statues, pictures,
matchless specimens of ceramics, chased works by Benvenuto. Eyes
feast on nature, feast on art, and do not know where to dwell
longest,--unless it be on the splendid pagan, the mistress of all
these splendors, and whose only religion is beauty.

But is it quite just to call her a pagan? because, I say again,
whether sincere or not, she shares my sorrows and tries to soothe
them. We talk for hours about my father, and I have often seen tears
in her eyes. Since she found out that music acts soothingly upon my
mind, she plays for hours, and often until late at night. Sometimes
I sit in my room in the dark, look absently at the sea riddled by a
silver network, and listen to the sounds of her music mingling with
the splashing of the waves. I listen until I feel half distracted,
half sleepy,--until in sleep I forget the real life, with all its
sorrows.


29 March.

I do not even feel inclined to write every day. We are reading
together the Divina Commedia,--or rather, its last part. There was
a time when I felt more attracted by the awful plasticity of the
Inferno. Now I like to plunge into the luminous mist, peopled with
still more luminous spirits, of the Dantesque heaven. At times it
seems as if amid all that radiance I see the dear, familiar features,
and my sorrow becomes almost sweet to me. I never before understood
the exceeding beauty of heaven. Never has human mind taken such a
lofty flight, encompassed such greatness, or borrowed such a slice
from infinity as in this sublime, immortal poem. The day before
yesterday and the two days following, we read it together in the boat.
We usually go out a long distance, and when the sea is quite still I
furl the sail; and we read, rocked by the waves,--or rather, she reads
and I listen. Surrounded by the glories of the sunset, far from the
shore, with the most beautiful woman reading to me Dante, I was under
a delusion, that I had been transferred to another world.


30 March.

At times the sorrow that seemed to be lulled to sleep wakes up with
renewed force. I feel then as if I wanted to fly hence.


VILLA LAURA, 31 March.

To-day I thought a great deal about Aniela. I have a strange feeling,
as if lands and seas divided us. It seems to me as if Ploszow were a
Hyperborean island somewhere at the confines of the world. We have
delusions of that kind when personal impression takes the place of
tangible reality. It is not Aniela who is far from me, it is I who go
farther and farther away from the Leon whose heart and thoughts were
once so full of her. This does not mean that my feelings for her have
vanished. By close analysis I find they have only changed in their
active character. Some weeks ago, I loved her and wanted something; I
love her still, but want nothing. My father's death has scattered the
concentration of the feelings. It would be the same, for instance, had
I begun some literary work, and some unfortunate accident interrupted
the even flow of my thoughts. But that is not all. Not long ago, all
the faculties of my mind were strung to their highest pitch; now,
under the influence of a heavy sorrow, a soft atmosphere, and the
gently rocking sea, they have relaxed. I live, as I said before, the
life of a plant; I rest as one rests after a long fatigue, and as if
immersed in a warm bath. Never did I feel less inclined to any kind of
exertion; the very thought of it gives me pain. If I had to choose a
watchword, it would be, "Do not wake me." What will happen when I wake
up, I do not know. I am sad now, but not unhappy; therefore I do not
want to wake up, and do not consider it my duty. It is even difficult
to me to recall the image of the Ploszowski who fancied himself bound
to Aniela. Bound,--why? by what reason? What has happened between us?

A slight, almost imperceptible kiss on the forehead,--a caress which,
among near relations, can be put down to brotherly affection. These
are ridiculous scruples. I have broken ties far different from these
without the slightest twinge of conscience. Were she not a relation,
it would be a different matter. It is true, she understood it in a
different way, and so did I at the time,--but let it pass. One prick
of conscience more or less, what does it matter? We do worse things
continually, to which the disappointment I caused Aniela is mere
childishness. Conscience that can occupy itself with such peccadilloes
must have nothing else to do. There is about the same proportion of
such kinds of crime to real ones as our conversations on the terrace
to real life.

Upon the whole, I do foresee what will happen; but I want to be left
in peace at present and not think of anything. "Do not wake me."
To-day it was determined that we ought to leave Peli as soon as the
hot weather sets in,--perhaps in the middle of April,--and go to
Switzerland. Even that terrifies me. I fancy Mrs. Davis will have to
place her husband under restraint; he shows symptoms of insanity. He
says not a word for whole days, but sits staring either at the floor
or at his finger-nails; he is afraid they will come off. These are
with him the consequences of a wild life and narcotics.

I leave off writing as it is our time for sailing.


2 April.

Yesterday there was a thunderstorm. A strong southern wind drove the
clouds along as a herd of wild horses. It pulled and tore, chased
and scattered them, then got them under and threw them with a mighty
effort upon the sea, which darkened instantly as man in wrath, and
began in its turn to send its foam aloft,--a veritable battle of two
furies, which, battering each other, produce thunder and lightning
flashes. But all this lasted only a short time. We did not go out to
sea, as the waves were too rough. Instead of it we looked at the storm
from the glazed balcony, and sometimes looked at each other. It is no
use deluding myself any longer; there is something going on between
us,--a subtle change in our relations to each other. Neither of us has
said a word or overstepped the boundary line of friendship; neither
has confessed to anything, and yet speaking to each other we feel that
our words serve only to disguise our thoughts. It is the same when we
are in the boat, reading together, or when I listen to her music.
All our acts seem mere shadows,--an outward form that hides the real
essence of things, with its face still veiled, but following us
wherever we go. Neither of us has given it a name; but we both feel
its presence. Manifestations like these take place probably every time
man and woman begin to influence each other. I could not tell
exactly when it began; but I confess it did not come upon me quite
unexpectedly.

I accepted their hospitality because Mrs. Davis was my father's
friend; and it was she who, after his death, showed me more sympathy
than any one else in Rome. I have so much consciousness of self, am so
able to divide myself, that soon after my arrival here, in spite of
my heavy sorrow I had the presentiment that our mutual relation would
undergo a change. I hated myself that so soon after my father's death
I should harbor thoughts like these; but they were there. I find now
that my presentiments were right. If I said that the changed relation
has still its face veiled, I meant to say that I do not know exactly
when the veil will be torn asunder, and I am under the spell of
expectation. I should be unsophisticated indeed, if I supposed she
were less conscious of all this than I. She is probably more so.
Most likely she is guiding all these changes; and everything that is
happening happens according to her wishes and cool reflection. Diana
the Huntress is spreading her net for the game! But what does it
matter to me? what is there for me to lose? As nearly every man, I am
that kind of game which allows itself to be hunted for the purpose of
turning at a given moment against the hunter. In such circumstances
we all have energy enough. In a hand-to-hand fight, like this, the
victory rests always with us. I know perfectly well that Mrs. Davis
does not love me, any more than I love her. We simply react upon each
other through our pagan nature, our sensuous and artistic instincts.

With her it is also a question of vanity,--the worse for her, as it
may lead her whither love leads. I shall not go too far. In my feeling
for her there is neither affection nor tenderness,--nothing but
rapture at the sight of nature's masterwork, and the attraction
natural in a man when that masterwork is a woman. My father said that
the height of victory would be to change an angel into a woman; I
maintain that it is no less a triumph to feel around one's neck the
arms, palpitating with life, of a Florentine Venus.

As far as beauty goes she is the highest expression of whatever the
most exalted imagination is able to conceive. She is a Phryne. It
would turn most men's heads to see her in a tight-fitting riding-habit
that shows the outline of her figure as beautiful as that of a statue.
In the boat, reading Dante, she looked like a Sybil, and one could
understand a Nero's sacrilegious passion. Hers is an almost baleful
beauty. Only the joining eyebrows make her appear a woman of our
times, and this makes her all the more irritating. She has a certain
habit of pushing back her hair by putting both hands at the back of
her head; then her shoulders are raised; the whole shape acquires a
certain curve, and the breast stands firmly out,--and one feels a
desire to carry her off in one's arms from everybody's eyes.

In each of us there is a hidden Satyr. As to myself, as I said
already, I am highly impressionable; therefore, when I think of it,
that there is something going on between me and this live statue of
a Juno, that some mysterious power pushes us towards each other,--my
head is in a whirl, and I ask myself what would I wish for more
perfect than this.


3 April.

As much as ever woman can show kindness and sympathy to a friend
in trouble, she has shown to me. And yet, strange to say, all this
kindness has upon me the effect of moonlight,--radiance without
warmth; she possesses perfection of form, but there is no soul; with
her all is premeditation, but not nature. There speaks again the
sceptic; but I shall never be so intoxicated as to lose my capacity
of observation. If this divinity were kind, she would be kind to
everybody. Thus, for instance, the way she treats her husband is
enough to destroy any illusion as to her heart. The unfortunate Davis
is such a bloodless creature that he feels chilly in the hottest
sunshine, and oh! so chilly at her side. I never noticed in her the
slightest sign of compassion for his misery. He simply does not exist,
for her. This millionnaire, in the midst of all his wealth, is so poor
that it would rouse any one's pity. He is apparently indifferent
to everything; and yet the human being, with ever so little
consciousness, feels kindness. The best proof of it is that Davis
feels grateful to me because I speak to him now and then about his
health.

Perhaps it is the instinctive attraction of the weaker towards the
stronger organism. When I look at that face as white as chalk, no
bigger than my fist, those feet like walking-sticks, and that shrunken
figure, wrapped up in a plaid during the hottest of weathers, I am
truly sorry for him. But I will not make myself out better than I am.
I may pity the man; but compassion will not stand in my way. It has
often struck me that, when woman is in question, man becomes pitiless;
it is still a remnant of the animal instinct that fights to the
uttermost for the female. In such a fight between human beings,
whatever shape it takes, the weaker goes to the wall. Even honor is no
curb; it is only religion that condemns it absolutely.


12 April.

I have not written for nearly ten days. The veil was rent a week ago.
I always suspected the sea would help us to an understanding. Women
like Laura never forget the fitting background. If they do charitable
deeds because it enhances their beauty, the more they want beauty when
they fall. Joined to this is their passion for anything out of the
common, which does not spring from the poetical faculties of their
mind, but from a desire to adorn themselves. I have not so lost my
head as not to be able to judge Laura, though really I do not know
whether she has not the right to be what she is, and to think the sun
and stars are made on purpose for her adornment. Absolute beauty,
in the nature of things, must be essentially egotistic, and subject
everything to its rule. Laura is the very incarnation of beauty, and
nobody has the right to ask anything else from her than to be always
and everywhere beautiful; at least, I do not ask for more.

Thanks to my skill in seamanship, we can be alone on our excursions.
A week ago, on a sultry day, Laura expressed a wish to go out in the
boat. Like a Hecate, she exults in heat. A gentle breeze drove us a
long distance from the shore, and then the wind fell. The lateen sail
hung motionless from the mast. The rays of the sun, reflected from the
glassy surface of the water, increased the heat, although it was late
in the afternoon. Laura threw herself on the Indian matting, and
resting her head against the cushions, remained motionless, all in
a red glow, from the sun filtering through the awning. A strange
laziness had taken possession of me, and at the same time the sight
of this woman with her Greek form that showed through the clinging
drapery sent a thrill of admiration through my veins. Her eyes were
veiled, the lips slightly parted; her whole presence expressed
powerlessness, and seemed to say, "I am weak."

We came back late to the villa, and the return will remain for a long
time in my memory. After a sunset in which sky and earth seemed to be
wedded in a splendor without limit and without division, there came a
night of such beauty as I had never seen on the Riviera. From the vast
deep rose the immense red orb of the moon, which filled the air with a
mellow light, and at the same time made a broad, luminous path on the
sea, on which we glided towards the shore. There was a gentle swell on
the water, like a heaving sigh. From the little harbor the voices
of the Ligurian fishermen, singing a chorus, came up to us. A light
breeze from the shore wafted towards us the scent of orange-blossoms.
Although not prone to let myself be carried away by my sensations, I
was under the spell of this unutterable sweetness that floated over
land and sea, and clung like dew to soul and body.

From time to time my eyes rested upon the Helen-like woman whose white
draperies glistened in the moonlight, and I fancied myself living in
ancient Greece, and that we were floating somewhere, maybe towards the
sacred olive groves where the Eleusinian mysteries were enacted. Our
rapture did not seem any more a rapture of the senses, but a cult, a
mystic alliance with that night, that spring, and all nature.


15 April.

The time fixed for our departure has arrived, but we do not depart. My
Hecate does not fear the sun, Mr. Davis likes it, and as far as I am
concerned, whether here or in Switzerland is a matter of indifference.

A strange thought has taken hold of me; I almost shrink from it, but
nevertheless will confess: It seems to me that a Christian soul,
though the spring of faith be dried up therein, cannot live altogether
on the mere beauty of form. This means more sorrow in store for me;
if the thought proves true the whole basis of my life falls to the
ground. We are beings of a different culture. Our souls are full of
Gothic arches, pinnacles, twisted traceries we cannot shake off, and
of which Greek minds knew nothing. Our minds shoot upward; theirs,
full of repose and simplicity, rested nearer the earth. Those of us in
whom the spirit of Hellas beats more powerfully consider the beautiful
a necessity of life, and search after it eagerly, but instinctively
demand that Aspasia should have the eyes of Dante's Beatrice. A
similar longing is planted within me. When I think of it, that a
beautiful human animal like Laura belongs to me and will belong as
long as I wish it, a twofold joy gets hold of me,--the joy of the man
and the delight of the artist; and yet there is a want and something
missing. On the altar of my Greek temple there is a marble goddess;
but my Gothic shrine is empty. I admit that in her I have found
something bordering upon the perfect, and I defend myself from a
suspicion that this perfection throws a big shadow. I thought once
that Goethe's words, "You shall be like unto gods and beasts,"
embraced all life and were the highest expression of his wisdom; now,
when I follow the commandment, I feel that he omitted the angel.


17 April.

Mr. Davis came into the room when I was sitting at Laura's feet, my
head leaning against her knees. His bloodless face and dim eyes
showed no feeling beyond indifferent sullenness. In his soft slippers
embroidered with Indian suns, he shuffled across the room, and
into the library. Laura looked magnificent, her eyes flashing with
unrestrained wrath. I rose and awaited what would happen. A thought
crossed my mind that Mr. Davis might come back, a revolver in his
hand. In such a case I should have pitched him through the window,
revolver, plaid, and Indian slippers. But he did not come back; I
waited a long time in vain. I do not know what he was doing there;
whether he was thinking over his misery, weeping, or perfectly
indifferent. We all three met again at lunch, and he was sitting there
as if nothing unusual had happened. Perhaps it was my fancy that
made me think that Laura looked menacingly at him, and also that his
apathetic expression was even more mournful than usual. I confess that
such a tame ending of the business is the most painful to me. I am not
one to provoke a quarrel, but ready to answer for my deeds; finally, I
would rather the man were not so defenceless, such a small, miserable
creature. I have a nasty feeling, as if I had knocked down a cripple,
and never yet felt so disgusted with myself.

We went out in the boat as usual. I did not want Laura to think I was
afraid of Davis; but there we had our first quarrel. I confessed to
her my scruples and she laughed at them. I said to her plainly,--

"The laughter does not become you; and remember, you may do most
things, but not what is not becoming."

There was a deep frown on the meeting eyebrows, and she replied
bitterly,--

"After what has passed between us, you may insult me even with more
impunity than you could Davis."

After such a reproach there remained nothing else but to ask her
forgiveness; and presently, harmony being restored, Laura began
to talk about herself. I had another instance of her cleverness.
Generally the women I have known intimately showed a desire to tell me
their life. I do not blame them for it; it shows that they feel the
need to justify themselves in their own eyes and ours. We men do
not. Yet I never met a woman either so clever as not to overstep the
artistic proportions in her confession, or so sincere as not to tell
lies in order to justify herself. I call to witness all men who when
the occasion occurs may verify how wonderfully similar all these cases
of going astray are, and consequently how tedious. Laura, too, began
to talk about herself with a certain eager satisfaction, but only in
this respect did she follow the beaten track of other fallen angels.
In what she told me there was a certain posing for originality, but
she was certainly not posing as a victim. Knowing she had to deal with
a sceptic, she did not want to call forth a smile of incredulity. Her
sincerity was skirting upon the bold, almost the cynical, one
might say, were it not that to her it is a system of life in which
aestheticism has taken the place of ethics. She prefers simply a life
in the shape of an Apollo to that of humpbacked Pulcinello; that is
her philosophy. She had married Davis not so much for his wealth
as for the purpose of making her life as beautiful as lay in human
power,--beautiful not in the common meaning of the word, but in the
highest artistic sense. Besides she did not consider she had any
duties toward her husband, as she had never even pretended to love
him; she had for him as much pity as repugnance, and as he was
indifferent to everything, he was of no more account than if he were
dead. She added that she did not take account of anything that was
contrary to her ideas of a purely beautiful and artistic life. Regard
for society she had very little, and who thought otherwise of her
would be utterly wrong. She had felt friendship for my father, not
because of his social position, but because she had looked upon him
as a masterwork of nature. As to myself, she had loved me for a long
time. She understood perfectly that I would have prized her more had
the victory been less easy, but she did not care to bargain when her
happiness was at stake.

This kind of principles, announced by that perfect mouth in a soft
voice full of metallic vibrations, gave me a strange sensation. While
speaking to me she drew her draperies close to her as if to make room
for me at her side. At times her eyes followed the motions of the
sea-gulls circling above our heads, then again they rested keenly upon
my face as if she wanted to read the impression her words had made
upon me. I listened to her words with a certain satisfaction, as they
proved to me that I had judged her pretty correctly. Yet there was
something in them quite new to me. I had always rendered her justice
as to her cleverness, but I thought her acts were the instinctive
outcome of her nature. I had never supposed her capable of inventing
a whole system in order to support and justify the impulses of her
nature. This showed her in a somewhat nobler light, as it proved that
where I had suspected her of more or less mean calculation, she only
acted according to her own principles,--maybe bad, even terrible, but
always principles. For instance, I had suspected her of wanting to
marry me after Davis's death,--she proved me utterly in the wrong. She
herself began to talk about it. She confessed that if I were to ask
her for her hand she might not be able to refuse me, as she loved me
more than I believed (here as I am a living man I saw a warm blush
mounting to her neck and brow), but she knew this would never happen;
sooner or later I would leave her with a light heart,--but what of
that? If she dipped her hand into the water and felt the refreshing
coolness, should she refuse herself this delight because the sun would
suck the cool moisture?

Saying this she bent over the gunwale, which showed her figure in
all its immaculate perfection, and after plunging her hands into the
water, she stretched them out to me moist and pink and gleaming in
the sunshine. I took hold of the hands, and she, as if echoing my
sensations, said in a caressing voice, "Come."


20 April.

I did not see Laura the whole of yesterday, as she was not well.
She had caught a chill sitting out late on the balcony, and it had
affected her teeth. What a nuisance! Fortunately the day before
yesterday a doctor arrived who is to remain in attendance upon Mr.
Davis; otherwise I should not have a soul to speak to. He is a young
Italian, small of stature, very dark, with an enormous head and very
sharp eyes. He seems very intelligent. It is evident that from the
very first he has grasped the situation, and found it very natural,
for without hesitation he addressed me as the master of the house. I
could not help laughing when he came this morning and asked me whether
he could see the countess so that he might prescribe for her. They
have some very quaint notions in this country. Usually, when a married
woman is suspected to belong to somebody else, the world is in arms to
hunt and run her down, often with thoughtless cruelty. Here, on the
contrary, they worship at the altar of love, and one and all take
sides with and plot for the lover. I told the doctor I would see
whether the countess would see him. I penetrated into Laura's sanctum.
She received me unwillingly, because her face is a little swollen, and
she did not wish me to see her in that state. And in truth her face
reminded me of my old drawing lessons. I noticed even then that with
a modern face one may commit inaccuracies, change this or that, and
provided the expression, the idea of the face remain intact, the
likeness will not suffer. It is quite a different thing drawing from
the antique; the slightest inaccuracy, the least deviation, destroys
the harmony of the face and makes it different altogether. I had an
example in Laura. The swelling was very slight,--I scarcely noticed it
as she obstinately turned the sound part of her face to me; but as her
eyes were a little reddened, the eyelids heavier than usual, it was
not the same face, perfect in its harmony and beauty. Of course I did
not let her see this, but she received my greeting half-disturbed,
as if troubled with a bad conscience. Evidently according to her
principles toothache is a mortal sin.

Queer principles these, anyway! I too have the soul of an ancient
Greek, but beyond the Pagan there is something else in me. Laura will
be sometime very unhappy with her philosophy. I can understand that
one may make a religion of beauty in a general sense, but to make
a religion of one's own beauty is to prepare great unhappiness for
ourselves. What kind of religion is that which a simple toothache
undermines, and a pimple on the nose shatters into ruin?


25 April.

We shall have to leave for Switzerland, for the heat is almost
unbearable. Besides the heat, there is the Sirocco, that comes now and
then like a hot breath from Africa. The sea-breezes somewhat mitigate
the fierceness of this visitor from the desert, but it is none the
less very disagreeable.

The Sirocco acts injuriously on Mr. Davis. The doctor watches him
closely lest he should take opium, and consequently become either very
irritable or else quite stupefied. I notice that in his greatest
fits of anger he is afraid of Laura and myself. Who knows whether a
homicidal mania is not already germinating in the half-insane brain?
or maybe he is afraid we are going to kill him. Generally speaking,
my relation with him is one of the darkest sides of the part I am
enacting. I say one of the darkest, because I am fully aware that
there is more than one. I should not be my own self if I did not
perceive that my soul not only is stagnating, but is getting swiftly
corrupted in the arms of that woman. I cannot even express what
loathing, what bitterness and pangs of conscience, it caused me at
first that I should have plunged myself into the depth of sensuous
raptures so soon after the death of my father. It was not only my
conscience, but also the delicacy of feelings which I undoubtedly
possess, that revolted against it. I felt this so deeply that I could
not write about it. I have grown more callous since. I still reproach
myself from time to time, and seriously reflect, but the feeling has
lost its poignancy.

As to Aniela, I try to forget her, because the memory is troublesome,
or rather I cannot arrive at a clear understanding as to the whole
Ploszow episode. At times I feel inclined to think that I was not
worthy of her; at others, that I made an ass of myself over a girl
like dozens of others. This irritates my vanity, and makes me feel
angry with Aniela. One moment I feel an unsavory consciousness of
guilt in regard to her, in another the offence appears to me futile
and childish. Taken altogether, I do not approve of the part I played
at Ploszow, nor do I approve of the part I am playing here. The
division between right and wrong is becoming more and more indistinct
within me, and what is more I do not care to make it clearer. This is
the result of a certain apathy of mind, which again acts as a sleeping
draught; for when the inward struggle tires me out I say to myself:
"Suppose you are worse than you were--what of that? Why should you
trouble about anything?"

Then I see another change in myself. Gradually I have got used to what
at first chafed my honor,--the insulting of the crippled man. I notice
that I permit myself hundreds of things I would not do if Davis,
instead of being physically and mentally afflicted, were an
able-bodied man capable of defending his own honor. We do not even
take the trouble of going out to sea. I never even imagined that my
sensitiveness could become so blunted. It is very easy to say to
myself: "What does the wretched Eastern matter to you?" But verily I
cannot get rid of the thought that my black-haired Juno is no Juno at
all,--that her name is Circe, and her touch changes men (as one might
say in correct mythological language) into nurslings of Eumaeus.

And when I ask myself as to the cause, the answer shatters many of my
former opinions. It is this: our love is a love of the senses, but
not of the soul. The thought again comes back that we, the outcome of
modern culture, cannot be satisfied with it. Laura and I were like
unto gods and beasts with humanity left out. In a proper sense our
feelings cannot be called love; we are desirable to each other, but
not dear. If we both were different from what we are, we might be a
hundred times more unhappy, but I should not have the consciousness
that I am drawing near the shelter of Eumaeus. I understand that love
merely spiritual remains a shadow, but love without spiritualism
becomes utter degradation. It is another matter that some people
touched by Circe's wand may find contentment in their degradation. It
seems a sad thing and very strange that I, a man of the Hellenic type,
should write thus. Scepticism even here steps in, and in regard to
Hellenism I begin to have my doubts whether life be possible with
those worn-out forms; and as I am always sincere, I write what I
think.


30 April.

Yesterday I received a letter from my aunt. It was sent after me from
Rome and dated two weeks back. I cannot understand why they kept it so
long at Casa Osoria. My aunt was sure I had gone to Corfu, but thought
I might have returned by this, and writes thus:--

"We have been expecting to hear from you for some time, and are
looking out with great longing for a letter. I, an old woman, am too
deeply rooted in the soil to be easily shaken, but it tells upon
Aniela. She evidently expected to hear from you, and when no letter
came either from Vienna or Rome, I saw she felt uneasy. Then came your
father's death. I said then, in her presence, that you could not think
now of anything but your loss; by and by you would shake off your
trouble and return to your old life. I saw at once that my words
comforted her. But afterwards, when week passed after week and you did
not send us a single line, she grew very troubled, mostly about your
health, but I fancy because she thought you had forgotten her. I, too,
began to feel uneasy, and wrote 'poste restante' to Corfu, as we had
agreed. Not getting any reply, I am sending another letter to your
house at Rome, because the thought that you may be ill makes us all
very unhappy. Write, if only a few lines; and, Leon, dear, pull
yourself together, shake off that apathy, and be yourself again.
I will be quite open with you. In addition to Aniela's troubles,
somebody has told her mother that you are known everywhere for your
love affairs. Fancy my indignation! Celina was so put out that she
repeated it to her daughter, and now the one has continual headaches,
and the other, poor child, looks so pale and listless that it makes
my heart bleed. And she is such a dear girl, and as good as gold. She
tries to look cheerful so as not to grieve her mother; but I am not so
easily deceived, and feel deeply for her. My dearest boy, I did not
say much to you at Rome, because I respected your affliction; but a
sorrow like that is sent by God, and we have to submit to His will and
not allow it to spoil our life. Could you not write a few words to
give us some comfort,--if not to me, at least to the poor child? I
never disguised it from you that my greatest wish was to see you two
happily married if it were in a year or two, as Aniela is a woman in a
thousand. But if you think otherwise it would be better to let me know
it in some way. You know I never exaggerate things, but I am really
afraid for Aniela's health. And then there is her future to be thought
of. Kromitzki calls very frequently upon the ladies, evidently with
some intentions. I wanted to dismiss him without ceremony, especially
as I have my suspicions that it was he who spread those tales about
you; but Celina solemnly entreated me not to do this. She is quite
distracted, and does not believe in your affection for Aniela. What
could I do? Suppose her motherly instinct is right, after all? Write
at once, my dear Leon, and accept the love and blessing of the old
woman who has only you now in the world. Aniela wanted to write to you
a letter of condolence after your father's death, but Celina did not
let her, and we had a quarrel over this. Celina is the best of women,
but very provoking at times. Kind greetings and love from us all.
Young Chwastowski is establishing a brewery on the estate. He had some
money of his own, and the rest I lent him."

At first I thought the letter had not made any impression upon me; but
presently, when walking up and down the room, I found that I had been
mistaken. The impression increased every minute, and became very
strong indeed. After an hour I said to myself with amazement: "The
deuce is in it! I cannot think of anything else but that." Strange how
quick my thoughts travel, chasing each other like clouds driven by the
wind. What a creature of nerves I am! First, a great tenderness for
Aniela woke up within me. All that I had felt for her not long ago,
and that had lain dormant in odd nooks of my soul, stirred into life.
To go at once, soothe her, make her happy, was the first impulse of my
heart,--not clearly defined, perhaps, but very strong all the same.
When I imagined to myself the tearful eyes, her hands resting within
mine, the old feeling for her woke up with renewed strength. Then the
idea crossed my mind to compare her to Laura,--with a fatal result for
Laura. I felt sick of the life I was leading; felt the want of a purer
atmosphere than I was breathing here,--of restfulness, gentleness, and
above all, rectitude of feeling. At the same time a great joy filled
my heart, that nothing was lost yet, everything could be made right;
it depended only upon my will. Suddenly I bethought myself of
Kromitzki, and of Aniela's mother, who, not trusting me, is evidently
on his side. A dull anger rose within me, which, gradually increasing,
smothered all other feelings. The more my reason acknowledged that
Pani Celina was right in mistrusting me, the more I felt offended that
she should harbor that mistrust. I worked myself up into a terrible
rage against everybody, including myself. What I thought and felt can
be expressed in a few words: "Very well, let it be as they wish!"

The letter came yesterday; to-day, analyzing myself more quietly, I
find to my own astonishment that the offence not only rankles in my
mind, but also has taken firmer root. I say to myself all that a
soberly thinking man can say in mitigation thereof, and yet I cannot
forgive either Aniela or her mother the Kromitzki business. Aniela
could have put a stop to it with one word, and if she has not done it,
she is sacrificing me to her mother's headaches. Besides, Kromitzki
lowers Aniela in my eyes, stains her, and brings her down to the level
of marriageable girls. I cannot even speak of it quietly.

Maybe my reasoning and feeling are those of an exasperated man; maybe
that love of self is too predominant in me. I know that I am able to
look at and judge myself as a stranger would; but this dualism does
not help me in the least. I am more and more embittered. To write
about it irritates my nerves,--therefore, enough!


1 May.

During the night I thought, "Perhaps to-morrow I shall be more
composed." Nothing of the kind. I am simply in a rage with Aniela,
Aniela's mother, my aunt, and myself. The wind ought to be tempered
for the shorn lamb, and they forget that my wool is deucedly thin.
After all, I am comfortable where I am. Laura is like a marble statue.
Near her nothing troubles me very much, because there is nothing
except beauty. I am tired of over-strained, tender souls. Let
Kromitski comfort her.


2 May.

I carried the letter to the post-office myself. It was not a long one:
"I wish Pan Kromitzki every happiness with Panna Aniela, and Panna
Aniela with Pan Kroinitzki. You wished for a decision, dear aunt, and
I comply with your wish."


3 May.

I was thinking whether my aunt's allusion to Kromitzki was but a piece
of female diplomacy in order to bring me to book. If so, she is to be
congratulated upon her skill and knowledge of human nature.


10 May.

A week has passed. I have not written because I feel half suffocated,
torn by doubts, sorrow, and anxiety. Aniela has never been, and is not
indifferent to me. The words of Hamlet recur to me:--

  "I loved Ophelia; forty thousand brothers
  Could not, with all their quantity of love,
  Make up my sum."

I should only have to change the outcry:--

"I loved Aniela; forty thousand Lauras could not make up my sum."

And needs must be that with my own hands I wrought the evil. There is
a glimmer of comfort in the thought that to be united to a man like me
might be a worse fate for her,--but it is not so. If she were mine I
would be true to her. Then again it rankles in my mind that perhaps
a Kromitzki is sufficient to her happiness. When I think of this
everything seethes within me, and I feel ready to send off another
such letter.

It is done with! that is the only comfort for people like me, for then
they can fold their hands and idle away their time as before. Perhaps
it is a sign of exceptional weakness, but I find some comfort in it.
Now I can think in peace.

I put to myself the question, "How is it that a man who not only
boasts of a thorough knowledge of self, but also possesses it, has for
some time almost blindly followed his instinctive impulses?" Of what
use is self-knowledge if at the first commotion of the nerves it hides
in a remote nook of the brain and remains there, a passive witness to
impulsive acts? To investigate things _post factum?_ I do not know of
what use this can be to me, but as I have nothing else to do, let us
investigate. Why did I act as I did? It must be because though I am an
intelligent man, very intelligent even (the deuce take me if I intend
to boast or flatter myself), I lack judgment. And chiefly it is the
calm, masculine judgment that is wanting. I do not control my nerves,
I am hypersensitive, and a crumpled roseleaf would irritate me.
There is something feminine in my composition. Perhaps I am not an
exception, and there are more of that type in my country, which is of
small comfort. This kind of mind may have much understanding, but is a
bad guide through life; it darts restlessly here and there, hesitates,
sifts, and filters every intention, and at last loses itself among
cross-roads. Consequently the capacity for acting gets impaired, and
finally it degenerates into a weakness of character, an innate and not
uncommon fault with us. Then I put to myself another question. Let us
say my aunt had not made any allusion to Kromitzki, would the result
have turned out differently? And truly I dare not say yes. It would
not have come so swiftly,--that is certain; but who knows whether in
the end it would have turned out more satisfactory. Weak characters
want infinite accommodations; only powerful ones are spurred on by
opposition. Laura, who in certain things is as subtle as musk, most
likely understood this and therefore showed herself so--gracious.

Finally, what is the upshot of it? Am I a milksop? Not in the least.
A man who looks straight at truth would not shrink from confessing
it,--but no. I feel that I could go on an arctic expedition without a
moment's hesitation, be a missionary in darkest Africa. I am possessed
of a certain pluck, inherited courage, which would carry me through
many bold adventures and risky enterprises. My temperament is lively;
perhaps less nimble than Sniatynski, I am yet no laggard. But when
it comes to solving any of life's problems my scepticism renders me
powerless, my intellect loses itself in observations, reasonings, the
will has nothing to rest upon, and my acts depend mainly upon external
circumstances.


12 May.

I never liked Laura, though I was and am still under the spell of
her physical charms. This at first sight looks like a paradox, but
nevertheless is a common enough occurrence. One may love and not like
the person in question. As often as I happened to meet a love full of
thorns and apt to take easily offence, it was only because there was
no real liking at the bottom. Now Sniatynski and his wife are not only
in love, but they like each other immensely, and therefore are happy.
Ah me! I feel I could have liked Aniela, and we might have been as
happy! Better not think about it. As to Laura, she will meet many who
may fall in love with her raven hair and statuesque beauty, but
she will never inspire real liking. This singular woman attracts
irresistibly, and at the same time repulses. I have said that beyond
beauty there is nothing else; for even her uncommon intelligence is
only the humble slave kneeling at the feet of her own beauty. Not more
than a week ago I saw Laura giving money to a child whose father had
been drowned recently, and I thought to myself: "She would put the
child's eyes out in the same way, gracefully and sweetly, if she
thought it would add to her beauty." One feels these things, and one
may lose one's head over a woman like that, but it is impossible to
like her. And she who understands so many things does not understand
this.

Yet how beautiful she is! A few days ago, when she came down the steps
leading into the garden, swaying lightly on those magnificent hips,
"I thought I should drop," as the poet Slowacki says. Decidedly I
am under the sway of two powers,--the one attracting, the other
repelling. I want to go to Switzerland, and I want to go back to Rome.
I do not know how it will end. Ribot rightly says that a desire to do
a thing is only a consciousness, not an act of volition; still less is
it an act of volition to have a twofold desire. I received a letter
from my lawyer, who wants to see me about the affairs of the
succession; these are mere formalities, and they could arrange things
without me, did I feel disinclined to move. But it will serve as a
pretext. For some time I have liked Laura even less than formerly. It
is for no fault of hers, as she is always the same, but as it happens,
I have transferred to her some of the dislike I have for myself. At
the time of my inward struggles I turned to her not only for peace,
but also for a kind of wilful degradation; now for that very reason I
feel displeased with her. She did not even know of the storm raging
in my breast; besides, what could it matter to her, as it was nothing
which could serve her as an ornament? She only noticed that I was
feverish and more impulsive than usual; she asked a little after
the cause, but without insisting too much. Perhaps after all the
attraction here will win and I shall not depart; in any case, I am
going to tell her that I am obliged to go. I am curious to know how
she will take it, still more curious as I can imagine it very well. I
suspect that with all her love for me, which is very like my love for
her, she does not really like me,--that is, if she ever takes the
trouble to like or to dislike anybody. Our minds have certain points
of resemblance, but thousands of contradictions.

I am terribly tired. I cannot help thinking of the sensation my letter
has made at Ploszow. I think incessantly of this even when with Laura;
I see before me continually Aniela and my aunt. How happy Laura is in
her everlasting repose! I have such difficulty to bear with my own
self.

I shall be glad of a change. Peli, though a seaside resort, is very
empty. The heat is quite exceptional. The sea is calm; no waves wash
against the shore; it seems exhausted and breathless from the heat.
At times the wind rises, but it is a suffocating blast, that raises
clouds of white dust which covers the palms, fig-trees, and myrtles,
and penetrates through the blinds into the house. My eyes ache as the
walls reflect a glaring sun, and in the daytime it is impossible to
look at anything.

To Switzerland or to Rome, but away from here. It seems anywhere it
would be better than here. We all prepare for the journey. I have not
seen Mr. Davis for four or five days. I fancy his insanity will break
out any day. The doctor tells me the poor man challenges him to fight.
He considers this a bad sign.


ROME, CASA OSORIA, 18 May.

It was evidently solitude I wanted. I feel as I felt after my arrival
at Peli, sad, but at the same time peaceful. I feel even more peaceful
here than in my first days at Peli, because there is none of that
uneasiness Laura's presence used to give me. I walk about the still,
gloomy house, and find thousands of details that remind me of my
father, and the memory grows fresh again in my heart. He too had
vanished into the distant haze, and now I meet him again as in his
former, real life. There on the table in his studio are the lenses
through which he looked at his specimens, the bronze implement he
used in scraping the dry soil from the pottery; colors, brushes,
manuscripts, and notes about the collections are lying about. At times
I have a feeling as if he had gone out and would return presently to
his work, and when the illusion disappears a great sorrow seizes me,
and I love not only his memory, but love him who sleeps the eternal
sleep on the Campo Santo.

And I feel sad; but the feeling is so infinitely purer than those
which had such absolute sway over my mind those last weeks that I feel
more at ease,--a better man, or, at least, not so corrupt as I had
seemed to myself. I notice also that no reasoning, nor the most
desperate argumentation can deprive us of a certain feeling of
satisfaction, when we come in contact with nobler elements. Whence
comes that irresistible, irrepressible tendency towards the good?
Spinning out this thread I go very far. Since our reason is considered
a reflection of the logical principle of all life, may not our
conception of good be a similar reflection from an absolute good. Were
it so, one might throw at once all doubts to the wind, and shout, not
only, "Eureka!" but also, "Alleluia!" Nevertheless, I am afraid lest
the foundation fall to pieces, like many others, and I dare not build
on it. Besides the reasoning is but vague; I shall go back to it
undoubtedly, because this means the extraction of a thorn, not from
the feet, but from the soul. Now I am too tired, too sad and restful
at the same time.

It seems to me that of all creatures upon earth it is only the human
being that can act sometimes against his volition. I wanted to leave
Peli for some time, and yet day after day passed, and I remained. The
day previous to my departure I was almost certain I should stop, when
unexpectedly Laura herself helped me to a decision.

I told her about the lawyer's letter and my going away, only to
see how she would receive the news. We were alone. I expected some
exclamation from her part, some emotion, and lastly a "veto." Nothing
of the kind took place.

Hearing the news, she turned to me, passing her hand gently over my
hair; she brought her face close to mine, and said:--

"You will come back, will you not?"

By Jove! it is still an enigma to me what she meant. Did she suppose I
was really obliged to go? or, trusting to the power of her beauty, had
she no doubt whatever that I would come back? or, finally, did she
grasp at the chance to get rid of me?--because after such a question
there remained nothing for me but to go. The caressing touch and
accompanying question are a little against the last supposition,
which after all seems to me the likeliest. At odd moments I am almost
certain she wanted to say by it:--

"It is not you who dismiss me; it is I who dismiss you."

I confess that, if it was a dismission, Laura's cleverness is simply
amazing; all the more so, as the manner was so sweet and caressing,
and left me in uncertainty whether she was mocking me or not. But why
delude myself? By that simple question she had won the game. Perhaps
at other times my vanity would have suffered; but now it leaves me
indifferent. That same evening, instead of coolness, there was perfect
harmony between us. We separated very late. I see her still, walking
with me, her eyes lowered, as far as my room. She was simply so
beautiful that I felt sorry I was going. The next morning she said
good-by to me at the station. The bunch of tea-roses I lost only in
Genoa. Strange woman! As I went further on my journey, I felt side by
side a physical longing and a great relief. I went on to Rome without
stopping, and now feel as a bird released from his cage.


22 May.

There is scarcely anybody I know in Rome. The heat has driven them to
their villas, or up into the mountains. In the daytime there are
few people in the streets except tourists, mostly Englishmen in
pith-helmets, puggarees, red Baedekers, with their everlasting "Very
interesting!" on their lips. At noon our Babuino is so deserted that
the footstep of a solitary passer-by re-echoes on the pavement. But in
the evening the street swarms with people. At that time I feel usually
very depressed, nervous, and restless. I go out, and walk about until
I am tired; and that gives me relief. I walk mostly on the Pincio,
three or four times along that magnificent terrace. At this time
lovers stroll about. Some couples walk arm in arm, their heads close
together, their eyes uplifted, as if overflowing with happiness;
others sit in the deep shadows of the trees. The flickering light of
the lamp reveals now and then half-concealed under his plumes the
profile of a Bersagliere, sometimes the light dress of a girl, or the
face of a laborer or student. Whispers reach my ear; love-vows and low
snatches of song. All this gives me the impression of a carnival of
spring. I find a singular charm in thus losing myself among the crowd,
and breathe their gayety and health. There is so much happiness and
simplicity! This simplicity seems to penetrate into my whole being,
and acts more soothingly upon my nerves than a sleeping draught. The
evenings are clear and warm, but full of cool breezes. The moon rises
beyond Trinitá dei Monti, and sails above that human beehive like a
great silver bark, illuminating the tops of trees, roofs, and towers.
At the foot of the terrace glimmers and surges the city, and somewhere
in the distance, on a silvery background, appears the dark outline of
St. Peter's, with a shining cupola like a second moon. Never did Rome
seem more beautiful to me, and I discover new charms every day. I
return home late, and go to bed almost happy in the thought that
to-morrow I shall wake up again in Rome. And I do sleep. I do not know
whether it is the exercise I take, but I sleep so heavily that it
leaves a kind of dizziness when I wake up in the morning.

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.

It is all my fault! But the blind man when he stumbles over a stone,
curses the stone, not the blindness that made him stumble.


17 June.

To-day I paid Lukomski, gave a power of attorney to the lawyer, had my
things packed, and am ready for the journey. Rome begins to pall upon
me.


18 June.

I have been counting that my aunt's reply ought to have reached me by
this. Putting aside all the worst suppositions, I try to guess what
she is going to tell me. I regret, for I do not know how many times,
that my letter was not more conclusive. Yet I wrote that I would come
to Ploszow if I felt sure my presence would be acceptable to my aunt's
guests, sending them my kindest regards at the same time. I also
mentioned that during the last days of my stay at Peli I felt so
irritable that I scarcely knew what I was doing. The letter, while I
was writing it, seemed to me very clever; now it appears to me as the
height of folly. It was simply that my vanity did not permit me to
revoke clearly and decidedly what I had written previously. I counted
upon my aunt grasping at the opportunity I gave her for settling
matters, and then I meant to make my appearance as the generous
prince. Human nature is very pitiful. Nothing now remains but to hold
fast to the hope that my aunt would guess how it stood with me.

With my anxiety increasing every moment, I feel not only that I could
have loved Aniela, but that I do love her beyond expression, and also
that I might become an incomparably better man. Strictly speaking, why
do I act as if beyond nerves and egoism there were nothing else in me?
and if there be anything else, why does not my auto-analysis point it
out to me? I have the courage to draw extreme conclusions, and do not
hide the truth from myself, but I decidedly negative the notion.
Why? Because I have the unshaken conviction that I am better than my
actions. The cause of the latter is partly a certain incapacity of
life, partly the inheritance of my race and the disease of the times
in which I live, and finally that over-analysis which does not permit
me to follow the first, simple impulses of nature, but criticises
until it reduces the soul to utter impotence. When a child I used to
amuse myself by piling up coin upon coin until the column, bending
under its own weight, tumbled down into one chaotic heap. I am doing
now exactly the same with my thoughts and intentions, until they
collapse and roll over each other in a disorderly confusion. For this
very reason it has always been easier for me to play a passive part
than an active one. It appears to me that many cultured people are
attacked by the same disease. Criticism of ourselves and everything
else is corroding our active power; we have no stable basis, no point
of issue, no faith in life. Therein lies the reason why I do not care
so much to win Aniela as I am afraid of losing her. In speaking of a
disease common to our time, I will not confine myself exclusively to
my own case. That somebody takes to his bed when an epidemic disease
is raging is a very common occurrence; nowadays criticism of
everything is the epidemic spreading all over the world. The result
is that various roofs that sheltered men collapse over their heads.
Religion, the very name of which means "ties," is getting unloosened.
Faith, even in those who still believe, is getting restive. Through
the roof of what we call Fatherland social currents begin to filter.
There remains only one ideal in presence of which the most hardened
sceptic raises his hat,--the People. But on the base of this statue
mischievous spirits are beginning already to scribble more or less
ribald jokes, and, what is still more strange, the mist of unbelief is
rising from the heads of those who, in the nature of things, ought
to bow down reverently. Finally there will come a gifted sceptic, a
second Heine, to spit and trample on the idol, as in his time did
Aristophanes; he will not, however, trample on it in the name of old
ideals, but in the name of freedom of thought, in the name of freedom
of doubt; and what will happen then I do not know. Most likely on the
huge, clean-wiped slate the devil will write sonnets. Can anything
be done to prevent all this? Finally, what does it matter to me? To
attempt anything is not my business; I have been trained too carefully
as a child of my time. But if all that is thought, that is achieved
and happening, has for its ultimate aim to increase the sum of general
happiness, I permit myself a personal remark as to that happiness; by
which I do not mean material comfort, but that inward spiritual peace
in which I as well as anybody else may be wanting. Thus my grandfather
was happier than my father, my father happier than I, and as to my
son, if ever I have one, he will simply be an object of commiseration.


FLORENCE, 20 June.

The house of cards has tumbled down. I received a letter from my aunt.
Aniela is engaged to Kromitzki, and the marriage will take place in a
few weeks. She herself has fixed such a short date. After receiving
the news I took a railway ticket, with the intention of going straight
to Ploszow, conscious all the time that it was a foolish thing to do,
which could lead to nothing. But the impulse was upon me, and carried
me along; when, collecting the last remnants of common-sense and
reflection, I stuck fast here.


FLORENCE, 22 June.

Simultaneously with my aunt's letter, I received a "faire part"
addressed in a female hand. It is not Aniela's handwriting, or her
mother's; neither of them would have done it. Most likely it is Pani
Sniatynska's malicious device. Upon the whole, what does it matter? I
got a blow with a club on the head, and feel dizzy; it has shaken me
more than it has hurt. I do not know how it will be later on; they say
one does not feel a bullet wound at once. But I have not sent a bullet
through my head, I am not mad; I look at the Lung Arno; I could sit
down to a game of patience if I knew how to play; in fact, I am quite
well. It is the old story,--among sincere friends the dogs tore the
hare to pieces. My aunt considered it her Christian duty to show
Aniela the letter I had written from Peli.


FLORENCE, 23 June.

In the morning, when I wake up,--or rather, when opening my
eyes,--I am obliged to repeat to myself that Aniela is marrying
Kromitzki,--Aniela, so good, so loving, who insisted on sitting up to
take care of me when I returned from Warsaw to Ploszow; who looked
into my eyes, hung upon every word that came from my lips, and with
every glance told me she was mine. That same Aniela will not only be
Kromitzki's wife, but within a week from the wedding will not be able
to conceive how she could ever hesitate in her choice between such a
man as Ploszowski and a Jupiter like Kromitzki. Strange things happen
in this world,--so terrible and irrevocable that it takes away the
desire to live out the mean remnant of one's existence. Most likely
Pani Celina together with Pani Sniatynska make a great ado about
Kromitzki, and praise him at my expense. I hope they will leave Aniela
in peace. It is my aunt's doing; she ought not to have allowed it, if
only for Aniela's sake, as she cannot possibly be happy with him. She
herself says Aniela has accepted him out of despair.

Here is that long, cursed letter:--

"I thank you for the last news,--all the more as that first letter
from Peli was not only conclusive, but also very cruel. I could
scarcely believe that you had not only no affection for the girl, but
also neither friendship nor compassion. My dear Leon, I never asked
nor advised you to become engaged to Aniela at once,--I only wanted
you to write a few kindly words, not to her directly, but in a letter
to me. And believe me, it would have been sufficient; for she
loved you as only girls like her can love. Put yourself in my
position,--what could I do after having received your letter? How
could I conscientiously allow her to remain in her illusion, and at
the same time in that anxiety that evidently undermined her health?
Chwastowski always sends a special messenger for papers and letters,
and brings them himself when he comes to breakfast. Aniela saw there
was a letter from you, because the poor child was always on the
lookout for Chwastowski, and took the letters from him under pretext
that she wanted to put them under my napkin; and the real reason was
that she might see whether there was a letter from you. I noticed how
her hands trembled when she poured out the tea. Touched by a sudden
foreboding, I hesitated whether to put off the reading of your letter
until I had gone into my room; but I was anxious about your health,
and could not wait. God knows what it cost me not to show what I felt,
especially as Aniela's eyes were fixed upon my face. But I got a firm
grip of myself, and even managed to say: 'Leon is still sorrowing,
but, thank God! his health is all right, and he sends you kind
messages.' Aniela inquired, as it were in her usual voice, 'Is he
going to remain long in Italy?' I saw how much the question meant
to her, and had not the heart to undeceive her then,--especially as
Chwastowski and the servants were there; so I said merely: 'No, not
very long; I believe he will soon come to see us.' If you had seen the
flame that shot up in her face, the sudden joy that kindled her eyes,
and the effort she made not to burst into tears. Poor child! I feel
inclined to cry every time I think of it. What I went through in the
solitude of my own room, you cannot imagine; but you wrote distinctly,
'I wish her happiness with Kromitzki;' it was duty, my conscience told
me, to open her eyes. There was no need to send for her,--she came
herself. I said to her, 'Aniela, dear, you are a good girl, and a girl
that submits to God's will. We must be open with each other. I have
seen the affection that was springing up between you and Leon. It was
my dearest wish you might come to love each other; but evidently the
Lord willed it otherwise. If you have still any illusions, you must
try to get rid of them.' I took her into my arms; for she had grown
deadly white, and I was afraid she might faint. But she did not lose
consciousness, but hid her head on my knees and said over and over
again: 'What message did he send me?' I did not want to tell her, but
then it struck me it might be better for her if she knew the whole
truth; and I told her you wished her happiness with Kromitzki. She
rose, and after a moment said, in a quite changed voice: 'Thank him
for me, aunty!' and then left the room. I am afraid you will not thank
me for repeating to her your very words, without disguising them under
any kind expressions; but since you do not want Aniela, the more
plainly she is told about it the better. Convinced that you treated
her badly, she may forget you all the sooner. Besides, if it give
you pain, remember how much pain and anxiety you have caused
us,--especially Aniela. Yet she has more control over herself than I
even expected. Her eyes were quite dry the whole day, and she gave
no sign of inward trouble; she is anxious to spare her mother, about
whose health she is much concerned; she only clung more to her and
to me,--which moved me so deeply that it made my chin tremble. Pan
Sniatynski, who came to see us the same day, did not notice anything
unusual in Aniela. Knowing he is in your confidence, I told him all
about it; and he was dreadfully shocked, and got into such a rage with
you that it made me quite angry with him. I need not repeat what
he said,--you know his ways. You, who do not love Aniela, cannot
understand how happy you might have been with her; but you have done
wrong, Leon, in making her believe you loved her. Not only she,--we
all thought the same; and that is where the sting lies. Only God
knows how much she suffered; and it was this that made her accept
Kromitzki,--it was done out of despair. She must have had a long talk
with her mother, and then it was decided. When Kromitzki arrived the
day after, she treated him differently; and a week later they were
engaged. Pan Sniatynski heard about it only a few days ago, and he was
tearing his hair; and as to my own feelings, I will not even try to
put them into words.

"I was more angry with you than I have ever been in my life with
anybody, and only your second letter has pacified me a little, though
it convinced me at the same time of the futility of my dreams. I
confess that after the first letter, and before Kromitzki had finally
proposed, I still thought: 'Perhaps God will be good to us and change
his heart; maybe he has written thus in a fit of auger!' but when
afterwards you sent kind messages to Aniela without denying or
contradicting what you had written in the first letter, I saw it was
of no use deceiving myself any longer. Aniela's wedding is to take
place on the 25th of July, and I will tell you why they have fixed
upon such a short date. Celina is really very ill, thinks she will
soon die, and is afraid her death might delay the marriage, and thus
leave Aniela without a protector. Kromitzki is in a hurry because he
has his business to attend to in the East; lastly, Aniela wishes to
drain the cup with as little delay as possible. Ah! Leon, my boy,
why should all this have happened, and why is that poor child made
unhappy?

"I would never have allowed her to marry Kromitzki, but how could I
say a word against it, feeling as I do that I am guilty in regard
to Aniela. I was over-anxious to see you settled in life, and never
considered what might be the consequences for her. It is my fault,
and consequently I suffer not a little; I pray every day for the poor
child.

"After the ceremony they will immediately leave for Volhynia. Celina
remains with me for the present; she was thinking of Odessa, but I
will not let her go on any account. You know, my dear boy, how happy I
am when you are with me, but do not come now to Ploszow for Aniela's
sake; if you wish to see me I will come to you, but we must spare
Aniela now as much as we can."

Why deceive myself any longer? When I read that letter I felt as if I
could ram my head against the wall,--not in rage or jealousy but in
utter anguish.


23 June.

I cannot possibly fold my hands and let things take their own way.
This marriage must not take place; it would be too monstrous. To-day,
Thursday, I have sent a telegram to Sniatynski, entreating him by all
the powers to be at Cracow by Sunday. I shall leave here to-morrow. I
asked him not to mention the telegram to anybody. I will see him, talk
to him, and beg him to see Aniela in my name. I count much upon his
influence. Aniela respects and likes him very much. I did not apply to
my aunt, because we men understand one another better. Sniatynski, as
a psychologist, can make allowance for the phase of life I have been
passing through lately. I can tell him, too, about Laura; if I were
to mention such a thing to my aunt she would cross herself as if in
presence of the Evil One. I first wanted to write to Aniela; but a
letter from me would attract attention and cause a general confusion.
I know Aniela's straight-forwardness; she would show the letter to her
mother, who does not like me and might twist the words so as to suit
her own schemes, and Kromitzki would help her. Sniatynski must see
Aniela alone. His wife will help him. I hope he will undertake the
mission, though I am fully aware what a delicate task it is. I have
not slept for several nights. When I shut my eyes I see Aniela before
me,--her face, her eyes, her smile,--I even hear her voice. I cannot
go on like this.


CRACOW, 26 June.

Sniatynski has arrived. He has promised to do it,--good fellow, God
bless him for it! It is four o'clock at night, but I cannot sleep, so
I sit down to write, for I can do nothing else. We talked together,
discussed and quarrelled till three o'clock. Now he is sleeping in the
adjoining room. I could not at first persuade him to undertake the
mission. "My dear fellow," he said, "what right have I, a stranger, to
meddle in your family affairs, and such a delicate affair too? Pana
Aniela could reduce me to silence at once by saying, 'What business is
it of yours?'"

I assured him that Aniela would do nothing of that kind. I
acknowledged he was right in the main, but this was an exceptional
case, and general rules could not apply to it. My argument that it was
for Aniela's sake seemed to convince him most; but I think he is doing
it a little for my sake too; he seemed sorry, and said I looked very
ill. Besides, he cannot bear Kromitzki. Sniatynski maintains that
money speculations is the same as taking money out of somebody
else's pocket and put it in one's own. He takes many things amiss in
Kromitzki, and says of him: "If he had a higher or honester aim in
view I could forgive him; but he tries to gain money for the mere sake
of having it." Aniela's marriage is almost as repugnant to him as
to me, and his opinion is that she is preparing a wretched life for
herself. At my entreaties he promised to take the first train in the
morning.

The day after both he and his wife will go to Ploszow, and if they do
not find a chance of seeing Aniela alone, carry her off to Warsaw for
a few hours. He is going to tell Aniela how much I suffer, and that my
life is in her hands. He is able to do it. He will speak to her with a
certain authority, gently and persuasively; he will convince her that
a woman, however wounded her heart may be, has no right to marry the
man she does not love; that doing so she acts dishonestly, and is not
true to herself; that, likewise, she has no right to throw over the
man she loves, because in an access of jealousy he wrote a letter he
repents of now from the veriest depths of his heart.

Towards the end Sniatynski said to me:--

"I will do what you wish under one condition: you must pledge me your
word that in case my mission fails, you will not go to Ploszow and
make a scene which the ladies might pay for with their health; you may
write to Aniela if you wish, but you will not go, unless she gives you
permission."

What does he take me for? I promised unreservedly, but his words
increased my anxiety. But I count upon Aniela's heart and Sniatynski's
eloquence. Ah! how he can speak! He did not encourage my hopes, but I
can see he is hopeful himself. As a last resource he promised to get
Aniela to delay the marriage for six months. In that case the victory
is ours, for Kromitzki will draw back. I shall remember this day for
a long time. Sniatynski, when in presence of a real sorrow, can be as
gentle as a woman, and he was anxious to spare my feelings. Yet
it costs me something to lay bare even before such a friend my
madness,--weak points,--and put into his hands my whole fate, instead
of fighting it out by myself. But what does it all matter when Aniela
is in question?


27 June.

Sniatynski left early. I went with him to the station. On the way I
kept repeating various instructions as if he were an idiot. He said
teasingly that if he were successful in his mission, I would begin
again philosophizing. I felt a desire to shake him. He went away with
such a cheerful face I could swear he feels sure not to fail.

After his departure I went straight to St. Mary's Church, and I, the
sceptic, the philosopher, I who do not know, do not know, do not
know, had a mass offered in the names of Leon and Aniela. I not only
remained during mass in church, but put down here, black on white:
Perdition upon all my scepticism, philosophy, and my "I do not know!"


28 June.

It is one o'clock in the afternoon. Sniatynski and his wife are
starting for Ploszow. Aniela ought to agree at least to a postponement
of her marriage. Various thoughts cross my mind. That Kromitzki is
greedy for money there is not the slightest doubt; then why did he not
fix his attentions on a richer girl? Aniela's estate is large, but
encumbered with debts,--perhaps it was the landed property he wanted,
so as to secure himself a position and a citizenship. Yet Kromitzki,
with his reputation as a rich man, could have got all this, and money
with his wife besides. Evidently Aniela attracted him personally
and for some time. It is not to be wondered at that Aniela should
captivate any one.

And to think that she was waiting, as one waits for one's happiness or
salvation, for one word from me! My aunt says it, that she was lying
in wait for Chwastowski, to take the letters from him. A terrible fear
seizes me that all this may not be forgiven, and that I am doomed and
all those that are like me.


10 o'clock in the evening.

I had a terrible neuralgia in the head; it has passed now, but what
with the pain, the sleeplessness, and anxiety, I feel as if I were
hypnotized. My mind, open and excited on one point, concentrated upon
one thought, sees more clearly than it has ever done before how the
affair will end. It seems to me that I am at Ploszow; I listen to what
Aniela says to Sniatynski, and I cannot understand how I could buoy
myself up with false hopes. She has no pity on me. These are not mere
suppositions, they are a dead certainty. Truly, something strange is
going on with me. A terrible gravity has suddenly fallen upon me, as
if up to this moment I had only been a child,--and such a terrible
sadness. Am I going to be ill? I made Sniatynski promise to send me a
telegram. No message has as yet arrived, though, properly speaking, it
will not tell me anything new.


29 June.

The telegram has come. It contains these words: "It is of no
use,--pull yourself together and travel." Yes, I will do it. Oh,
Aniela!


Paris, 2 April.

It is some ten months since I put down anything in my journal; it had
become such a familiar friend that I missed it. But I said to myself:
what is the use of it? If I put down on paper thoughts worthy of a
Pascal; deeper than the ocean depth; loftier than the Alps,--it would
not change the simple fact that she is married. With that fact staring
at me, my hands dropped powerless. Sometimes life concentrates itself
in one object, not necessarily an important one; but if that fails us
we seem at a loss what to do with ourselves. It is strange,--almost
laughable,--but for a long time I remained in a state of mind in which
the most commonplace functions of life seemed irksome and useless,
and it took me some time to remember that I used to go to clubs and
theatres, shaved, dressed, and dined before I knew her. The first
months I travelled a great deal, straying as far as Iceland. The sight
of Swedish lakes, Norwegian fiords, and Icelandic geysers conveyed to
me no direct impressions; I only tried to imagine what Aniela would
have felt or said to such a view,--in short, I saw with her eyes,
thought her thoughts, and felt with her heart. And when presently I
remembered that she was Aniela no longer, but Pani Kromitzka, I went
straight to the nearest railway station or ship to go somewhere else,
as what I looked upon had ceased to interest me. It did not matter
to me in the least that I played a part in one of the so commonly
ridiculed dramas where thousands of fools have played the same parts
before. And death is a drama; and those who are entering its gates
think the world is coming to an end; and so it is,--for them.

I do not know, and will not enter into it now, whether my feeling
the first few months was one of fathomless despair. Everything is
relative. I know only that my whole being was absorbed by one woman,
and I understood for the first time the void created by the death of a
dearly loved being.

But gradually the habit--not the zest--of life recovered its vital
power. This is a common enough fact. I have known people, inwardly
intensely sad, without a grain of cheerfulness in their souls, yet
keep up an appearance of cheerfulness because they had once been
cheerful, and the habit clung to them. And time dulls the pain, and I
found an antidote to the poison. I read once, in a book of travels by
Farini, that the Caffres, when stung by a scorpion, cure themselves
by letting the scorpion sting them in the same place. Such a
scorpion,--such an antidote,--was for me, and is generally for most
people, the word, "It is done; there is no help for it."

It is done, therefore I suffer; it is done, and I feel relieved.
There is an anodyne in the consciousness that it cannot be helped. It
reminds me of the Indian carried away by the Niagara: he struggled
at first with all his strength against the current; but seeing the
hopelessness of his efforts, threw away his oar, laid himself down in
the bottom of the canoe, and began to sing. I am ready to sing now.
The Niagara Falls have that advantage--they crush the life out of a
man; there are others that throw him on a lonely barren shore without
water. This has happened to me.

The evil genius bent upon wrecking my life had not taken in account
one thing: a man crushed and utterly wretched cares less for himself
than a happy one. In presence of that indifference fate becomes more
or less powerless. I was and am still in that frame of mind that, if
angry Fortuna came to me in person, and said: "Go to perdition," I
should reply calmly: "Be it so,"--not out of sorrow for the loss of
Aniela, but from mere indifference to everything within or without me.

This is a special kind of armor which not only protects the man
himself, but also makes him dangerous to others. It is clear that
he who does not spare himself will not spare others. Even God's
commandment does not say: "Love thy neighbor more than thyself." It
does not follow that I mean to cut somebody's throat one of these
days. What I said has merely a theoretical bearing upon life in
general; nobody will be any the worse for it; for if indifference
diminishes altruism, it also lessens egoism. If I were to sleep
with my neighbor under the, same cloak, I should not surrender it
altogether; neither should I take it all to myself.

Dangerous, and even very dangerous, such a man as I am may become
when at length he is aroused from his lethargy, drawn forth from the
seclusion of his egotism, and forced into definite action. He then
acquires the precision of motion, and also the merciless power, of
an engine, I have gained that mechanical power. For some time I have
noticed that I impress others by my way of thinking and my will more
strongly than formerly, though I have not sought it in the least. The
everlasting source of weakness is love of self, vanity, and coquetry
in regard to others. Almost unconsciously everybody tries to please,
to gain sympathy; and towards that end often sacrifices his own
opinions and convictions. At present this coquetry, if not altogether
gone, is greatly diminished; and the indifference as to whether I
please or not gives me a kind of superiority over others. I have
noticed that during my travels, and especially now at Paris. There are
many here who at one time had an ascendency over me; now I have the
ascendency, for the very reason that I care less for it.

In a general way I look upon myself as a man who could be energetic
if he wished to exert himself; but the will acts in proportion to the
passions, and mine are in the passive state.

As the habit of giving an account to myself for my thoughts and
actions still remains with me, I explain in this way that in certain
conditions of life we may as strongly desire not to live, as in others
we should wish the contrary. Most likely my indifference springs from
this dislike of life. It is this which renders it different from the
apathy of such men as Davis.

It is quite certain that I have grown more independent than formerly,
and might say with Hamlet that there is something dangerous in
me. Fortunately nobody crosses my path. Everybody is as supremely
indifferent and cool towards me as I am in regard to them. Only my
aunt in far-away Ploszow loves me as of old; but I suppose even
her love has lost its active character, and there will be no more
match-making in my behalf.


3 April.

Alas! that indifference I compared to pure water without taste or
color is only apparently colorless. Looking more closely I perceive
tiny bubbles which dim its purity. They are my idiosyncrasies.
Everything else has left me and they remained. I do not love anybody,
have no active hatred towards any one, but am full of aversions in
regard to various people. One of these is Kromitzki. I do not hate him
because he has taken Aniela from me; I dislike him for his long, flat
feet, his thick knees, lank figure, and that voice like a coffee-mill.
He was always repulsive to me, and I mention the fact now because that
aversion has such a strange vitality in me. I cannot help thinking of
people who jar upon my nerves. If only Kromitzki and Pani Celina came
under that category, I might think those antipathies were hatred in
the disguise of aversion. But it is not so. There are others who have
roused at some time or other an aversion in me that clings quite as
perversely to my memory. As I cannot ascribe it to the state of my
health,--I never felt better in my life,--I explain it in this way:
The world has robbed me of my love, time has dried up hatred, and as
the living individual must feel something, I live upon what remains to
me. I must also say that he who feels and lives thus does not get a
surfeit of happiness.

My former sympathies have cooled down very considerably. To Sniatynski
I have taken a dislike which no reasoning on my part can overcome.
Sniatynski has many grand qualities and is pleasantly conscious of
them, which gives him, as painters express it, a certain mannerism. I
suppose it is exceedingly rare that a man who sees that his individual
characteristics impress people favorably does not fall in love with
his own type, and end by exaggerating it. Sniatynski consequently has
grown artificial, and for the sake of the pose sacrifices his innate
delicacy; as in case of the abrupt telegram he sent to Cracow, after
his mission with Aniela had failed,--his advice to travel, which I
should have done without it,--and I received another letter from him
at Christiania soon after Aniela's wedding, written in a friendly
spirit, but very abrupt and artificial. I might give its substance as
follows: "Panna Aniela is now Pani Kromitzka,--the thing is done; I am
sorry for you; do not think the bottom is falling out of the universe;
there are other things in the world of more importance, the deuce take
it. Norway must be splendid just now. Come back soon and set to work.
Good-by," and so forth. I do not repeat it word for word, but such was
the gist of the letter. It impressed me unpleasantly, first because
I had not asked Sniatynski to lend me his yard-measure to measure my
sorrow with; secondly, I had thought him a sensible man, and supposed
he understood that his "more important things" are merely empty words
unless they imply feelings and inclinations that existed before. I
wanted to write to him there and then and ask him to release me from
his spiritual tutelage, but thinking better of it did not answer
at all,--I fancy that is the easiest way of breaking off a
correspondence. Entering more minutely into the matter, I find that
neither his telegram nor his letter have caused my dislike. Properly
speaking, I cannot forgive him that for which I ought to feel
grateful,--his mediation between me and Aniela. I myself implored him
to undertake it, but exactly because I implored him, entrusted him
with my fate, confessed to him my weaknesses, and made him in a way my
protector, and because the humiliation and sorrow which overwhelmed me
passed through his hands,--this, perhaps, explains my dislike towards
him. I felt angry with myself, and angry with Sniatynski as having
a part in it. It is unjust, I know, but I cannot help it, and my
friendship for him has burned out like a candle.

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.

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.

As to Clara's feelings, Laura may be right. To-day I saw it clearer
than ever. If that be the case, I am grateful to her. For the first
time in my life I long for the pure friendship of a woman. A soul so
restless as mine will find solace and comfort in such a friendship.

We conversed together to-day, Clara and I, like old friends. Her
intelligence is not large, but clear and discerning between bad and
good, ugly and what she considers beautiful; consequently her judgment
is not shifty, but calm and serene. She has that kind of spiritual
healthiness often met with in Germans. Coming across them now and
then I observe that the type I belong to is very rare among them. The
Germans and the English are generally positive and know what they
want. They too are sounding the fathomless depth of doubt, but they
do it methodically as scientists, not as sensitive geniuses without
portfolio like me; in consequence of which their recent transcendental
philosophy, their present scientific pessimism, and their poetic
_Weltschmerz_ have only a theoretical meaning. Their everyday practice
consists in adapting themselves to the rules of life. According to
Hartmann, the more humanity gains in intensity and consciousness.
The more unhappy it grows. The same Hartmann, with the calmness of a
German _Cultur-träger_, becomes practical when he raises his voice
in favor of suppressing the Polish element as detrimental to German
supremacy. But, putting aside this incident, which belongs to the
category of human villanies, Germans do not take theories seriously,
and therefore are always calm and capable of action. This same
calmness Clara possesses. Things which rend and trouble human souls
must have come near her some time or other, but if so they left no
trace and were not absorbed by her; thus she never lost faith in
truth and in her art. If she has any deeper feeling for me than mere
friendship, the feeling is unconscious and does not ask for anything
in return. If it were otherwise, it would be the beginning of her
tragedy, as I could not return her love and might make her unhappy. I
am not so conceited as to think that no woman could resist me, but I
am of the opinion that no woman can resist the man she truly loves.
It is a trite saying that "a fortress besieged is a fortress
surrendered," but there is some truth in it when adapted to woman,
especially when behind the entrenchment of her virtues she harbors
such a traitor as her own heart. But Clara may rest tranquil. We shall
travel peacefully together: she, her old relative, myself, and the
dumb piano.


16 April.

I arrived at Warsaw three days ago, but have not been able to go to
Ploszow as, shortly after my arrival, I got a cold in my teeth and my
face is swollen. I do not wish to show myself to the ladies in that
state.

I have seen Sniatynski, and my aunt, who has welcomed me as the
prodigal son. Aniela arrived at Ploszow a week ago. Her mother is very
ill, so ill that the doctors who advised her to try Wiesbaden now
declare she could not bear the journey. She will therefore remain
at Ploszow until she recovers--or dies, and Aniela with her, until
Kromitzki winds up his business or thinks it proper to give her a
home. From what my aunt says this may take him some months. I tried to
get from my aunt as much news about Aniela as I could, which is easy
enough, as she speaks about her with perfect freedom. She simply
cannot understand how a married woman could excite any feeling except
in the way of relationship; or rather, she has never even considered
the question. She spoke openly about the sale of Aniela's home, which
she considers a great shame. She got so excited over it as to break
her watch-chain and let the watch roll on the floor.

"I will tell him so to his face," she said. "I would rather have lent
him the money had I known anything about it. Only what would have been
the use? His speculations are a gulf. I do not know whether any good
will come out of it, but in the meanwhile everything is swallowed up
in it. Let him only come, and I will tell him that he makes Aniela
unhappy, kills her mother, and will end in ruining them and himself."
I asked my aunt whether she had said anything about this to Aniela.

"To Aniela?" she replied. "I am glad you have come; it relieves my
mind and makes it easier to bear. I cannot speak about it with Aniela.
I tried it once when I could not contain myself any longer. I made
some remark and she grew very angry, then burst out crying and said,
'He was obliged, he was obliged, and could not help it.' She does not
allow anybody to say a word against him, and would like to cover all
his short-comings before the world; but she cannot deceive an old
woman like me, and I know that at the bottom of her heart she must
condemn him as I do."

"Do you mean she does not love him?"

My aunt looked at me in unfeigned surprise.

"Not love him? Of course she loves him. Whom should she love if not
him? That's just where the sting lies; she grieves because she loves
him. But one may love and yet have one's eyes open to what is wrong."

I had my own opinion on that point, but preferred not to express it,
and allowed my aunt to proceed.

"What I resent most in him are his lies. He assured Celina and Aniela
that in a year or two he would be able to buy the estate back. Just
tell me, is this possible? and those women believe he is in earnest!"

"According to my opinion it is quite impossible. Besides, he will go
on speculating."

"He knows it even better than we do, and yet he goes on lying to the
women."

"Perhaps he does it to relieve their anxiety."

My aunt grew angrier still.

"Relieve their anxiety! fiddlesticks! they would not have had any
anxiety if he had not sold it. Do not defend him, it is of no use.
Everybody blames him. Chwastowski was wild about it. He had looked
into the affairs, and says that without any ready money he could have
cleared the estate himself in a few years. I would have given the
money and so would you, would you not? and now it is too late."

Presently I inquired about Aniela's health, with a strange, troubled
foreboding I might hear something which, though perfectly natural
and in the order of things, would give a shock to my nerves. My aunt
caught the drift of my thoughts and replied with as much acerbity as
before:--

"There is nothing whatever the matter with her. All he could do
he did; that was to sell his wife's estate. No, there is nothing
expected."

I turned the conversation to something else. I told my aunt I had
arrived together with the celebrated pianist Miss Hilst, who, having
considerable means of her own, wished to give a few concerts gratis.
My aunt is a queer mixture of eccentricities. She began by abusing
Miss Hilst for not coming in winter, when the time for concerts was
more propitious; presently began considering that it was not too late
yet, and wanted to go and call upon her at once. I could scarcely
persuade her to put off her visit until I had told Miss Hilst about
it. My aunt is a patroness of several charitable institutions, and it
is with her a point of honor to get for them as much as she can at the
expense of other institutions, consequently was afraid somebody else
might forestall her with the artist.

When leaving me she asked, "When are you coming to stay at Ploszow?"

I replied that I was not going to stay there at all. I had thought of
that during the journey and came to the conclusion that it would be
better to have my headquarters at Warsaw. Ploszow is only six miles
from here, and I can go there in the morning and stay as long as I
like. It is indifferent to me where I live, and my living here will
prevent people talking. Besides, I do not want Pani Kromitzka to think
I am anxious to dwell under the same roof with her. I spoke of this to
Sniatynski, and saw that he fully agreed with me; he seemed anxious to
discuss Aniela with me. Sniatynski is a very intelligent man, but he
does not seem to understand that changed circumstances mean changed
relations, even between the best of friends. He came to me as if I
were the same Leon Ploszowski who, shaking in every limb, asked for
his help at Cracow; he approached me with the same abrupt sincerity,
desiring to plunge his hand up to his elbow under my ribs. I pulled
him up sharply, and he seemed surprised and somewhat angry. Presently
he fell in with my humor, and we talked together as if the last
meeting at Cracow had never taken place. I noticed, nevertheless,
that he watched me furtively, and not being able to make me out tried
indirect inquiry, with all the clumsiness of an author who is a
deep psychologist and reader of the human mind at his desk, and as
unsophisticated as any student in practical life. As Hamlet of yore, I
might have handed him a pipe and said, "Do you think I am easier to be
played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you
can fret me, yet you cannot play upon me."

I had been reading Hamlet the night before, as I have read it many a
time, and involuntarily these words came into my mind. It seems to
me surpassing strange that a man of my time, in whatever position or
complicated trouble of soul, should find so much analogy to himself
as I find in this drama, based upon Holinshed's sanguinary and gross
legend. Hamlet is the human soul as it was, as it is, and as it will
be. In conceiving this drama, Shakspeare overstepped the limit fixed
even for genius. I can understand Homer and Dante, studied by the
light of their epoch. I can comprehend that they could do what they
did; but how an Englishman of the seventeenth century could foreknow
psychosis, a science of recent growth, will be to me, in spite of my
study of Hamlet, an everlasting mystery.

Having mentally handed over to Sniatynski Hamlet's pipe, I recommended
to his care Miss Hilst, and then began to discuss his pet theories.
Upon his wanting to know what brought me back, I said it was the
longing for the country, and consciousness of unfulfilled duties
towards it. I said it in a careless, off-hand way, and Sniatynski
looked puzzled, not knowing whether I spoke seriously or mockingly.
And again the same phenomenon of which I spoke in Paris repeated
itself here. The moral ascendency he had gained over me gradually
disappeared. He did not know himself what to think, but he saw the
old key would not serve any longer. When he said good-by I again
recommended to him Miss Hilst. He looked at me keenly.

"Do you attach much importance to her success?"

"Yes, very much. She is a person I hold in great esteem, and have much
friendship for."

In this way I centred all his attention on Miss Hilst. Most likely he
thought I had fallen in love with her. He went away angry, and could
not disguise his feelings. He shut the door sharply; and when I
accompanied him as far as the staircase, and turned back to the
anteroom, I heard him descending the staircase, taking four steps at
once, and whistling,--which he always does when angry. Besides, it was
quite true, what I said about Miss Hilst. I wrote to-day to Clara,
explaining why I had not been to see her, and received a reply at
once. She is delighted with Warsaw, and especially its inhabitants.
All the musical world has called upon her, and they are vying with
each other in politeness and offers of help. Whether they would
be quite as enthusiastic had she come to settle here, is another
question; but Clara has the gift to win friends wherever she goes. She
has already seen something of the town, and was much charmed with the
Sazienki Park and Palace. I am glad she likes it,--the more so as
the country, soon after crossing the frontier, seemed to her rather
depressing. Truly, only those born on the soil can find any charm in
the vast solitary plains, where the eye finds very little to rest
upon. Clara, looking through the carriage window, said more than once:
"Ah! I can understand Chopin now!" She is utterly mistaken,--she does
not understand Chopin and his feelings, any more than she is in touch
with his native land. I, though a cosmopolitan by education, by
atavism understand our nature, and am surprised myself at the spell
a Polish spring casts upon me, and it seems as if I could never
feel tired of it. Properly speaking, what does the view consist of?
Sometimes, on purpose, I put myself into a stranger's place,--a
painter's, having no preconceived ideas about it, and look at it with
his eyes. The landscape then makes upon me the impression as if a
child had drawn it, or a savage, who had no notion about drawing. Flat
fallow-land, wet meadows, huts with their rectangular outline, the
straight poplars around country-seats on the distant horizon, a broad,
flat plain, finished off with a belt of woods,--that "ten miles of
nothing," as the Germans call it; all this reminds me of a first
attempt at drawing landscape. There is scarcely enough for a
background. From the moment I cease looking upon it with a stranger's
eyes, I begin to feel the simplicity of the view, incorporate myself
with that immense breadth, where every outlined object melts into the
far distance, as a soul in Nirvana; it has not only the artistic
charm of primitiveness, but it acts soothingly upon me. I admire the
Apennines; but my spirit is not in touch with them, and sooner or
later they become wearisome. The human being finds a resting-place
only where he is in harmony with his surroundings; and is reminded
that his soul and the soul of nature are of the same organization.
Homesickness springs from the isolation of the soul from its
surroundings. It appears to me that the principle of psychical
relationship could be applied in a still wider sense. It may seem
strange that I, brought up in foreign lands, permeated by their
culture, should harbor such views; but I go farther still, and say
a foreign woman, even the most beautiful, appears to me more as a
species of the female kind than a soul.

I remember what I wrote at one time concerning Polish women, but one
statement does not contradict the other; I may perceive their faults,
and yet feel myself nearer to them than to strangers. Besides, my old
opinions--at least, the greater part of them--are now in tatters, like
a worn-out garment.

But enough of this! I notice with a certain shame and surprise
that all I have been writing has been done in order to distract my
thoughts. Yes, that is true. I speak about landscapes, homesickness,
and so forth, while all my thoughts are at Ploszow. I did not want to
acknowledge it, even to myself. I feel restless, and something seems
to weigh me down. It is very probable that my going there and the
getting over the first meeting will be easier and far simpler than I
imagine. Expectancy of anything is always oppressive. When a young
lad, I had a duel; and on the eve of the day I felt troubled. Then,
too, I tried to think of something else, and could not manage it.
My thoughts are not at all tender, not even friendly, towards Pani
Kromitzka; but they swarm around me like angry bees, and I cannot
drive them away.


17 April.

I have been to Ploszow, and found things very different indeed from
what I had pictured to myself. I left Warsaw at seven in the morning
in a cab, counting I should be in Ploszow by eight. The oppressive
feeling still remained with me. I had said to myself that I would not
make any plans about that first meeting, or my future bearing towards
her. Let chance be my guide. But I could not help speculating how
it would be,--how she would greet me, what she would try to make me
understand, and what our future relation to each other would be. Not
having formed any plans of my own, I fancied, I do not know why that
she would want to act according to a well-defined system. Trying to
fathom this, I felt almost inimical towards her. Then again, at the
thought that the meeting might cause her pain, I felt something akin
to pity, and seemed to see her before me as she used to be. I saw
distinctly the low brow with the wealth of auburn hair, the long
eyelashes, and the small, delicate face. I tried to guess how
she would be dressed. Memories came back of words she had said,
expressions of the face, graceful motions, dresses. With strange
pertinacity, the one memory remained with me,--her coming into the
room after she had tried to disguise her emotion by applying powder
to her face. At last these memories became so vivid as to equal a
second-sight. "There she is again," I said to myself; and in order to
pull myself together, I began talking to the driver, and asked him
whether he were married; whereupon he replied that without the old
woman at home, there would be no go, then said something I did not
hear, as I had caught sight of the Ploszow poplars in the distance. I
had not paid any heed to the time we had been on the road.

At the sight of Ploszow I felt more troubled still, and my eagerness
increased. I tried to pay attention to outward things, changes that
had taken place during my absence, and look at the new buildings on
the road. I repeated to myself mechanically that the weather was very
fine, and the spring exceptionally early this year. And indeed, the
weather was magnificent; the morning air was crisp and transparent;
near the cottages the apple-trees, in full bloom, were scattering
their petals like snowflakes on the grass; it was like a long line of
pictures by the modern school of painters. Wherever the eye turned,
there was that luminous _plein-air_ in the midst of which moved the
figures of people working in the fields or near their cottages. I saw
it all, observed every detail; but, strange to say, I was not able to
take it in, or give myself up to it altogether. The impressions had
lost their absorbing power, and remained only on the surface of the
brain, the brain itself being full of other thoughts. In this state of
divided attention I approached Ploszow.

Presently the cool air of the lime avenue fanned my face, and I saw
at the other end, far off, the windows of the house. The scattered,
futile thoughts hammered and knocked louder than ever at my brain. I
stopped the driver from going straight to the house, and dismissed
him, I do not know why, at the gate. Followed by his thanks, I went on
foot straight towards the veranda. I cannot explain to myself why I
felt so troubled, unless it was that within these well-known walls
something unknown was awaiting me, which was in close connection with
the tragic past. Crossing the courtyard, I felt such a weight upon my
chest that it obstructed my breath. "What the deuce is the matter with
me?" said I, inwardly. As I had dismissed the cab, nobody had heard me
coming. The hall was empty; I went in to the dining-room to wait until
the ladies came down.

I knew they would come soon, as the table was laid for breakfast,
and the samovar, whispering and growling, was sending coils of steam
aloft. Again not the slightest detail escaped my notice. I observed
that the room was cool and comparatively dark, as the windows faced
the north. For a moment my attention was fixed on the three luminous
streaks the light from the windows made upon the polished floor. I
looked at the carved sideboard I remembered since a child, and then
recalled the conversation I had in this same room with Sniatynski, and
we looked through the window at his wife and Aniela, in fur boots,
coming from the hot-houses.

At last a feeling of great solitude and sadness overcame me, and
I went close to the window to get more light and make further
observations in the garden. But all this did not restore my balance of
mind. The only real thought my mind was full of was that I should meet
her in a few minutes. There are people who out of fear are capable of
the most heroic deeds. With me it is different. Fear, uncertainty
of what may come next, rouses me to anger. This happened now. The
difference between the old Aniela and the present Pani Kromitzka
impressed itself upon me more forcibly than ever. "If you borrowed the
very moonbeams for your head-dress, if you were a hundred times
more beautiful than my fancy can paint, you would be as nothing to
me,--less than nothing, because an object of aversion." My anger rose
still, for I fancied that she would come to me in order to point out
my guilt, my wrong-doing; that she would be still desirable, but
unapproachable. "We shall see," I replied inwardly, under the vivid
impression that with this woman there was awaiting me a duel; a
struggle in which I should lose and gain at the same time,--lose the
haunting memories and regain peace. At that moment I felt the power to
overcome any obstacles, repulse any attack.

Then the door opened quietly, and Aniela came in.

At the sight of her I felt my brain in a whirl, and my finger-tips
grew icy cold. The being before me bore the name of Pani Kromitzka,
but had the sweet, hundred times beloved features and inexpressible
charm of the Aniela I had known. In the chaotic bewilderment of my
brain there was only one sound I heard distinctly: "Aniela! Aniela!
Aniela!" And she did not see me, or took me for somebody else as I
stood against the light. But when I drew nearer, she raised her eyes
and stood still as if turned into stone. I cannot even describe the
expression of sudden terror, confusion, emotion, and humility which
shone in her face. She had grown white to the lips, and I was afraid
she might faint. When I took her hand it felt as cold as ice. I had
expected anything but that. I thought she would let me know in some
way or other that she was Pani Kromitzka, but there was nothing of the
sort. She stood before me moved, frightened, my former little Aniela.
It was I who had made her unhappy,--I who was guilty, a hundred times
guilty; and at this moment she looked at me as if she herself asked
to be forgiven. The old love, contrition for the past, and pity
overwhelmed me to such a degree that I almost lost my head, and
thought I must take her into my arms, and soothe her with endearing
words, as one soothes a beloved being. I was so agitated by the
unexpected meeting, not with Pani Kromitzka, but Aniela, that I
could only press her hand in silence. And yet I felt obliged to say
something; therefore, pulling myself together, I said, as if in
somebody else's voice,--

"Did aunt not tell you I was coming?"

"Yes; she told me," said Aniela, with an evident effort.

And then we fell back into silence. I felt that I ought to ask after
her mother, and about herself, but could not force myself to do so.
I wished from my soul somebody would come and deliver us from this
position. Presently my aunt came in with the young Doctor Chwastowski,
the agent's son, who for a month past has had the care of Pani Celina.
Aniela slipped away to pour out the tea, and I began to talk with my
aunt. I had recovered my presence of mind entirely when we sat down to
breakfast. I began now to inquire after Pani Celina's health. My aunt,
telling me about her, appealed every moment to the doctor, who turned
to me with that peculiar shade of superciliousness with which a newly
patented scientist treats outsiders, and at the same time with the
watchfulness of a democrat who is afraid of slights where none are
intended. He appeared to me very conceited; and after all, I treated
him with far greater politeness than he exhibited towards me. This
amused me a little, and helped to keep my thoughts, which the sight
of Aniela confused, under control. From time to time I looked at her
across the table, and repeated to myself: "The same features, the same
little face, the same low brow shaded by a wealth of hair; it is the
same Aniela, almost a little girl, my love, my happiness; and now lost
to me forever." There was inexpressible sweetness in the sensation,
mingled with exquisite pain. Aniela, too, had recovered from her
emotion, but looked still frightened. I tried to draw her into
conversation, speaking about her mother. I was partly successful; she
seemed a little more at ease, and said,--

"Mamma will be very glad to see you."

I permitted myself a doubt as far as her mother was concerned, but
listened to her voice with half-closed eyes; it was sweeter to me than
any music.

We were conversing more freely every moment. My aunt was in excellent
spirits,--first, because of seeing me once more at Ploszow, and also
because she had seen Clara and got from her the promise of a concert.
When leaving the artist she had met two other ladies, patronesses of
charitable institutions, ascending the staircase bent on the same
errand. They were too late, and that had put her in a high good-humor.
She asked me a great many questions about Clara, who had made an
excellent impression upon her. Towards the end of breakfast, to
satisfy my aunt's curiosity, I had to say something about my travels.
She was amazed to hear I had been as far as Iceland, and asked what it
looked like; she then remarked,--

"One must be desperate to go to such places as that."

"Yes; I did not feel very cheerful when I went."

Aniela looked at me for a moment, and there was that hunted,
half-frightened expression in her eyes again. If she had put her hand
upon my naked heart she could not have given it a sharper pull. The
more I had prepared myself for an exhibition of triumphant coldness
and satisfaction at my disappointment, the more I felt crushed now by
that angelic compassion. All my calculations and foresight had been
put to naught. I supposed she could not help showing herself off as a
married woman. And now I had to remind myself that she was married;
but in the recollection there was no loathing, nothing but
inexpressible sorrow.

It is in my nature that in every moral suffering I try to reopen my
wounds. I wanted to do that even now by speaking about her husband;
but I could not do it. It seemed to me cruel, almost a profanation.
Instead of that I said that I should like to see her mother, if she
were able to receive me. Aniela went to see, and presently came back
and said,--

"Mamma will be pleased to see you."

We crossed to the other side of the house, my aunt going with us. I
wanted to say a kind word to Aniela so as to put her more at ease; but
my aunt was in the way; presently I thought it would be even better if
I said it within my aunt's hearing. Near the door, leading into Pani
Celina's rooms, I stopped and, turning to Aniela, said,--

"Give me your hand, my dear little sister."

Aniela put her hand into mine; I saw her eyes lighting up with
gratitude for the words "little sister," and the pressure of her hand
seemed to say:--

"Oh! let us be friends! let us forgive each other!"

"I hope you two will agree together," muttered my aunt.

"We shall, we shall; he is so good!" replied Aniela.

And truly, my heart was very full of good-will at that moment.

Entering Pani Celina's room, I greeted her very cordially, but she
replied with a certain constraint, and I am sure she would have
received me with still greater coldness had she not feared to
offend my aunt. But I was not hurt by this; her resentment is quite
justifiable. Maybe, in her mind, she connects me with the loss of her
estate, and thinks all this would not have happened if I had acted
differently. I found her much changed. For some time she has been
confined to her invalid chair, on which they wheel her on fine days
into the garden. Her face, always delicate, looked as if moulded in
wax. There are still traces that show how beautiful she must have
been, and at the same time so unhappy.

I asked after her health, and expressed the hope that, with the return
of the fine weather, she would soon recover her strength. She listened
with a sad smile, and shook her head; two tears rolled silently down
her face.

Then, fixing her sad eyes upon me, she said,--

"You know Gluchow has been sold?"

This evidently is the thought ever present,--her continual sorrow and
gnawing trouble.

When Aniela heard the question she grew very red. It was a painful
blush, because a blush of shame and sorrow.

"Yes, I have heard," I said quickly. "Perhaps it can be recovered; if
so, nothing is lost; and if not, you must submit to God's will."

Aniela cast a grateful glance at me, and Pani Celina said,--

"I have lost all hope."

It was not true; she still clung to the delusion that the estate might
be recovered. Her eyes looked hungrily at me, waiting for the words
which might confirm her secret hopes. I resolved to gratify her wish,
and said,--

"It seems to have been a case of necessity, and I do not see how any
one can be blamed for it. Yet there are no obstacles which cannot be
overcome where there is a will and adequate means. Sometimes it has
happened that a sale has been invalidated in law from some omission of
formality."

By the bye, this was not strictly true; but I saw it was balm to
Pani Celina's sore heart. I had also stood up for Kromitzki, without
mentioning his name, which neither of the others had done in my
presence.

To say the truth it was not generosity which prompted me, but rather a
desire to conciliate Aniela, and show myself before her in the light
of goodness and nobility.

And Aniela was grateful; for, when we had left the room, she came out
to me, and, stretching out her hand, said,--

"Thank you for being so good to mamma."

For all answer I raised her hand to my lips.

My aunt too seemed touched by my goodness. I left her and, lighting a
cigar, went into the park for a quiet stroll to collect my thoughts
and impressions; but I met there the young doctor who was taking
his morning constitutional. As I wished to conciliate every one at
Ploszow, I went up to him, and asked him, with the special regard due
to science and authority, what he thought about Pani Celina's chances
of regaining her health. I saw that this flattered him a little, and
gradually he began to lose some of his democratic stiffness, and
enlarged upon the theme of Pani Celina's illness with the ready
eagerness of a young scientist who has had no time yet to doubt his
powers. In speaking, he used every now and then Latin expressions, as
if addressing a colleague. His strong, healthy frame, a certain power
of speech and eye impressed me favorably. I saw in him a type of that
new generation Sniatynski at one time had spoken of to me. Walking
along the avenues, we had one of the so-called intellectual
conversations, which consist a great deal in quoting names of books
and authors. Chwastowski is thoroughly acquainted with certain
subjects; but I have read more, and this seemed to astonish him not a
little. At moments he looked almost vexed, as if he considered it an
encroachment upon his own territory that I, an aristocrat, should know
so much about certain books and authors. But then again I won his
approbation by the liberality of my opinions. My liberality consists
merely in a kind of tolerance for other people's views, and looking
upon them without party feeling; and that from a man of my position
and wealth was sufficient to win over the young radical. At the end
of our conversation we felt towards each other as men do who have
understood each other, and agreed on many points.

Most likely I shall be the exception of the rule as regards Doctor
Chwastowski. As in my country every nobleman has his particular Jew in
whom he believes,--though he dislikes the race in general,--so every
democrat has his aristocrat for whom he feels a special weakness.

When going away I asked Doctor Chwastowski about his brothers. He said
that one of them had a brewery at Ploszow, which I knew already from
my aunt's letter; a second had a bookshop at Warsaw; and a third,
who had been at a mercantile school, had gone as assistant with Pan
Kromitzki to the East.

"It is the brewer who has the best of it just now," he said; "but
we all work, and in time shall win good positions. It was lucky our
father lost his fortune; otherwise every one of us would sit on his
bit of land 'glebae adscripti,' and in the end lose it as my father
did."

In spite of the preoccupation of my mind I listened with a certain
interest. "There are, then," I said to myself, "people that are neither
over-civilized nor steeped in ignorance. There are those that can do
something and thus form the intermediate, healthy link between decay
and barbarism." It is possible that this social strata mostly exists
in bigger towns, where it is continually recruited by the influx
of the sons of bankrupt noblemen, who adapt themselves to burgher
traditions of work, and bring to it strong nerves and muscles. I then
recalled what Sniatynski once said when I left him: "From such as you
nothing good can come; your fathers must first lose all they have,
else even your grandsons will not work." And here are Chwastowski's
sons who take to it, and push on in the world by help of their own
strong shoulders. I, too, perhaps, had I no fortune, should have to do
something, and should acquire that energy of decision in which I have
been wanting all my life.

The doctor left me presently as he had another patient at Ploszow, a
young cleric from the Warsaw seminary, the son of one of the Ploszow
peasants. He is in the last stage of consumption. My aunt has given
him a room in one of the out-buildings, where she and Aniela look
after him. When I heard of this I went to pay him a visit, and
instead of the dying man I expected to see, I found a young, rather
thin-looking lad, but bright and full of life. The doctor says it
is the last flicker of the lamp. The young cleric was nursed by his
mother, who, upon seeing me, overwhelmed me with a shower of gratitude
copious enough to drown myself in.

Aniela did not visit the sick man that day, but remained with her
mother. I saw her only at dinner, at which also the mother was present
in her invalid's chair. It is only natural that Aniela should devote
her time to her mother, and yet I fancy she does it partly to avoid
being alone with me. In time our mutual relations will establish
themselves upon an easier footing, but I quite understand that at
first it will be a little awkward. Aniela has so much intelligence of
heart, so much goodness and sensibility, that she cannot look upon our
present position with indifference, and has not worldly experience
enough to preserve an appearance of ease. This practice comes with
later years, when the live spring of feelings begins to dry up and the
mind acquires a certain conventionality.

I had let Aniela see there was no resentment in my heart towards her,
and I shall not allude even to the past, and for that reason did not
try to see her alone. In the evening during tea we discussed general
topics. My aunt questioned me about Clara, who interests her very
much. I told her all I knew about her, and from that we drifted into
conversation about artists generally. My aunt looks upon them as
people sent into the world by kind Providence to give performances for
the benefit of charitable institutions. I maintained that artists,
provided their hearts were pure and not filled with vanity and love of
self, might be the happiest creatures in the world, as they are always
in contact with something infinite and absolutely perfect. From life
comes all evil, from art only happiness. This was, indeed, my point of
view, supported by observation. Aniela agreed with me, and if I took
note of the conversation it is because I was struck by a remark of
Aniela's, simple in itself, but to me full of meaning. When we spoke
about the contentment arising from art she said: "Music is a great
consoler."

I saw in this involuntary confession that she is unhappy, and is
conscious of it. Besides, in regard to that, I never had any doubts.
Even the face is not the face of a happy woman. If anything, it is
more beautiful than before,--apparently calm, even serene; but there
is none of that light which springs from inward happiness, and there
is a certain preoccupation that was not there formerly. In the course
of the day I noticed that her temples have a slight yellow tint like
that of ivory. I looked at her with an ever renewed delight, comparing
her to the Aniela of the past. I could not get enough of this
exchange of memories with reality. There is something so irresistibly
attractive in Aniela that had I never seen her before, if she were
among thousands of beautiful women and I were told to choose, I should
go straight to her and say: "This one and no other." She answers
so exactly to the feminine prototype every man carries in his
imagination. I fancy she must have noticed that I watched and admired
her.

I left at dusk. I was so shaken by the sensations of the day, so
utterly different from all my preconceived ideas, that I had lost the
power of dissecting my thoughts. I expected to find Pani Kromitska,
and found Aniela; I put it down once more. God only knows what will
be the consequence of this for us both. When I think of it I have the
sensation of a great happiness, and also a slight disappointment. And
yet I was right, theoretically, in expecting those psychical changes
which necessarily take place in a woman after she is married, and I
might easily be led to think she would show in some way that she was
glad she had not chosen me. There is not another woman who would have
denied herself that satisfaction of vanity. And as I know myself, my
sensitiveness and my nerves, I could take my oath on it, that if such
had been the case I should have been now full of bitterness, anger,
and sarcasm,--but cured. In the mean while, things have fallen
out differently,--altogether differently. She is a being of such
unfathomable goodness and simplicity that the measure I have for
goodness is not large enough for her.

What will happen next, what will happen to me or to her, I cannot say.
My life might have run on quietly towards that ocean where all life is
absorbed,--now it may run like a cataract down to a precipice. Let it
be so. At the worst I can only be a little more unhappy, that is
all. Until now I have not been lying on a bed of roses, with that
consciousness of my useless life continually before me.

I do not remember; somebody, was it my father? said that there must
always be something growing within us, that such is the law of
nature. It is true. Even in the desert the forces of life hidden in
the depth bring forth palms in the oasis.


21 April.

I live nominally at Warsaw, but have spent four consecutive days at
Ploszow. Pani Celina is better, but the cleric Latyzs died the day
before yesterday. Doctor Chwastowski says it was a splendid case of
pulmonary consumption, and with difficulty conceals his satisfaction
that he foretold the exact course of the disease up to the last hour.
We had been to see the young man twelve hours before he died. He was
quite merry with us, and full of hope because the fever had left him,
which was only a sign of weakness. Yesterday, when sitting with Aniela
on the veranda, the cleric's mother came up to tell us about his
death, in her own quaint way, in which sorrow blended with quiet
submission to the inevitable. In my pity for her, there was a great
deal of curiosity, for up to now I had not much occasion to see
anything of the inner life of the peasants. What quaint expressions
they use! I tried to remember her words in order to note them down.

She embraced my knees, then Aniela's, after which she put the outside
of her hands over her eyes, and began to wail: "O little Jesus,
dear--O Maria, holiest of Virgins! He is dead, my poor lamb, dead! He
was eager to see the Lord face to face; more eager than to stop with
his little father and mother! Nothing could hold him back, not even
the ladies' cares! Wine he had in plenty, and good food, and that
could not save him; O little Jesus, dear! O holiest of Virgins! O
Jesus mine!"

In her voice there was certainly a mother's sorrow! but what struck me
most was the modulation of the voice, as if set to some local music. I
never heard before the peasants lament their dead, but I am quite
sure they all do it in more or less the same way, as if according to
certain rules.

Tears were trembling on Aniela's eyelashes, and with that peculiar
goodness only women are capable of, she began to inquire into the
details of his death, guessing that it would soothe the poor woman to
speak about it.

And in fact she began at once most eagerly:--

"When the priest had left him I said thus: 'Whether you die or not is
in God's hands! You are nicely prepared now, so lay ye down and go to
sleep.' Says he: 'Very well, little mother,' and fell in a doze, and
I too; as, not reproaching the Lord with it, I had not had a proper
sleep for three nights. At the first crow my old man comes in and
wakes me; thus we were both sitting there, and he still asleep. I says
to the old man: 'Is he gone?' and he says, 'Happen and he is gone.' I
pulled him by the hand; he opened his eyes and said: 'I feel better
now.' Then he remained quite still for about five _paters_ and _aves_,
and smiled toward the ceiling. This made me angry, and I says: 'Oh,
you good-for-nothing, how can you laugh at my misery? But he only
smiled at death, not at my misery, for he began breathing very hard,
and that was all he did until the sun rose."

She began moaning again, and then invited us to come and see the body,
as he was dressed already, and looked as beautiful as a picture.
Aniela wanted to go at once, but I held her back; besides, the woman
had already forgotten all about it, and began now lamenting her
poverty. Her husband, it seems, had been a well-to-do peasant
proprietor, but they had spent every bit of money upon their son's
education. Acre after acre had been bought by the neighbors, and at
present they had nothing but the hut,--no land whatever. One thousand
two hundred roubles he had cost them. They had hoped to find a shelter
for their old age with him at a parsonage, and now God had taken him.
The old woman declared, with all the stoicism of the peasant, that
they had already made their plans, and would go a begging. She seemed
not afraid of it, and spoke of it with a kind of half-concealed
satisfaction. She was only afraid the community might raise
difficulties about the certificate, which, for some reason unknown
to me, seemed to be necessary for the new profession. Hundreds of
realistic details mingled with the calling upon the Lord Jesus, the
Holy Virgin, and laments over the dead son. Aniela went into the
house, and returned presently with some money for the woman. I
arrested her hand; another idea, I thought good at the time, had
crossed my mind.

"So you spent a thousand two hundred roubles on your son?" I said to
the woman.

"That's so, please the gracious Pan. We thought when he got his church
we would go and live with him. The Almighty willed it otherwise; no
church for us now, but the church door" (place where beggars sit).

"I will give you the thousand two hundred roubles; you can buy some
land if you like, and start fresh again."

I should have given it at once, but had not enough money by me; I
intended to take it from my aunt, and told the woman to come back for
it in an hour. She stared at me with wide-open eyes, without saying a
word, and then with a cry fell down at my feet. But I got rid of her
and her gratitude very soon, as she was in a hurry to be off to tell
her husband the good news.

I remained alone with Aniela, who seemed moved deeply, and who
repeated:--

"How good you are! how good you are!"

"There is not much goodness in it," I said in a careless manner. "I
did not do it for these people I have seen for the first time in my
life. I did it because you care for them,--to please you." It was
true; they did not interest me more than any other people would in
the same position, but I would have given ten times as much to please
Aniela. I said it on purpose, as words like these said to a woman
carry a deep meaning. It is almost the same as if I told her, "I would
do anything for you, because you are everything to me." And, moreover,
no woman can defend herself against a tacit confession such as this,
or has any right to be offended. I had disguised the meaning, treating
it as the most natural thing in the world; but Aniela perceived the
drift, and lowering her eyes in evident confusion, said: "I must go
back now to mamma," and left me alone.

I am quite aware that in acting thus I introduce a disturbing element
into Aniela's soul. I perceive, too, with surprise, that if, on the
one hand, my conscience cries out against this wilful destroying of
the peace of the one being for whom I would give my life, on the other
hand, it causes me a savage delight, as if thereby I satisfied man's
innate instinct of destruction. I have also the conviction that no
consciousness of evil, or sting of conscience, will stop me. I am too
headstrong to let anything stand in my way, especially in presence of
that powerful, inexpressible spell she has cast upon me. I am now as
that Indian who threw away his oar, and gave himself up to fate. I
do not reflect now that it was my fault, that all might have been so
different, and that I had only to stretch out my hand to secure
the happiness I am now yearning for in vain. But it could not be
otherwise. I have come to the conclusion that generations which had
lost all vital power, have made me what I am; that nothing remains but
to cast away the oars and let myself drift with the current.

This morning we three--my aunt, Aniela, and I--went to the funeral of
the young cleric.

It was a strange sight, this village procession headed by the priest,
the coffin on a cart, followed by a crowd of peasants, men and women
who were singing a tune sad and weird as if set to some Chaldean
music. At the furthest end, the men and women were talking to each
other in a drawling, half-sleepy way. Going along, among the rowan
trees, the procession came now and then into the glare of the sun, and
then the kerchiefs flashed into flames of blue, and red, and yellow,
which but for the coffin and the incense of juniper berries, made the
procession rather look like a wedding than a funeral. Death does not
seem to make much impression upon the rustic mind; perhaps they regard
it in the light of an everlasting holiday. As we stood by the open
grave, I noticed their faces following the ceremony with concentrated
attention and curiosity; but I saw no trace of thoughtfulness or
reflection at the inexorable end, after which begins the great,
terrible Unknown.

I looked at Aniela as she stooped for a handful of soil to throw upon
the lowered coffin. She was paler than usual, and with the sun shining
upon her I could read the transparent features as an open book. I was
certain she was thinking of her own death. To me it seemed simply
monstrous, a horrible improbability, that this face so full of
expression, so full of life and charming individuality, should at some
time be stony white and remain in eternal darkness.

And as if a sudden frost had nipped all my thoughts, I grew suddenly
conscious that the first ceremony I assisted at with Aniela was a
funeral. As a person in long sickness, having lost faith in medicine,
turns to quack doctors and wise women, so the sick soul, doubting
everything, still clings to certain superstitions.

Probably no one is so near the gulf of mysticism as the absolute
sceptic. Those who have lost faith in religious and sociological
ideals, those whose belief in the power of science and the human
intellect is shaken, that whole mass of highly cultured people,
uncertain of their way, deprived of all dogmas, hopelessly struggling
in the dark, drift more and more towards mysticism. It seems to spring
up everywhere,--the usual reaction of a society whose life is based
upon positivism, the overthrow of ideals, empty pleasures, and
soulless striving after gain. The human spirit begins to burst its
shell, which is too narrow, too much like a stock exchange. One epoch
draws to an end, and then appears a simultaneous evolution in all
directions. It has struck me often with amazement that, for instance,
the more recent great writers seem not to know how very close upon
mysticism they are. Some of them are conscious of it, and confess so
openly. In every book I opened lately, I found, not the human soul,
will, and personal passions, but merely fatal forces with all
the characteristics of terrible beings, independent of personal
manifestations, living alone within themselves, like Goethe's
"Mother."

As regards myself, I too come near the brink. I see it and am not
afraid. The abyss attracts; personally it attracts me so much that if
I could I would go to the very bottom, and will some time when I am
able.


28 April.

I intoxicate myself with the life at Ploszow, the daily sight of
Aniela, and forget that she belongs to somebody else. Kromitzki, who
is somewhere at Baku, or further still, appears to me as something
unreal, a being deprived of real existence, something bad that might
come down upon us, as for instance, death, but of which one does not
think continually. But yesterday something happened to bring him
before my mind. It was a small and apparently most natural incident.
Aniela received at breakfast two letters. My aunt asked whether they
were from her husband, and she replied, "Yes." Hearing that, I felt
the sensation a condemned man may feel when they rouse him from
a sweet dream in order to tell him to have his hair cut for the
guillotine. I saw my whole misfortune more distinctly than ever
before, and the sensation remained with me the whole day, especially
as my aunt, quite unconsciously, of course, was bent upon torturing me
further. Aniela wanted to put off the reading of the letters, but
my aunt insisted upon her opening them, and presently inquired how
Kromitzki was.

"Thank you, aunty, he is very well."

"And how are his affairs going on?"

"Thank God! he writes that everything prospers beyond expectation."

"When does he think of coming back?"

"He says as soon as he can possibly manage."

And I, with my sensitiveness, had to listen to these questions and
answers. If my aunt and Aniela had started unexpectedly a quite
improbable cynical conversation it could not have shocked me more.
The first time since my arrival at Ploszow I felt something like
resentment towards Aniela. "Have a little mercy at least, and do not
speak of that man in my presence; do not return thanks for being asked
after him, and say 'Thank God!' because he is prosperous," I thought.
In the mean time she had opened the second letter, and looking at the
date, said: "It has been written at an earlier date;" then began
to read. I looked at the bowed head, the parting of the hair, the
drooping lashes--and it seemed to me that the reading lasted very
long. I thought what a world of mutual interests and aims bound these
two together, and that for some indispensable reason they must feel
that they belonged to each other. I felt that I had no part in it, and
that by force of circumstances I should always be outside her life
even if I won her love. Up to now I had felt the depth of my misery
as one sees the depth of a precipice veiled by clouds. Now the mist
lifted, I looked down and comprehended its whole extent.

My nature is so constituted that under great pressure it resists. Up
to the present my love had not dared to ask for anything, but at this
moment hatred began to clamor loudly for the abolition of merciless
laws, those ties and bondages. Aniela did not read many minutes, but
during that time I ran through a whole gamut of tortures, because
other thoughts relating to my self-analysis and criticism were
haunting me. I said to myself that the agitation, the very bitterness
I felt, were nothing but the ridiculous characteristics of female
ill-humor. How is it possible to live with nerves such as mine? If
such a simple thing as a letter from the husband to his wife makes you
lose your balance, what will happen when he himself comes to claim
her?

I said to myself: "I will kill him!" and at the same time I felt the
ridiculousness and folly of the answer.

Aniela having finished her letters noticed at once that something was
amiss, and looked at me with troubled eyes. Hers is one of those sweet
dispositions that cannot bear to see unfriendly faces, or live in an
atmosphere of cold displeasure. This springs from a great tenderness
of heart. I remember how uneasy she used to be when first she
witnessed the disputes between my aunt and Chwastowzki. Now she was
evidently ill at ease. She began to speak about the concert and Clara,
but her eyes seemed to say: "What have I done, what is the matter with
you?" I merely replied by a cold glance, not being able to forgive her
either the letters or her conversation with my aunt. After breakfast I
rose at once and said I was obliged to go back to Warsaw.

My aunt wanted me to stop to dinner; after which, according to our
agreement, we were to start together for the concert. But I pleaded
some business; the truth was I wanted to be alone. I gave orders for
the carriage to be ready, and then my aunt remarked:--

"I should like to show some gratitude to Miss Hilst, and thought of
inviting her to Ploszow for the day."

Evidently my aunt considers an invitation to Ploszow such a great
reward that she doubted whether it would not be out of all proportion.

After a moment's pause she began again:--

"If I were quite sure that she is of a proper standing."

"Miss Hilst is a personal friend of the queen of Roumania," I
replied, a little impatiently; "and if there be any honor, it will be
altogether on our side."

"Well, well," muttered my aunt.

"You will come with us to the concert?" I said, turning to Aniela.

"I am afraid not. I shall have to remain with mamma; and besides, I
have some letters to write."

"Oh! if it is a question of wifely tenderness I will not insist."

This ironical remark gave me a momentary relief. "Let her be aware
that I am jealous," I thought; "she herself, her mother, and my aunt
belong to those women of the angelic kind, who do not believe there
can be any evil in the world. Let her understand that I love her,
become familiar with the thought, troubled by it, and fight it. To
bring into her soul a strange, decomposing element, a ferment like
this, is half the battle. We shall see what will happen afterwards."

It was a momentary but great relief, and very much like a wicked
delight. But presently, when alone in the carriage, I felt angry with
myself and disgusted,--disgusted because I became conscious of the
littleness of all I had thought and felt, based as it was upon
overstrung and fanciful nerves worthy an hysterical woman, not a man.
It was a heavy journey, far heavier than the one when after my return
from abroad I went the first time to Ploszow. I was reflecting upon
that terrible incapacity for life which casts its shadow upon my
existence and the existence of those like me, and came to the
conclusion that its main source is the feminine element which
predominates in our character. I do not mean by this that we are
physically effeminate or wanting in manly courage. No! it is something
quite different. Courage and daring we are not deficient in; but as
regards psychical elements, every one of us is a she, not a he. There
is in, us a lack of the synthetic faculty which distinguishes
things that are important from those that are not. The least matter
discourages, hurts, and repulses us; in consequence of which we
sacrifice very great things for small ones. My past is a proof
thereof. I sacrificed inexpressible happiness, my future and the
future of the beloved woman, because I had read in my aunt's letter
that Kromitzki wished to marry her. My nerves took the bit between
their teeth, and carried me where I did not wish to go. This was
nothing but a disease of the will. But it is a feminine disease, not
a masculine one. Is it to be wondered at that I act as an hysterical
woman? It is a misfortune I brought with me into the world, to which
whole generations have contributed their share, as also the conditions
of life in which we exist.

The shaking myself thus free from all responsibility did not give me
any relief. When I arrived at Warsaw I intended to call upon Clara,
but was prevented by a severe headache; which got better towards
evening before my aunt came up.

She found me already dressed, and we drove together to the concert,
which was a great success. Clara's fame had attracted the whole
musical and intelligent world, and the charitable purpose the
aristocratic circles. I saw many people there I knew, among them
Sniatynski and his wife. The concert room was crowded. But I was out
of humor, and everything irritated me. I do not know why, but I felt
afraid Clara's performance would be a failure. When she appeared on
the platform a programme clung to the folds of her dress; I thought it
would make her appear ridiculous. She herself in full evening dress
seemed to me more like a stranger than a friend. I involuntarily asked
myself whether it was the same Clara I was so intimate with. When
the hearty applause had ceased she sat down to the piano, and I
acknowledged to myself that she had a noble and artistic presence,
full of simplicity and quite free of any affectation. On all
faces there was the concentrated attention of people who have no
understanding of art, but like to pass for connoisseurs and judges.
She played Mendelssohn's concerto, which I know by heart,--but whether
it was the thought that much was expected from her, or that the
unusually enthusiastic reception had moved her, she played worse
than I had ever heard her. I was sorry for it and looked at her with
astonishment; our eyes met for a moment. The expression of my face put
the final touch to her confusion, and I heard a few dim notes without
force or expression. I was quite sure now she would fail. Never had
the piano, with its lack of continuity, its sound smothered by the
acoustic properties of the room, seemed to me a more miserable
instrument. At times it seemed as if I heard the sharp, staccato
sounds of a harp. Presently Clara recovered her self-possession, but
upon the whole I thought she had played but indifferently. I was very
much surprised indeed when after she had finished there rose such a
storm of applause as I had not heard even in Paris, where Clara was
received with exceptional enthusiasm. During the short pause, amateurs
and professionals began discussing the music, and in their animated
faces I read perfect satisfaction. The cheering lasted until Clara
reappeared on the platform. She stepped forth with downcast eyes, and
I who could read her face saw what she wanted to express: "You are
very kind, and I thank you for it; but it was not good and I feel
inclined to cry." I too had applauded with the rest, for which I
received a passing glance full of reproach. Clara loves her art too
much to be gratified by undeserved applause. I felt sorry for her, and
should have liked to say a few encouraging words, but the continued
cheering did not permit her to leave the platform. She sat down again
and played Beethoven's Sonata in cis-moll, which was not on the
programme. There is, I believe, no composition in the whole world that
shows with the same distinctness the soul torn by tragic conflict;
especially in the third part of the Sonata, the _Presto-agitato_. The
music evidently responded to the tune of Clara's soul, and certainly
harmonized with my own disposition, for never had I heard Beethoven
interpreted and understood like this before. I am not a musician, but
I suppose even musicians do not know how much there is in that Sonata.
I cannot find another word than "oppressiveness" to describe the
sensation wrought upon the audience. One had a feeling as if mystical
rites were being performed; there rose before me a vast desert, not of
this world, weird and unutterably sad, without shape, half lit up by a
ghostly moon, in the midst of which hopeless despair waited and
sobbed and tore its hair. It was terrible and impressive because so
unearthly; and yet irresistibly attractive,--never had my spirit
come in such close proximity to the infinite. It was almost an
hallucination. I imagined that in the shapeless desert, in the dusk of
a world of shadows, I was searching for somebody dearer to me than the
whole world, one without whom I could not and would not live, and I
searched with the conviction that I should have to search forever and
never find what I was looking for. My heart was so oppressed that at
times I could scarcely breathe. I paid no attention to the mechanical
part of the execution, which no doubt was as perfect as the
expression.

All in the room seemed under the same spell, not excepting Clara
herself.

When she left off playing she remained for a moment with uplifted head
and eyes, lips slightly parted, and face very pale. And it was not
a mere concert effect, it was real inspiration and forgetfulness of
self.

There was a great hush in that crowd, as if they expected something,
or were benumbed by sorrow, or tried to catch the last echo of sobbing
despair, carried away by a wind from the other world.

Presently there happened what probably never happened in a concert
room before. A great tumult arose, and such an outcry as if a
catastrophe were threatening the whole audience. Several musicians
and reporters approached the platform. I saw their heads bowed over
Clara's hands, she had tears on her eyelashes, her face looked still
inspired, but calm and serene. I went with the others to press her
hands.

From the first moment of our acquaintance Clara had always addressed
me in French; now for the first time, returning the pressure of my
hand, she said in German:

"Haben Sie mich verstanden?"

"Ja," I replied, "und ich war sehr unglücklich!" And it was true.

The continuation of the concert was one great triumph. After the
performance Sniatynski and his wife carried Clara off to their house.
I had no wish to go there. When I reached home, I felt so tired that
without undressing I threw myself upon the sofa, and remained there an
hour without moving, yet not asleep.

After a long time I became conscious that I had been thinking about
the young cleric's funeral, Aniela, and death. I rung for lights, and
then began to write.


29 April.

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?"

"I suppose so; but there is plenty of time for that."

"Unless you meet somebody that subjugates your will; as a doctor you
know that love is a physiological necessity."

Young Chwastowski wants to show himself off as a sober-minded man
above human weaknesses; so he only shrugged his broad shoulders,
smoothed his short-cropped head, and said: "I acknowledge the
necessity; but do not intend to allow it to occupy too large a space
in my life."

He looked very knowing, but I replied gravely: "Considering somewhat
deeper the question of feeling, who knows whether it be worth while to
live for anything else?"

Chwastowski pondered over this a little while.

"No," he said, "I do not agree with you. There are many other objects
in life,--for instance, science, or even social duties. I do not say
anything against matrimony; a man ought to marry for himself as
well as to have children. But matrimony is one thing, and continual
love-making another."

"What is the difference between them?"

"The difference is obvious, sir. We are like ants constructing an
ant-hill. We have our work to do, and not much time to spare for love
and women. That is all very well for those who cannot work, or who do
not want to do anything."

Saying this he looked like a man who speaks in the name of all that is
strongest in the country, and expresses himself well. I looked with
a certain satisfaction at this healthy specimen of mankind, and
acknowledged that, except for a certain touch of youthful arrogance,
he spoke very sensibly.

It is quite true that woman and love do not occupy a large space in
the life of those who work, and those who have before them great
undertakings and serious aims. The peasant marries because such is the
custom, and he wants a housekeeper. There is very little sentiment in
him, although poets and novelists want us to believe the contrary. The
man of science, the statesman, the leader, the politician devote only
a small part of their life to woman. Artists are exceptional. Their
profession brings them in touch with love, for art exists through love
and woman. Generally, it is only in rich communities that woman reigns
supreme and fills the life of those who have no serious work in hand.
She encompasses all their thoughts, becomes the leading motive of
their actions, and the exclusive aim of their exertions. And it cannot
be otherwise. There is myself for instance. The community to which
I belong is not as rich as others, but personally I am rich. These
riches prevented me from doing anything, and I have no fixed aim in
life. It might be different had I been born an Englishman or a German,
and not been handicapped by that _improductivité Slave_. No one of the
compound active principles of civilization attracts me or fills up the
void, for the simple reason that civilization is faint and permeated
with scepticism. If it feels its end is drawing near and doubts
itself, why should I believe in it and devote to it my life? Generally
speaking, I live as if in mid air, with no firm hold upon the earth.
If my disposition were cold and dry, if I were dull of mind or merely
sensuous, I could have limited my life to mere vegetation or animal
enjoyment. But it happened otherwise. I brought with me into the world
a bright intellect, a luxuriant organism, and vital powers of no mean
degree. These forces had to find an outlet, and they could find it
only in the love for a woman. There remained nothing else for me. My
whole misfortune is that, as a child of a diseased civilization, I
grew up crooked; therefore love, too, came to me crooked.

Simplicity of mind would have given me happiness, but what is the use
to speak of it? The hunchback, too, would be glad to get rid of his
hump, but he cannot, because hump-backed he came from his mother's
womb. My hump was caused by the abnormal state of civilization that
brought me into the world. But straight or crooked, I must love, and I
will.


4 May.

My reason is now altogether subservient to feeling, and is, in truth,
like the driver who passively clings to his box, and can do nothing
but watch whether the vehicle will go to pieces. I went back to
Ploszow a few days ago, and all I say and all I do are only the
tactics of love. He is a clever doctor--is Chwastowski--to prescribe
for Aniela exercise in the park. I found her there this morning. There
are moments when the feeling in my heart--though I am always conscious
of it--manifests itself with such extraordinary power that it almost
frightens me by its magnitude. Such a moment I had to-day, when at a
sudden turn of the road I met Aniela. Never had she appeared to me
more beautiful, more desirable, and more as if she were my own. This
is exactly the only woman in the world who by virtue of certain
natural forces, scarcely known by name, was to attract me, as the
magnet attracts iron, to reign over me, to attach me to her, and
become the aim and completion of my life. Her voice, her shape, her
glances intoxicate me. To-day, when I thus unexpectedly met her, I
thought it was not only her personal charm she carried with her, but
the charm of that early morning, that spring and serene weather, the
joy of all the birds and plants,--in fact, she seemed to be more an
incarnation of beauty and nature than a woman. And it struck me then
that, if nature had created her thus that she should react upon me
more than upon any other man, nature had meant her to be mine, and
that my right had been trodden under foot by this marriage. Who knows
whether all the crookedness of the world does not spring from the
non-fulfilment of certain laws, and whether that be not the cause of
the imperfectness of life?

They are wrong who say that love is blind. On the contrary,
nothing--not the smallest detail--escapes its eyes; it sees everything
in the beloved being, notices everything; but melts it all in one
flame in the great and simple "I love." When I came close to Aniela, I
noticed that her eyes were brilliant as if from recent slumber; that
on her face and the light print dress fell the golden rays of the
morning sun filtering through the young leaves; her hair was tied in
a loose knot, and the flowing morning dress showed the outline of her
shoulders and supple waist, and in its very carelessness had a certain
freshness, which enhanced a thousandfold her charm. It did not escape
my notice how much smaller than usual she looked among the tall elm
trees of the avenue,--almost a child; in brief, nothing escaped me,
but all my observations changed into the rapture of one who loves
deliriously. She returned my morning greeting with some confusion. For
the last few days she seems afraid of me, for I hypnotize her with
every glance and word. Her peace of thought is already disturbed, and
the ferment has entered her soul. She cannot help seeing I love her,
but does not own it, not even to herself. Sometimes I have a
sensation as if I were holding a bird in my hand, and heard its heart
palpitating under my fingers. We walked together in embarrassed
silence, which I did not care to interrupt. I know this uneasiness is
oppressive to her; but it renders her my accomplice, and brings me
nearer to the end. In the silence which surrounded us not a sound
was audible but the crunching of the gravel under our feet, and the
whistling of the golden orioles, which are plentiful in the park. I
started at last a conversation. I directed it to suit my plans, for
however much my mind is closed against influences that have no bearing
upon my feeling, within their sphere I have a well-nigh redoubled
presence of mind,--an acuteness of perception, as have those plunged
into a hypnotic trance, and in a given direction see more clearly
than people in their normal state. We passed speedily on to personal
topics. I spoke about myself in the confidential tone in which one
speaks to those nearest, who alone have the right to know everything.
There sprung up between us a whole world of mutual understanding and
thoughts, common to us both. Since such a bond ought to exist by
virtue of marriage,--between her and her husband,--I was leading
her towards spiritual faithlessness by such gradual steps that she
scarcely could be aware of it.

Nevertheless, the subtle nature perceived the drift. But I had taken
her by the hand, and led her; yet while leading, I felt a moral
resistance. I was fully aware the resistance would grow stronger if I
pushed much farther, and she perceived the danger. But I saw too that
I was gaining ground, and that step by step I could lead her where I
wanted.

In the meantime I spoke on purpose about the past.

"Do you remember," I said, "how in the days gone by--those happier
days--you asked me why I did not remain in the country, and turn my
abilities to some use. It was when I came home late, and you were
sitting up for me. I cannot tell you even what power you had over
me. I could not then begin to work, I had to go away; then came my
father's death. But I never forgot those words. I have come back now
to live and to work at home, and if I ever achieve anything it will be
owing to you,--your influence will be the source of my achievement."

There ensued a momentary silence between us, broken only by the
whistling of the orioles. Aniela was evidently searching for a reply,
and at last said,--

"I cannot believe that a man like you should not be able to find a
more weighty inducement. You know very well it is your duty, and what
is past is past, and now everything is changed."

"I am not so sure of that," I replied. "Perhaps, when once I start, I
shall find in the work itself some pleasure and encouragement. But
a man like me, who, in spite of what you are saying about duty, has
never been, fully conscious of it, must have some personal reason for
changing the whole tenor of his life; and the more he is unhappy, the
more he wants that personal inducement. Why should I tell you what is
not true? I am not happy. The consciousness of duty is a beautiful
thing, no doubt; but unfortunately I do not have it. You, who are so
much better, nobler than I, could have taught it me; but it was fated
otherwise. But even now, if only for the sake of those times when you
wanted me to do something, I can do it still if you will help me."

Aniela hastened her steps, as if she wanted to return home, and said
almost in a whisper,--

"Do not say that, Leon; please do not. You know I cannot do it."

"Why can you not? Do not understand me wrongly. You are and always
will be a very dear sister to me. It is only this I wanted you to
know."

Aniela almost feverishly gave me her hand, which I raised reverently
to my lips.

"Yes, I will be that,--always that," she replied quickly.

And I saw what a heavy weight I had lifted from her mind; how that one
word "sister" had calmed and moved her. This made me recover all my
self-possession; for, when I had touched her hand with my lips, it
almost grew dark before my eyes, and I wanted to take her in my arms,
and tell her the whole truth. In the mean time Aniela's face had grown
brighter and more cheerful. As we came nearer the house, her trouble
seemed to slip off from her, and seeing how much I had gained by
taking this way with her, I continued in the same strain of friendly
conversation.

"You see, little sister, there is such a void around me. My father is
no more; my aunt is a saintly woman; but she does not understand new
times and new people. Her ideas are different from mine. I shall
never marry,--think only what a lonely man I am. I have nobody near
me,--nobody to share my thoughts, my plans, or my sorrows; nothing but
loneliness around me. Is it not natural that I look for sympathy where
I might expect to find it? I am like the crippled beggar, who stands
waiting at the gate until they give him a small coin. At this moment
the beggar is very poor indeed, and he stands under your window, and
begs for a little friendliness, sympathy, and pity. A very small coin
will satisfy him,--you will not refuse him that, Aniela, will you?"

"I will not, Leon; I will not, since you are so unhappy--"

Her voice broke, and she began to tremble. Again I had to make a great
effort to restrain myself; and as I looked at her, something like
unshed tears took me by the throat.

"Aniela! little Aniela!" I exclaimed, not knowing what to say.

But she waved her hands, as if to ward me off, and said, her eyes full
of tears,--

"Let me go--I shall be better presently. I can not go back like this;
let me go."

And she went swiftly away.

"Aniela, forgive me!" I called after her.

My first impulse was to follow her, but I thought it would be better
to leave her to herself, and I only followed her with my eyes. She
went quickly back into the avenue we had crossed together, and then
turned into a side path. Sometimes the foliage hid her from my eyes,
then again the light dress lit up by the sun appeared between the
trees. From the distance I saw how she shut and opened her sunshade,
as if trying by physical exertion to overcome her emotion. During all
that time I inwardly called her the most endearing names that love
could invent. I could not go away without looking once more into her
eyes; but I had a long time to wait. She came at last, but passed
quickly by, as if afraid of another shock; she only smiled at me in
passing, with angelic sweetness, and said, "I am all right again."

On her face, pink with exercise, there was no trace of tears. I
remained alone, and a mad, indescribable joy got hold of me, hope
filled my heart, and there was one thought dominating everything: "She
loves me, she fights against it, does not yield, deludes herself--but
loves." At times, the most self-possessed of men, in the
super-abundance of some emotion, comes near the brink of madness. I
was so near it then that I felt a wild desire to hide myself in the
deepest recess of the woods, tear the grass, and shout at the top of
my voice, "She loves me!" At present, when I am able to think more
calmly of this joy, I find it was composed of various active forces.
There was the joy of the artist who sees that a masterpiece he has
begun is progressing satisfactorily; maybe also the satisfaction
of the spider when the fly comes near the web; but there was also
kindness, pity, great tenderness, and all that over which angels
rejoice, as the poet has it. I felt sorry the defenceless little thing
should fall into my hands; and that pity increased the love, and the
desire to conquer Aniela. I felt also a sting of conscience that I had
deceived her, and yet I had the consciousness that I had spoken the
truth when I asked for her sympathy and friendship. I want it as I
want my health. But I did not confess to all my desires, because the
time for it has not yet come. I did not tell her the whole truth, so
as not to frighten the timid soul. I shall come to it by and by, and
the road which leads towards it in the straightest line is the best.


10 May.

The weather is still serene, and everything is serene between us.
Aniela is calm and happy. She thoroughly believes in what I said,
and, as I did not ask for anything but sisterly affection, and her
conscience approves, she allows her heart to follow its dictates.
I alone know that it is a loyal way of deceiving herself and her
husband; for under cover of sisterly affection there is another
feeling, the growth of which I am watching daily. Of course I do not
intend to undeceive her until the feeling grows too strong for her.
By and by she will be enveloped in a flame which neither will, nor
consciousness of duty, nor the modesty of the woman white as a swan,
will be able to keep under control. Constantly the thought dwells with
me that since I love her most, mine is the higher right. What can
there be more logical or more true? The unwritten code of ethics of
all people, of whatever faith, says that the mutual belonging of man
and woman to each other is based upon love.

But to-day I am so restful and happy that I prefer to feel rather
than to reason. There is now between us a great cordiality, ease, and
intimacy. How we were made for each other, cling to each other, and
how the dear little thing delights in the warmth, delusive warmth
of brotherly affection. Never since my return have I seen her
so cheerful. Formerly when I looked at her she reminded me of
Shakspeare's "Poor Tom." A nature like hers wants love, as her body
wants air to breathe. Kromitzki, occupied with speculations, does not
love her enough, perhaps does not know what love means. She might
rightly say with Shakspeare, "Poor Tom's acold." When I think of this
my heart is stirred, and I make a silent vow that she shall never feel
cold as long as I live.

If our love were wrong there could not be within us such peace. That
Aniela does not call it by its proper name means nothing; it is there
all the same. The whole day passed for us like an idyl. Formerly I
disliked Sundays; now I find that a Sunday, from morning until night,
may be like a poem, especially in the country. Soon after breakfast,
we went to church in time for the early mass. My aunt followed in our
rear; even Pani Celina, profiting by the fine weather, was wheeled
thither in her Bath chair. There were not many people in church, as
most of them go later for high mass. Sitting on the bench by Aniela's
side, I had the blissful illusion that I was sitting with my affianced
wife. From time to time I looked at the sweet, dear profile, at the
hands which were resting on the desk before her, and the concentration
in her face and bearing gradually infected me. My senses went to
sleep, my thoughts became purer, and I loved her at that moment with
an ideal love, because I felt more than ever how different she was
from any other woman, how infinitely better and purer.

For a long time I had not felt anything like what I felt in this quiet
village church. Added to Aniela's presence there was the impressive
dignity of the church itself, the soft, flickering light of the
candles in the dim recess of the altar, shafts of colored light coming
through the windows, the chirping sparrows, and the still mass.
All this, with the dreaminess of an early morning, had something
unutterably soothing. My thoughts began to flow as evenly as the
incense at the altar. Nobler feelings stirred within me, and a desire
to sacrifice my own self. An inward voice began to remonstrate:--

"Do not disturb that transparent water; respect its purity."

When the mass came to an end, and we left the church, I saw, to my
greatest amazement, both the Latyszes crouching near the church gate,
with wooden plates in their hands, asking for alms. My aunt, who knew
about my gift, grew very angry upon seeing them there, and began to
abuse them roundly. But the old woman, still holding out her wooden
plate, and not at all abashed, said quietly:--

"His lordship's generosity is one thing, and God's will is another. We
must not go against the Lord's will. When the little Lord Jesus told
us to sit here, we must, now and forever and ever, Amen."

There was nothing to say against this kind of reasoning; especially
that "forever and ever, Amen," imposed upon me, to such an extent that
I gave them some money for the oddity of the thing. These people at
the bottom of their hearts believe in fate, which they dress up in
Christian forms, and submit to it blindly. These Latyszes, to whom I
gave a thousand two hundred roubles, are now better off than they ever
were in their lives, and yet they went to sit at the church gates
because such was their fate,--which the old woman translated into the
"will of God."

When we were wending our way homewards, the bells were ringing for
high mass. On the road appeared groups of men and women. From the more
distant hamlets one could see them going Indian file along the narrow
paths amid the corn, which, though still green, had shot up to a
considerable height, owing to the early spring. As far as the eye
could reach, in the pure translucid atmosphere, the bright colored
kerchiefs of the girls appeared above the wheat-fields like so many
poppy flowers. By the bye, there is nowhere in Europe such a breadth
of atmosphere as in Poland. What struck me most of all was the
distinctly Sunday character of the day, not in the people alone, but
also in nature. It is true the weather was splendid, but it seemed as
if the wind were hushed because it was Sunday; even the corn did not
rock, not a leaf shook on the poplars, the stillness was perfect; yet
there was the cheerfulness of the Sunday in the festive garments, and
in the dancing sunbeams.

I explained to Aniela how, from an artistic point of view, those
bright spots harmonized with the landscape and melted in the distance
into a blue haze. Then we began to talk about the peasants. I
confessed that I did not see anything but a crowd of more or less
picturesque models; but Aniela looks at them from a quite different
point of view. She began telling me many characteristic traits, some
sad, and some amusing, and while talking grew very animated, and at
the same time as lovely as a summer's dream.

The conversation again drifted towards the old couple we had left
sitting under the church gate, and especially the old woman, whose
reasoning had amused us so much. I began comparing her position to my
own. As my aunt remained with Pani Celina, whom the servant wheeled
along at a certain distance behind, I could with freedom allude to our
last conversation in the park.

"Not long ago," I said, "I asked you for alms, and you bestowed them
on me. I see now that this does not bind me to anything, and I may
again hold out my wooden platter at the church gate."

"Eh! to ask other charitable souls for the same," replied Aniela.
"Aunty is going to invite one charitable soul to Ploszow, I
understand."

"If it is Miss Hilst you mean, she is too big to find room in a single
heart; it wants three at least to hold her," but Aniela did not leave
off teasing, and shaking her little finger at me, said:--

"It is a suspicious case, very suspicious."

"At present there is no ground for suspicion," I replied. "My heart
is a repository of brotherly feelings, and there reigns supreme the
spiteful little being who is tormenting me at present."

Aniela ceased laughing and jesting, slackened her pace, and presently
we joined the elder ladies. The remainder of the day passed without
a cloud, and so pleasantly that at times I fancied myself again a
schoolboy. My eyes still spoke to her of love; but my desires slept.
My aunt went to Warsaw after lunch, and I remained in Pani Celina's
room, reading to her Montalembert's letters, with whom my father at
one time had a regular correspondence. These letters would have seemed
very tedious to me but for Aniela's presence. Raising my eyes now and
then, I met her glance, which filled me with inexpressible joy. Unless
I have lost all power of judgment, she looks at me as would look a
pure, innocent woman, unconsciously loving with all her soul. What a
good day it has been!

My aunt came back towards evening, and announced visitors. To-morrow
both the Sniatynskis are coming, and Clara Hilst.

It is very late, but I do not want to sleep, for I am loathe to part
with the memories of the day. Sleep cannot be more beautiful. The park
is literally alive with the song of the nightingales, and there is
still in me a great deal of the old romanticist. The night is clear
and limpid, and the sky full of stars. Thinking of Aniela, I say a
hundred times good-night to her. I see that side by side with the
_improductivité Slave_, there is in me a great deal of purely Polish
sentimentality. I had not known myself in that capacity before. But
what does it matter? I love her very much.


13 May.

Clara and the Sniatynskis have not arrived. Instead of this, there
came a letter, informing us they would come to-morrow, the weather
permitting. To-day we had a thunder-storm, the like of which they have
not experienced here for a long time. About ten o'clock in the morning
a hot wind rose, which smothered everything in clouds of dust. The
wind fell at times, and then rose again with such fury that it seemed
to lay the trees flat. Our beautiful park was filled with the sound of
crashing branches, and clouds of dust mingled with torn-off leaves and
twigs. The great lime-tree close to the pavilion, where young Latysz
died, was split in two. It was fear-fully close, there was no air, and
the wind seemed to come straight from a heated furnace, and carried
with it a breath of carbon. I, used to the Italian _scirocco_, did not
mind it so much, but Pani Celina suffered greatly, and indirectly,
Aniela. My aunt was in a bad temper about the damage done to the park,
and as usual, vented it on Chwastowski. The peppery old gentleman,
who probably was caned often enough over his Homer, had evidently not
forgotten the Odyssey, nor his ready speech either, for he replied to
my aunt that if he were Æolus he would not serve her as agent, and
bear with her unjust tantrums. My aunt gave way this time, merely
because of the redoubled threats from the skies. It had grown very
still all at once, but from the south, banks of cloud, black as a
funereal pall, overcast with a sickly red sheen, came rolling up. In
a moment it grew as dark as night, and Pani Celina rung for lights.
Shortly afterwards the darkness yielded to an ominous reddish light.
Chwastowski rushed off in a hurry to give orders for the cattle to be
driven home, but the cow-herds had started without waiting for orders,
for presently we heard distinctly the mournful lowing of the cattle.
Then my aunt fetched the bell of Our Lady of Loreto, and went around
the house ringing energetically. I did not even try to explain to her
that ringing a bell in that motionless atmosphere might rather attract
than avert a thunderbolt, and in spite of the consciousness that in
case of danger I could not be of the slightest help, I was ashamed to
let her risk the danger alone. The old lady was simply magnificent
when, with her head thrown back, she seemed to defy the black and
copper-colored banks of clouds, and shook at them her Loreto bell.
I did not regret having gone with her, if only to see a symbolic
picture. At a moment when everything trembles before the approaching
horror, crouches in terror almost stupefied, faith alone has no fear;
it defies, and rings a bell. This is, from whatever side we look at
it, an element of incalculable power in the human soul.

We returned when the first thunder began to growl all around the
horizon. A few minutes later the roar became incessant. I had a
sensation as if the thunder rolled on the lower stratum of the clouds,
and the whole mass would burst at any moment and come with a deafening
crash upon the earth. A thunderbolt fell into the pond at the other
end of the park, followed by another so close by that the house
shook on its foundations. My ladies began to say the Litany; I felt
uncertain what to do; if I joined them it would be hypocrisy on my
part, and if I did not it would look as if I were showing myself off
as an ill-bred wiseacre, who cannot make allowance for country customs
and female terrors. But I was wrong; they were not afraid; their faces
were calm, even serene. It was evident that the familiar Litany was
to them a sufficient armor against all dangers, and that there was no
fear in their hearts. The thought crossed my mind what a stranger in
spirit I was in presence of these Polish women, of whom each knows ten
times less than I, and according to human measure, is worth ten times
as much as I. They are like books of comparatively few pages, each
page containing clear and simple rules, whereas I, with all those
volumes of which I am composed, do not possess a single undoubted
truth.

It was but a passing thought, as presently the storm that broke upon
us with terrific force engaged all my attention. The wind rose again,
crashing among the trees. It fell at moments, and then the rain came
down in streams; no drops were visible, but long spouts that seemed to
join sky and earth. The avenues in the park were like foaming brooks.
Sometimes a strong gust of wind whipped the water into a fine spray
that hung between earth and sky and obscured the whole view. The
deafening roar of thunder went on incessantly. The air was saturated
with electricity. My pulses were beating loudly; in the rooms an
irritating smell of sulphur made itself felt. The raging elements
without seemed to influence me in a strange way, and I began to lose
control over myself.

"Do you want to see the storm?" I asked Aniela.

"Very well. Where from?"

"Come into the next room, there is a larger window."

We went and stood at the window. It was very dark then, and every
moment white and red forks of lightning tore across the clouds,
opening the skies and at the same time illuminating our faces and the
dark world without. Aniela was calm, but seemed every moment more
desirable.

"Are you afraid?" I whispered.

"No."

"Give me your hand."

She looked at me wonderingly. Another moment and I should have folded
her in my arms and pressed my lips against hers, and then let Ploszow
be razed to the ground, by the tempest. But she was terrified, not by
the storm, but by the expression of my face and that whisper; she drew
back from the window and returned to the room where the elder ladies
were sitting.

I remained alone,--with a feeling of anger and humiliation. That I
should have taken advantage of Aniela's confidence is quite certain,
and yet I felt offended by her want of trust, and resolved to pay her
out in some way. I stood for an hour at the window looking absently at
the lightning flashes. Then it grew lighter and lighter outside; at
last the clouds parted, and the sun shone forth fresh and bright and
as if wondering at the devastation the tempest had wrought.

It was very considerable; the avenues were still flooded with yellow,
foaming water, above which floated broken branches. Here and there big
trees were lying about, snapped across or torn out by the roots; the
bark was partly stripped from the trunks of pine trees, leaving what
looked like gaping wounds. Everywhere the eye could reach there was
ruin and devastation, as if after a battle.

When the water had drained off a little I went out toward the ponds
to ascertain the extent of the damage. Suddenly the whole park became
alive with people, who, with an almost savage energy, began to tear
off the broken branches and chop at the fallen trunks. It appears they
were peasant-lodgers who had no right in the woods. In the main, I
did not care whether they gathered the sticks, but as they had come
through the broken fence without permission, and in such a savage
manner, I, being out of humor, began to drive them away, my anger
rising at their stubborn resistance. At last I threatened them with
the village authorities, when suddenly, close by, the sweetest voice
in the world said in French:--

"Is there any harm in their clearing the park, Leon?"

I turned round and saw Aniela, her head covered with a kerchief tied
under her chin. With both hands she was holding up her dress, showing
up to the ankles her little feet encased in high boots; bending
slightly forward she looked at me entreatingly.

At her sight my anger vanished at once. I forgot the unpleasant
sensations that had troubled me a little while before, and looked at
her as if I could never fill myself enough with the sight.

"Is it your wish?" I asked.

Then, turning to the people, I said:--

"Take the wood, and thank the lady for the permission."

This time they obeyed with alacrity. Some of them, evidently strangers
to Ploszow, addressed her as "gracious Panienka" (Miss), which caused
me unspeakable delight. If Ploszow were mine they might cut down every
tree at her wish. In half an hour every broken branch and fallen tree
was cleared away, and the park looked really all the better for it.
Walking with Aniela along the paths I found a great many swallows and
other birds, either killed by the storm or half dead and drenched
with rain. I picked them up, and handing them one by one to Aniela,
I touched her hands, looked into her eyes, and again felt happy. The
idyl of the day before repeated itself, for us both, and brought with
it ease and cheerfulness. My heart was full of joy, for I saw what
Aniela could not see,--that in our brotherly relation there was twice
as much tenderness as would be or ought to be between the most loving
brother and sister. I was quite sure now that, unconsciously, she
loved me as much as I loved her. In this way one half of my hopes and
schemes are realized already; there remains only to bring it home to
her and make her own to the feeling. When I think of that I remember,
with a heart beating fast with happiness, what I wrote down some time
ago: that "no woman in the world can resist the man she truly loves."


15 May.

Our visitors did not come yesterday but to-day, which was very
sensible, as all traces of the storm have disappeared and the weather
is very fine. This fifteenth of May will be one of the best remembered
days in my life. It is now past midnight; I am wide awake, as if I
never wanted to sleep again, and intend to write until morning. I am
collecting my thoughts so as not to begin at the end, and put it all
down in proper order. Force of habit is a great help in this.

My aunt sent the carriage for the Sniatynskis and Clara very early, in
consequence of which they arrived before noon. The ladies were bright,
cheerful, and chirping like sparrows, glad of the fine weather and
their excursion. What toilets, and what quaint hats! Clara looked
very well in a light, striped dress that made her seem less tall than
usual. I observed that Aniela, after the first greeting, looked at her
searchingly and seemed struck by her beauty, of which I had scarcely
said anything to her. I had not refrained out of calculation, but
had been so occupied with Aniela that I had not thought of it. For
instance, though I had met Pani Sniatynska several times I had never
noticed she wore her hair short, which suits her style of beauty. The
light, curly hair falling over her brow gives her the expression of a
resolute, rosy-faced boy. We are excellent friends again. There was a
time she would have liked to kill me, so angry was she about Aniela.
Evidently her husband had told her what I suffered, and women have
a special weakness for those who suffer for love's sake; she has
forgiven me and reinstalled me in her favor. The presence of such a
bright, vivacious, easy-going woman was a great help in bringing Clara
and Aniela into closer relation. I saw that my aunt met Clara with
great heartiness; but Aniela, in spite of her sweet disposition,
seemed shy, and kept aloof from her. At lunch, amid a cheerful
conversation, she thawed a little. Clara seemed struck by Aniela's
beauty, and as she always says what she thinks, she expressed her
admiration with so much grace and enthusiasm that Aniela had to yield.

Pani Celina, who now perhaps for the first time found herself in
company with an artist, looked gratified, and turning to her said that
"though Aniela's mother, she must say that as a child she was very
pretty,--promising far greater beauty." Both Sniatynskis joined in the
conversation. He began to discuss with Clara various female types,
then spoke of Aniela's type and its aesthetic perfection in a highly
amusing objective manner, as if she were a portrait hanging on the
wall, rather than a living presence. She, listening to this, blushed
and lowered her eyes, truly like a little girl, which made her look
more charming than ever.

I was silent, but inwardly compared these three female faces, treating
them also objectively, that is, putting aside the fact that one of
them was the loved one, and as such occupied an exceptional position;
even then everything spoke in her favor. Pani Sniatynska's, especially
in her short curly hair, is a charming head, yet nothing but what may
be found in any English Keepsake. Clara's beauty rests mainly upon her
calm expression, the blue eyes, and that transparent complexion so
often met with in German women; but for her art, which surrounds her
as with a nimbus, she could only be called a handsome woman. Aniela
is not only an artistic production of an exceedingly noble style as
regards her features, but there is something individual in her that
cannot be measured by any standard. Maybe her individuality rests upon
the fact that, being neither dark nor fair, she gives the physical
impression of a brunette and the spiritual one of a blonde. The cause
of this is perhaps the great abundance of hair on a comparatively
small head; enough that she is unique in her kind. She excels even
Mrs. Davis in this regard, whose beauty was without a flaw, but it was
the beauty of a statue. Mrs. Davis only excited the admiration of my
senses, while Aniela rouses in me the idealist, who goes in rapture
over the poetry of her expression.

But I will not even compare these two so utterly different beings.
I yielded to these reflections during lunch, because the topic in
question had brought me on that track; besides, the analysis of
Aniela's beauty always gives me a keen delight. My aunt interrupted
the discussion, deeming it proper, as lady of the house, to say
something about Clara's last concert. She spoke much and very well;
I never supposed she had such knowledge of music; she paid her some
graceful compliments with the air of a _grande dame_, in that flowing,
winning style only people of the older generation are capable of. In
short, I observed that my downright, outspoken aunt was still able to
recall the times of powder and patches. Clara seemed quite charmed,
and did not remain behind-hand in graceful acknowledgment.

"I shall always be able to play well at Warsaw," she said, "because
I am in touch with my audience, but I play best in small circles of
friends where I feel in sympathy with everybody,--and if you will
permit, I will give you a proof of it after lunch."

My aunt, who was very anxious that Pani Celina should hear her, yet
had misgivings whether it would be right to ask her to play, was much
pleased by the proposal. I began to speak of Clara's performances at
Paris and her triumphs at Erard's concerts; Sniatynski gave an account
of what was said at Warsaw; and so the time passed until we rose from
lunch. Clara herself got hold of Paul Celina's invalid chair and would
not allow anybody to help, declaring laughingly that she was by
far the strongest among us, and was not afraid to tire her hands.
Presently she sat down to the piano, and as evidently Mozart suited
her disposition, she gave us Don Juan. The first notes sounded, she
was a different Clara; not the merry, lively child any longer, but an
incarnate Saint Cecilia. There shone in her the close relationship of
outward form with the spirit of harmony, which surrounded her with a
dignity above common womanhood. I made another observation, namely:
that a man in love can find food for his feelings even in what tells
against the loved woman. When I thought how far my Aniela was from
being a Sybil, saw her sitting in a corner of the drawing-room so
small and still, as if crushed down by some weight, I loved her all
the more, and it made her if possible dearer to me than ever. It also
occurred to me that a woman is not in reality what she appears to
people in general, but such as the man who loves sees her; therefore
her absolute excellence is in proportion to the power of love she
inspires. I had no time to follow out this idea, but it pleased me
because I saw dimly before me the conclusion that in the name of this
excellence the woman ought to give her heart to him who loves her
most.

Clara played superbly. I watched the sensation on the others' faces,
when presently I noticed that Aniela was looking at me for the same
reason. Was it mere curiosity, or an involuntary uneasiness of heart
which could not say what it feared and yet was afraid? I said to
myself: "If the last supposition were true it would be a proof that
she loves me." The thought filled me with joy, and I resolved to find
an answer to it in the course of the day. Thenceforth I bestowed all
my attention upon Clara, and was more attentive to her than I had ever
been before. In the woods whither we had driven, I walked with her,
glancing furtively now and then at Aniela, who remained with the
Suiatynskis. Clara was in rapture with the woods, which are indeed at
their best now, the fresh green of the leafy trees forming a perfect
canopy over the more sombre looking pines.

The sun filtering across the branches converted the earth, carpeted
with ferns and tender mosses, into a delicate golden embroidery. There
were the cheerful voices of spring around us, the cuckoo's call and
the woodpecker's knock-knock at the trees. When we joined the others
I asked Clara to translate into music the voices of spring. She said
there was already a _Frühlingslied_ singing within her, and she
would try to give it expression. Truly she looked as if the song was
there,--besides she is like a great harp that speaks only in sounds.

Her face was bright with burning blushes; Aniela instead looked
fagged, though she evidently tried to keep up with the Sniatynskis,
who were as lively as a couple of school-children on their holiday.
They began finally to race with each other, and Clara joined in the
sport, which she ought not to have done, considering her size, as the
quick motion was anything but graceful,--nay, almost ridiculous.

When they were thus running after each other I remained alone with
Aniela. According to my plan of operations I was anxious to bring
her mind to full consciousness through the uneasiness with which she
seemed to be oppressed.

"There is something troubling you, Aniela; what is it?" I asked.

"No, nothing whatever."

"It seemed to me as if you were dissatisfied with something; is it
that you do not like Clara?"

"No; I like her very much, and do not wonder she is so much admired."

Further conversation was made impossible by the return of the truants.
It was also time to go back. On the way, Sniatynski asked Clara
whether she felt really satisfied with her stay at Warsaw.

"The best proof I can give you of this is that I do not think of going
away yet," she replied gayly.

"We must try to keep you with us always," I interpolated.

Clara, in spite of the simplicity with which she accepts all that is
said to her, looked questioningly at me, then grew a little confused,
and replied,--"They are all very kind to me here."

I was conscious that my words were in a way dishonorable, as they
might mislead Clara; but all I cared for was the impression they would
make upon Aniela. Unfortunately, I could not see her face, as she was
buttoning her gloves, with her head bent so low that her hat concealed
it from me. This sudden movement seemed to me a good sign.

The elder ladies were awaiting us with the dinner, which lasted until
nine o'clock; and then Clara improvised her _Frühlingslied_. I am
almost certain that since Ploszow existed there had never been heard
such music within its walls, but I paid very little attention to it.
I sat near her in the dusk, as she did not want the lamps lit.
Sniatynski waved his arm as if it were a baton; which evidently
annoyed his wife, as she pulled his sleeve several times. Aniela sat
quite motionless; maybe she, too, was absorbed in her own thoughts,
and did not listen to the _Frühlingslied_. I was almost certain she
was thinking about me and Clara, and especially about the meaning of
the words I had said to Clara. It was easy enough to guess that even
if she did not love me, or had the slightest consciousness that my
love was any other but brotherly affection, she would feel sore and
disappointed if that were about to be taken away from her. A woman who
is not happy in her married life clings round any other feeling, if
it be only friendship, as the ivy clings to the tree. I had no doubt
whatever that if at this moment I knelt down at her feet and told her
it was she, and she alone, that I loved, she would feel a sudden joy,
as one feels upon recovering something very precious. And if so, I
debated within me, why not hasten the solution, if only a way could be
found,--frightening her as little as possible, or making her forget
all terror in her joy. I began at once to devise ways and means, as
I understood it must be done in such a way as to make it forever
impossible for her to cast me off. My mind worked very hard at it, as
the problem was not an easy one. Gradually a great emotion stole over
me: and strange to say, it was more on Aniela's account than on my own
that I felt moved,--for I realized suddenly what a great wrench it
would be, and I was afraid for her.

In the mean time it had grown lighter in the drawing-room; the moon
had risen above the trees, and cast luminous shafts across the floor.
The melodies of the _Frühlingslied_ still filled the air, and the
nightingales responded to it through the open French window. It was
a glorious evening, warm and balmy, and full of harmony and love. I
thought involuntarily that, if life does not give us happiness, it
presents us with a ready frame for it.

In the luminous dusk my eyes searched for Aniela; but she looked at
Clara, who at this moment seemed more a vision than a substantial
being. The moonlight, advancing more and more into the room, rested
now upon her; and in the light dress she looked like the silvery
spirit of music. But the vision did not last long. Clara finished her
song; whereupon Pani Sniatynska rose, and saying it was late, gave the
signal for departure. As the evening was so warm, I proposed we should
see our visitors off as far as the high-road, about half a mile from
our house. I did this on purpose, so as to walk home with Aniela. I
knew she could not well refuse such a mere act of politeness, and I
was also sure my aunt would not go with us.

I gave orders for the carriage to drive on and wait on the road, and
we went on foot through the lime avenue. I offered my arm to Clara,
but we walked all abreast, accompanied by the croaking of the frogs in
the Ploszow mere.

Clara stopped a moment to listen to that chorus, which ceased now and
then, to start afresh with redoubled vigor, and said,--

"This is the finale of my Song of Spring."

"What an exquisite evening!" remarked Sniatynski, and then began to
quote the beautiful lines from the "Merchant of Venice":--

  "How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!
  Here will we sit and let the sounds of music
  Creep in our ears: soft stillness and the night
  Become the touches of sweet harmony."

He did not remember the rest, but I did, and took up the strain:--

  "Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven
  Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold:
  There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st
  But in his motion like an angel sings,
  Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins;
  Such harmony is in immortal souls;
  But whilst this muddy vesture of decay
  Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it."

Then I repeated to Clara, who does not understand Polish, the lines in
French, improvising the translation. She listened to it, then raised
her eyes heavenward, and said simply,--

"I was always certain there is music in the spheres."

It appeared that Pani Sniatynska was equally certain of it, and
reminded her husband that she had discussed it with him not long
before, but he was not quite sure he remembered; whereupon a slight
matrimonial dispute took place, at which Clara and I laughed. Aniela
had not joined the conversation at all; did she feel hurt that I
had offered my arm to Clara, and paid her some attention? The very
supposition made me feel happy. Yet I tried not to lose my head, and
said to myself, "Do not run away with the idea that she knows what
jealousy means; she is only a little sad and feels lonely, that is
all." I would have given at this moment a whole host of artists such
as Clara for a few words with Aniela,--to tell her that I belong
to her, and only to her. Then Sniatynski began a discussion about
astronomy, of which I heard now and then a few words, though this
science attracts me more than I can tell,--for in its very nature
there is no limit, either in itself or for the human mind; it is
infinite.

We reached at last the end, where our guests mounted into the
carriage. Presently the wheels rattled on the road, the last good-bys
reached our ears, and I was alone with Aniela. We turned homewards,
and for some time walked side by side in silence. The croaking of
the frogs has ceased, and from the distance came the sound of the
watchman's whistle and the loud baying of the dogs. I did not speak to
Aniela, because the silence seemed fraught with deep meaning,--both
our minds being full of the same subject. When about half-way I said
to Aniela,--

"What a pleasant day it has been, has it not?"

"Yes. I never heard such beautiful music before."

"And yet you seemed not in your usual spirits, and though you will not
tell me the cause, I notice every passing cloud on your face."

"You were obliged to look after your guests. You are very kind to
trouble about me, but there is nothing the matter with me."

"To-day as any other day I was occupied with you only, and as a proof
of it let me tell you of what you were thinking to-day." And without
waiting for permission, I went on at once: "You thought I resembled
somewhat the Latysz couple; you thought I had deceived you in speaking
of the void around me; lastly, you thought that I had no need to ask
for your friendship while I was seeking friendship elsewhere. Was it
not so? Tell me the truth."

Aniela replied with evident effort: "If you insist upon knowing--yes,
perhaps it is so. But I ought to be only glad of it."

"What ought you be glad of?"

"Of your mutual friendship with Clara."

"As to our friendship,--I wish her well, that is all. But Clara, like
all other women, is indifferent to me. Do you know why?"

I began to tremble a little, because I perceived that the moment
had come. I waited a moment to see whether Aniela would take up my
question, and then, in a voice I tried to render steady, I said,--

"Surely you must see and understand that my whole being belongs to
you; that I loved you and love you still madly."

Aniela stood still as if turned to stone. By the icy coldness of my
face I felt that I was growing pale; and if the world seemed to totter
under that poor child's feet, it was my life, too, which was at stake.
Knowing with whom I had to deal, I did not give her time to repulse
me. I began to speak very quickly:--

"Do not answer me, for I do not want anything from you. I desire
nothing,--nothing whatever, understand that well. I wanted to tell you
that you have taken my life, and it is henceforth yours, to do with it
what you like. But you have seen yourself that such is the case, and
it matters nothing whether I speak of it or not. I repeat that I
desire nothing, nor do I expect anything. You cannot repulse me,
because I repulse myself. I only tell you as I might tell a friend, a
sister. I come and complain to you, because I have nowhere else to
go, that I love a woman that belongs to somebody else,--love her to
distraction,--oh, Aniela!--and without limit!"

We were near the gate, but still in the deep shadow of the trees. For
a moment I had the delusion that she was leaning towards me like
a broken flower, that I might snatch her into my arms; but I was
mistaken.

Aniela, recovering from the sudden shock, began suddenly to say, with
a kind of nervous energy I had not suspected in her,--

"I will not listen to this, Leon. I will not; I will not; I will not!"

And she ran into the moonlit courtyard. Yes; she ran away from my
words,--my confession. Presently she disappeared within the portico,
and I remained alone with a feeling of unrest, fear, and great pity
for her, and triumph at the same time that the words which should be
the beginning of a new life for us both had been spoken. For, to say
the truth, I could not expect anything else from her at first; but the
seed from which something must spring up was sown.

When I came into the house there was no Aniela visible. I found
only my aunt, walking up and down the room muttering her rosary and
soliloquizing between the prayers. I said good-night, and went at once
to my room thinking that it would calm me if I put down the day's
impressions; but it only tired me more. I intend to go away to-morrow,
or rather to-day, for I see the daylight coming through the window. I
want to confirm Aniela in the conviction that I expect nothing from
her,--want her to calm down and get familiar with what I told her. But
to confess the whole truth, I go away also because I am afraid to meet
her so soon, and would fain put it off. There are moments when
it seems to me a monstrous deed to have introduced an element of
corruption in this pure atmosphere. But does not the principal evil
lie in her marrying a man she cannot love? What is more immoral, my
love which is a manifestation of nature's great law, or the belonging
of Aniela to that man, which is a shameful breaking of the same law?
And I, who understand this so clearly, am yet so weak that a horror
seizes me when I kick against that corrupt morality. But all these
scruples melt like snow at the words, "I love." If even now my heart
feels sore at the thought that at this very moment she may be awake,
weeping perhaps, or torn by doubts, it is only another proof how I
love her. It hurts me, and at the same time I do not see how otherwise
we can arrive at happiness.


19 May.

The first night after my arrival I slept profoundly. At Ploszow I
grudged every moment that kept me from Aniela, and during the night I
was writing; consequently I felt deadly tired. And now I feel still
heavy, but am able to think. I am somewhat ashamed that I ran away and
left Aniela alone to bear the burden of my confession; but when the
beloved woman is in question, a little cowardice is not dishonorable.
Besides, I should not have fled had it not been necessary for the
future weal of my love. Now, every day when she rises and says her
prayers, walks in the park or attends her sick mother, she must, if
ever so unwillingly, say to herself, "He loves me," and the thought
will gradually become familiar, less terrifying to her. Human nature
gets accustomed to everything, and a woman soon becomes reconciled to
the thought that she is loved, especially when she returns that love.
This question, "Does she love me?" I put to myself the first time when
I knew I loved her still; and again I turn it over in my mind, try to
weigh all the circumstances as if somebody else's fate were at stake,
and I arrive at the conviction that it cannot be otherwise. When she
married she loved me, not Kromitzki; she only yielded to him her hand
driven by despair. If she had married a superior man who dazzled her
by his fame, his thoughts, or exceptional character, she might have
forgotten me. But how could a Kromitzki, with his money-grubbing
neurosis, get hold of her affection? Besides, he left her soon after
they were married; he sold Gluchow, which was as the very apple of the
eye to these two women. Judging Kromitzki quite impartially, there
was nothing in him which could win a being full of ideal impulses and
feelings. Then I came back,--I, whom she had loved. I touched the
chords of her heart with memories of the past, by every word and
glance. I drew her towards me, not only with that skill an experience
of life gives, but also with that magnetic force true love bestows on
man. Adding to this the fact that she knew how much I suffered when I
sent Sniatynski to her, she must have pitied me, and that pity cannot
have vanished altogether. I play for my life, but the cards are in my
favor. I cannot lose the game.

I am as much in my right as anybody who is defending his life. I do
not say this upon the impulse of the moment, but after calm reasoning.
I have no convictions, no beliefs, no principles, no stable ground
under my feet, for the ground has been undermined by criticism and
reflection. I have only those forces of life born with us, and they
are all concentrated on one woman. Therefore I clutch my love as a
drowning man clutches a plank; if this gives way there will be nothing
left to live for. If common-sense asks, "Why did you not marry
Aniela?" I say what I have said before: I did not marry her simply for
the reason that I am not straight, but crooked,--partly because born
so, partly because so reared by those two nurses, Reflection and
Criticism. Why this woman and no other should be my plank of
salvation, I do not know. Most likely because it was she and not
another. It did not depend upon me.

If she were free to-day, I would stretch my hands out for her without
hesitation; if she had never been married, who knows?--I am ashamed
of the thought, and yet it may be that she would not be so desirable.
Most likely, judging by the past, I should have gone on watching her,
watching my own feelings, until somebody else carried her off; but I
prefer not to think of it, because it makes me inclined to swear.


20 May.

I considered to-day what would happen if I gained Aniela's love, or
rather brought her to confess it. I see happiness before me but no way
of reaching it. I know that if in presence of these women I uttered
the word "divorce," they would think the roof was crashing down over
our heads. There cannot be even a question as to that, because my
aunt's and Pani Celina's ideas upon that point are such that neither
of them would survive the shock. I have no illusions as to Aniela; her
ideas are the same. And yet the moment she owns her love, I will say
the word, and she must accustom herself to it; but we shall have to
wait until my aunt's and Pani Celina's death. There is nothing else
for it. Kromitzki will either agree willingly or he will not. In the
latter case I shall carry Aniela off, if I have to go as far as the
Indies, and the divorce, or rather invalidation of the marriage, I
shall conduct myself, in spite of his wishes. Fortunately, there is no
want of means. As regards myself, I am ready for everything, and the
inward conviction that I am right justifies me in my own eyes. This
time it is not a mere love intrigue, but a feeling that absorbs my
whole being. Its sincerity and strength make all my stratagems lawful.
I know that I deceive her in saying that all I wish to gain is a
sister's love. I deceive her when I say I do not desire anything; all
this would be wrong and a lie if my love were in itself a lie. In
presence of a great truth, they are mere diplomatic stratagems of
love. It all belongs to the course of love. It is a known fact that
even affianced lovers have recourse to stratagems, in order to make
each other confess their love. As to myself, I am sincere even when I
say what is not true.


21 May.

I told Aniela that I intended to work, and I will do so, if only for
the reason that I said so to her. I will have the collections brought
over from Rome, and found a museum. This will be Aniela's merit,
and the first useful deed that springs from our love. I suppose the
Italian government will raise difficulties, as there is a law that
prohibits the exportation of antiquities and precious works of art.
But my lawyer will arrange that for me. And that reminds me of the
Madonna by Sassoferrato, which my father bequeathed to his future
daughter-in-law. I will have it sent over at once, because I want it.


22 May.

Human nature is ever malicious. I have a grim satisfaction in thinking
how ridiculous a man like Kromitzki must seem, who is turning
summersaults in the East in his effort to make money, while somebody
whispers love vows into his wife's ears; and sooner or later Aniela
must see it in this light. The whole Kromitzki can be summed up in
the one fact: he sold Gluchow and left the women without a home. He
thought perhaps they would live in Odessa or Kieff; in the mean while
Pani Celina's illness brought Aniela to Ploszow.

Yet he knew how precarious the lady's health was; he ought to have
foreseen that she might fall ill, and that Aniela would remain alone
with the burden of sorrow and trouble. If his business requires his
presence in the East, why did he marry at all?

To-morrow I go back to Ploszow. I feel very lonely here, and besides
I feel the longing to look once more into Aniela's eyes, and at times
feel guilty, as if I had been shirking a duty by running away. It was
necessary at the time, but I must go back now. Who knows? greater
happiness than I suppose may be waiting for me,--perhaps she too is
longing for me.

I called upon the Sniatynskis, and Clara, whom I did not find at home.
I paid also a visit to the celebrated beauty, Pani Korytzka. The
latter carries her historical name like a jockey cap, and her wit as
a riding-whip; she hits people with it between the eyes. I came off
unscathed; she even tried a little coquetry on me. I made a dozen or
so calls and left cards. I wish people to think that I am settled at
Warsaw.

As the bringing over of my father's collections is only a matter of
will and ready money, I am seeking what else there is for me to do.
Men of my position are usually occupied with the administration of
their fortune; and very badly they administer it on the whole, far
worse than I. Very few take any part in public life. I mentioned
before that here they still amuse themselves with aristocracy and
democracy; there are even some whose whole aim in life consists in
backing up social hierarchy, and stemming the tide of democratic
currents. It is a sport as good as any other, but since I am no
sportsman, I take no interest in that amusement. Even if it were no
mere play, if there were some sense at the bottom of it, I am too much
of a sceptic in regard to both parties to belong to either. Democracy,
by which I mean patented democrats, not people of humble extraction,
acts upon my nerves. As to aristocracy, methinks that if their _raison
d'être_ is based upon services rendered to the country by their
ancestors, those services have often been such that the sooner their
descendants don the hair shirt and cover their heads with ashes the
better. Besides, these two parties, with the exception of a few
foolish individuals, do not really believe in themselves. Some feign
sincerity in order to serve their own ends, and as I never feign
anything, it is clear that to take part in such struggles is not the
work for me. Then there are those of the Sniatynski order who stand
above both parties, but are always ready to drown both in their
synthesis. They are, as a rule, strong men; but even if I could agree
with them I should have to do something,--mere consciousness of duty
is not work. Sniatynski writes plays. Truly, when I look things
straight in the face, I find that I am outside the parenthesis, and
do not see my way to get inside. It is strange that a man who has
considerable means, culture, certain capacities, and a wish for
something to do, should find nothing he can put his hands to. Again
I feel inclined to swear, as it is all owing to that intellectual
splitting of hairs. They ought to make a diagnosis upon me, as to the
disease of Time's old age, which in me has reached the acute stage.
He who is a sceptic in regard to faith, in regard to science,
conservatism, progress, and so on, has indeed difficulty in finding
anything to do.

In addition to all that, my aspirations are far greater than the
possibility of satisfying them. Life rests upon work; and therefore,
here people work at something or other. But it is the work of a
dray-horse, carting grain to the granary. I could not do it even if I
wished. I am a high-stepper, fit only for a carriage, and of no use on
sandy, rutty roads, where common horses do the work better and more
steadily. At the building of a house I could not carry the bricks, but
might do something in the ornamental line, but where it is a question
of four simple walls and a sound roof, artisans such as I are not
wanted. If at least I had a mighty impulse towards work, I still might
be able to force myself to do something. But in the main, it is only a
question of appearances. I wish to work in order to please the woman
I love. Aniela in regard to that has exalted notions, and it would
certainly please her. Moreover, for that very reason my vanity and
also my calculations urge me to bid for a prominent position, which
would raise my value in her eyes. I will see what can be done, and
in the meanwhile my purse will do the work for me. I shall have the
collection sent over, support various institutions, and give money
where it is wanted.

What a strange power there is in woman! She comes in contact with a
genius without portfolio, an exceptionally useless implement like me,
and then, without any preaching on her part, he feels himself in duty
bound to do all sorts of things he never dreamed of doing before.

The deuce take me if I ever thought of bringing my collections to
Paris or Vienna for the sake of a Parisian or Viennese. I am going
back to Ploszow; I long to be near my good spirit.


23 May.

When I went away from Ploszow for some time, it was to bring Aniela
to some kind of decision. At Warsaw and on the way back to Ploszow, I
tried to guess what she had resolved upon. I knew she could not write
to her husband: "Come and take me away, for Ploszowski is making love
to me;" she would not have done so even if she hated me. There is too
much delicacy of feeling in her to do that. Putting aside that an
encounter between me and Kromitzki might be the consequence of such a
step, Aniela would have to leave her sick mother, who cannot go away
from Ploszow.

Aniela's position is indeed a difficult one, and I counted upon that
before I made my confession. The thought crossed my mind that she
might take it into her head to avoid me altogether, and shut herself
up in her mother's rooms. But I dismissed the thought. In the country
and under the same roof it would be quite impracticable, or at any
rate so conspicuous as to rouse the elder ladies' attention and
consequently act injuriously upon her mother's health. In truth I take
the utmost advantage of her position, but who that is in love does not
do the same? I foresaw that Aniela, even if she returns my love, will
not allow me in the future to repeat my avowal,--she will resist more
than any other married woman; for what with her principles and her
modesty, the slightest sign of yielding would appear to her an
incredible crime. But how can she prevent me from telling her my love?
There is only one way,--by getting from me a voluntary promise; I
guessed she would speak to me about it, and I was right.

When I arrived at Ploszow she seemed pale, and a little worn, but
looked at me with a resolute face. It was evident the dear child had
laid by a whole store of arguments to convince me with, and believed
that after displaying them there would be nothing for me but to remain
silent forever. Angelic delusion; to think there is only one truth in
the world. No! do not enter into any arguments with me, my Aniela, for
if I believe in any truth, it is the truth and right of love; besides,
I am too wily, and each argument will be turned inside out like a
glove and made into a weapon against yourself. Neither argument nor
reasoning, not even my pity will save you; for the whiter, the more
perfect and angelic you prove yourself, the more I shall love you, and
the more I love, the more desirable you will be to me. I have nothing
but crocodile tears for you, which will only sharpen my rapacity. Such
is the mazy circle of love. At the sight of Aniela I felt myself drawn
into that circle. In the afternoon, that same day, when Pani Celina
had fallen asleep on the veranda, Aniela motioned me to follow her
into the park. From the earnest expression of her face, I guessed that
the time had come for those arguments, and I followed her eagerly. As
we went farther from the veranda, I noticed that Aniela's animation
began to flag; she had grown paler and seemed frightened at her own
temerity; but she could not draw back now, and began in an unsteady
voice:--

"If you only knew how unhappy I have been these last days--"

"Do you think I have been much happier?" I replied.

"I know you have not, and because of that I have a request to make.
You understand everything, and are so good and generous you will not
refuse what I ask you."

"Tell me, what do you want me to do?"

"Leon, you must leave here, go abroad again, and do not come back
until mamma and I are able to leave Ploszow."

I was sure she would ask me that. I remained silent for a while as if
searching for an answer.

"You can do with me what you like," I said; "but tell me, why do you
send me into exile?"

"I do not send you into exile; but you know why--"

"I know," I replied, with unfeigned sadness and resignation; "it is
because I am ready to give the last drop of my blood for you, because
I would shield you with my body from any danger, because I love you
more than my life,--these are heavy sins indeed!"

"No," she interrupted, with feverish energy, "but because I am the
wife of a man I love and respect,--and I will not listen to such
words."

Impatience and anger seized me; I knew she did not speak the truth.
All married women shield themselves with love and respect for the
husband when they arrive at a turning-point of their life, though
there may not be a shadow of that feeling in their hearts;
nevertheless, Aniela's words sent a shock through my nerves, and I
could scarcely repress the exclamation: "You say what is not true! you
are perjuring yourself, for you neither love nor respect the man;" but
the thought that her energy would not hold out long made me refrain,
and I replied, almost humbly:--

"Do not be angry with me, Aniela; I will go."

I saw that my humility disarmed her, and that she felt sorry for me.
Suddenly she pulled a leaf from a low-hanging branch, and began to
tear it nervously to pieces. She made superhuman efforts not to burst
into tears, but I saw her breast heaving with agitation.

I, too, was moved to the very depth of my soul, and continued with
difficulty:--

"Do not wonder that I hesitate to comply with your wish, for it is
very heavy upon me. I have told you that I do not wish for anything
but to breathe the same air with you, to look at you, and God knows it
is not too much I ask for; yet such as it is, it is my all. And you
take it away from me. Think only; everybody else is allowed to come
here, to speak to you, look at you--but me. Why am I shut out? Because
you are dearer to me than to anybody else! What a refined cruelty of
fate! Only put yourself in my place. It is difficult for you, who have
never known what loneliness means; you love your husband, or think
you do, which comes to the same; put yourself for a moment into my
position, and you will understand that such a sentence is worse than
death. You ought to feel at least a little pity. Driving me from here,
you take everything from me. I told you I had come home to do some
useful work, in which I might find peace, forgetfulness, and redeem
my former sins; only recently I resolved to bring over my father's
collections; and you want me to renounce all that, bid me go away and
begin again a wandering, aimless, life. But have your wish; I will
go if you tell me the same three days hence, for I fancy you did not
quite understand what all this meant for me. Now you know, I only ask
for three days' respite, nothing more."

Aniela covered her eyes with her hands and moaned: "Oh, my God! my
God!"

There was something inexpressibly touching in the low cry, like the
wail of a child at its own powerlessness. There was a moment I felt
tempted to promise everything she asked. But in that wail I saw the
promise of a future victory, and I would not lose its fruits.

"Listen to me," I said, "I will go at once, this very moment, and put
seas between us, if you tell me that it is necessary for your own
peace of mind. I speak to you now as a friend, a brother! I know from
my aunt that you loved me; if that love be still alive I will go at
your bidding."

Sincere pain on my part dictated these words; but it was a terrible
trap for Aniela, which might wring a confession from her. If that had
happened--I do not know--maybe I should have kept my word, but as the
heavens are above us, I would have taken her into my arms. But she
only shuddered as if I had touched an open wound; then her face flamed
up in anger and indignation. "No!" she exclaimed with desperate
passion, "it is not true! not true! You may do as you like, go away
or stay, but it is not true!" The very passion with which these words
were uttered showed me that it might be true. I felt inclined to tell
her so with frank brutality, but I saw my aunt coming towards us.
Aniela was not able to conceal her emotion, and my aunt looking at her
asked at once:--

"What is troubling you, child? what have you two been talking about?"

"Aniela was telling me how grieved her mother was about the sale of
Gluchow--and I do not wonder she took it so much to heart."

Whether Aniela's strength was exhausted, or the untruth I made her
take a silent part in filled the cup of bitterness to overflowing, she
burst into incontrollable sobs that shook her like a reed; my aunt
folded her into her arms and hushed her as if she were a little child.

"Aniela, my darling, there is no help for it; let us submit to God's
will. The hail has ruined five of my farms, and I did not even say a
word about it to Chwastowski."

The mention of the five farms appeared to me so inappropriate,
selfish, and futile in presence of Aniela's tears that it made me
quite angry with my aunt.

"Never mind the farms," I said brusquely, "she is grieved about her
mother;" and I went away in sorrow, for I felt I was torturing the
woman I loved beyond anything. I had conquered along the whole line,
yet I felt profoundly sad, as if the future were full of unknown
terrors.


25 May.

To-day is the third day since our conversation, and as Aniela has not
referred to it again, I remain. She does not say much to me, nor does
she avoid me altogether, fearing to attract notice. I try to be good,
friendly, and attentive, but do not thrust myself in her way. I want
her to think I keep my feeling under control, but she cannot help
seeing it is there, and increasing every moment. At any rate we have a
little world to ourselves, where only we two dwell; we have our mutual
secret from the others. When we speak about indifferent topics we both
know that at the bottom of our hearts there is something we both think
about but do not put into words. This forms a tie; time and patience
will do the rest. From my love I weave a thousand threads around her,
which will bind us more and more. This would be all in vain if she
loved her husband; it would make her hate me. But the past speaks in
my favor, and the present does not not belong to Kromitzki. I still
think it over with the greatest impartiality, and I come to the same
conclusion, that she cannot love him. Aniela's resistance is the
inward struggle of an exceptionally pure soul, that does not allow a
breath of faithlessness to come near it. But she is without help in
that struggle. I know the resistance will be long, and difficult to
overcome; I must always be on the watch, give a clear account to
myself of every trifle, and weave around her strong and invisible
threads. Even if I should commit any mistakes they will be only, the
result of my love, and as such will be rather a help than a hindrance.


26 May.

I told Sniatynski about my intention to have my Roman collections
conveyed to Warsaw,--calculating that it would reach the press, which
could not fail to laud me up to the sky as a public benefactor. Aniela
involuntarily must compare me to Kromitzki, which will count in my
favor. I sent also a telegram to Rome, asking for the Sassoferrato.

During breakfast I told Aniela, in presence of the others, that my
father had left the picture to her in his will; which confused her,
and she guessed at once that he had looked upon her as his future
daughter. It is true there was no name mentioned in the will, and for
that very reason I want Aniela to have it. The mention of this bequest
reawoke in us both a host of memories. I had done this on purpose to
turn Aniela's thoughts to the past, when she loved me and could love
me in peace. I know the remembrance must be mingled with some bitter
thoughts, even some resentment; it cannot be otherwise; but it would
be worse without the message I sent her through Sniatynski. This
message is the only extenuating circumstance in the whole guilty
affair. Aniela knows that I wanted to undo the wrong, that I loved her
then, suffered, and repented,--am repenting still, and that if we are
unhappy she too helped to bring that unhappiness on both. She is bound
to absolve me in her heart, regret the past and dream what the future
might have been but for my misdeeds and her severity. Even then I was
reading in her face that she felt frightened at her own thoughts
and visions, and tried to drive them away by a conversation upon
indifferent subjects. My aunt is so full of the approaching races
and the expected victory of Naughty Boy, who is put down for the
government stakes, that she cannot think of anything else. Aniela
thereupon began to talk about the races, and made some random remarks
and asked a few questions, until my aunt got scandalized and said:--

"My dear child, I see you have not the slightest notion about races."

I said to her with my eyes: "I know you want to stifle your feelings;"
and she understood me as if I had said it in so many words. And
indeed, I am quite certain that she is as much absorbed in our mutual
relation as I am. The thought of love independent of matrimony is
already planted in her soul; it is there, and does not leave her for
a moment. She must live with it, and get reconciled to it. In such a
case a woman, even if she had loved her husband, would turn from him.
A drop of water will hollow out a stone. If Aniela loves me ever so
little, if she only loves the past, she will be mine. I cannot think
of it calmly, because the foretaste of happiness is almost choking me.

There are here and there quicksands on the seashore, and the unwary
traveller who wanders there is lost. At times it seems to me that my
love is like one of those quicksands, and that I am dragging Aniela
into it; I myself am sinking, sinking--Let it be so--but together!


28 May.

My aunt is spending six to eight hours out of the twenty-four at
Burzany, one of her farms, a mile from Ploszow, where she passes her
time in contemplation of Naughty Boy, and in looking after Webb, the
English trainer. I was there above an hour yesterday. Naughty Boy is
a fine animal,--let us hope he will not be naughty when the great day
arrives. But what does it matter to me? Various business is taking me
to town, but I am loath to leave Ploszow. Pani Celina has been worse
the last few days, but young Chwast, as my aunt calls him, says it
is merely a passing symptom; he considers it necessary that somebody
should always be with the sick lady, to distract her from the thoughts
which dwell upon the loss of the dear ancestral home, and consequently
weaken her nerves. I try to show her almost a son's attention, because
in this way I earn Aniela's gratitude, and she gets used to consider
me as belonging to them. I have now not the slightest ill-feeling
towards the old lady,--she is too unhappy herself; and besides, I
begin to love everything and everybody that belongs to Aniela,--with
one exception.

Yesterday I spent several hours with the invalid, together with Aniela
and Chwast. We were reading and talking. Pani Celina does not sleep at
night, and as the doctor does not approve of sleeping-draughts, she
dozes off in the daytime after any lengthy conversation, and strange
to say, only a sudden silence wakes her up. For this reason we keep up
the conversation or the reading. It was the same to-day. But for the
doctor's presence I could speak to Aniela with the greatest freedom.

Just at this time the daily papers are fully occupied with the divorce
of the beautiful Pani Korytzka. Everybody talks about it, and my aunt,
who is related to the husband, is greatly shocked. I resolved to make
the most of my opportunity, and plant ideas in Aniela's mind that had
not been there before.

"You are quite wrong, dear aunt, to blame Pani Korytzka. To me it
seems that she acts as a true and honest woman should. Where love
begins, human will ends,--even you must acknowledge that. If Pani
Korytzka loves somebody else, nothing remains for her but to leave
her husband. I know what you are going to say, and also what Aniela
thinks,--that duty still remains; is it not so?"

"I think you too must be of the same opinion," replied Aniela.

"Most certainly. The question is which way lies Pani Korytzka's duty."

I do not know why, but the young doctor stipulated that he did
not recognize any free will, but afterwards listened attentively,
evidently pleased with the boldness of my views.

But seeing astonishment on Aniela's face, I went on quickly:--

"What can there be more barbarous or unnatural than to ask a woman to
sacrifice the man she loves to the man she does not love? Religious
beliefs may be in contradiction with one another, but they all agree
upon the same ethics, that marriage is based upon love. What then is
matrimony? It is either something inviolable and essentially holy
when resting upon such a basis, or if otherwise, only a contract
in contradiction to religion and morality, and as such ought to be
dissolved. Otherwise speaking, a woman's duties spring from her
feelings, and not from a number of more or less solemn ceremonies,
which in themselves are only so many forms. I say this because I am a
man who puts truth above mere forms. I know the word 'faithlessness'
sounds very terrible. But do not delude yourselves with the notion
that a woman is faithless at the moment she leaves her husband. She
is faithless the very moment she feels that her love for him is gone.
What follows after is only a question of her capacity to bring things
to a logical conclusion, of her courage and her heart that knows, or
does not know, the meaning of love. Pani Korytzka loved the man for
whom she divorces her husband before she was married; the marriage
was contracted in a moment of misunderstanding, she mistaking an
exhibition of jealousy for indifference. This was her only mistake;
which she wants to correct now that she understands that it was not
right to sacrifice the man she loved to the man she looked upon with
indifference; nobody but those who will not see can call her bad or a
hypocrite."

There was as much fiction as truth in what I was saying. I knew my
aunt would never agree to the theory that the will ends when love
steps in; but I said it to impress Aniela with the idea that there was
no doubt about it. That first lover was also an invention of my own,
to make the story more to the point. But I was perfectly sincere when
speaking about the rights and duties springing from feeling. It is
quite another thing that I might not stand up for this theory if it
did not suit me just then; but man is always subjective, especially
the man who has doubted all objective truths.

I stood up for myself, and should have been foolish to speak against
my own interest. I counted that this kind of reasoning would hasten
the evolution of her soul, encourage her, and finally justify her in
her own eyes. Considering her great sensitiveness, I thought some of
it would take root. She understood me perfectly, and I could see that
every word thrilled her nerves; her color came and went; she put her
hands to her burning face to cool it. At last, when I had ceased
speaking, she replied:--

"Everything may be proved in some way or other; but when we do wrong
our conscience tells us, 'It is wrong, wrong!' and nothing can
convince it to the contrary."

Young Chwastowski must have thought Aniela wanting in philosophical
development, and as to myself I had a sensation like that, for
instance, when a weapon comes into contact with a stone wall. Aniela's
reply, in its simplicity and dogmatism, brought to naught all my
arguments. For if the principle that the will ends where love steps in
might be open to doubt, there is no doubt whatever that where dogma
begins reasoning ceases. Women generally, and Polish women especially,
agree with logic as long as it does not bring them into danger. At the
approach of danger they shelter themselves behind the fortifications
of simple faith and catechismal truth, which strong feeling might
force to surrender, but reasoning, never. It is their weakness, and at
the same time their strength. In consequence of this their power of
reasoning is weaker than man's, but their saintliness in certain
conditions becomes unassailable. The devil can lead a woman astray
only when he inspires her with love; by way of reasoning he can do
nothing, even if for once he has the right on his side.

In presence of these reflections I feel disheartened. I am thinking
that any structure, however cleverly and artfully raised by me, will
be pulled down by the simple words: "It is wrong; conscience does not
permit it."

In presence of that I am powerless. I must be very careful so as
not to estrange or frighten her by the boldness of ideas I try to
acclimatize in her mind. And yet I cannot give up all endeavors of
this kind. Though they do not occupy the first place in the plan of
subduing her, they may hasten the solution. They would be of no use
whatever if it were true that she did not love me. If I had made a
mistake,--but even then there would be some kind of solution.


29 May.

To-day I found Aniela standing on a chair before the old Dantzic clock
which had gone wrong. At the moment she raised herself on tip-toe to
reach the hands, the chair gave way. I had only time to cry out, "Take
care! you are falling!" I caught her in my arms, and put her on the
floor. For the twinkling of an eye I held the dear girl in my arms,
her hair touched my face, her breath fanned my cheek. I felt so dizzy
that I had to steady myself by grasping the back of a chair,--and she
saw it. She knows I love her madly. I cannot write any more.


30 May.

My whole day was poisoned, for Aniela has received another letter from
Kromitzki. I heard her telling my aunt that he does not know himself
when he will be able to return,--may be shortly, or it may be two
months hence. I cannot even imagine how I shall be able to bear his
presence near Aniela. At times it seems that I simply could not bear
it. I count upon some lucky chance that will prevent his coming back.
Chwastowski says Pani Celina ought to go to Gastein as soon as she can
bear the journey. Gastein is such a distance from Baku that it may be
too far for Kromitzki to go. I shall go there as sure as there is a
heaven above us. It is a happy thought of Chwastowski's; the baths
will do us all much good. I too feel fagged and in want of bracing
mountain air, and still more in want of being near Aniela. To-morrow I
shall go to Warsaw, and send a telegram to the manager of the bathing
establishment to secure rooms for the ladies. If no rooms are to be
had, I am ready to buy a villa. When Pani Celina spoke of the trouble
and difficulties it would give Aniela were she to go there, I only
said: "Leave it all to me;" and then, in a lower voice, to Aniela: "I
will take care of her as if she were my own mother." I saw that Pani
Celina, who believes less and less in Kromitzki's millions, was afraid
I might arrange things on too expensive a scale; but I have already
settled it in my mind to show her a fictitious agreement, and take the
greater part of the expenses upon myself. Of course, I never mentioned
that I intended going there myself. I will arrange it so that the
proposal shall come from my aunt. I am quite sure that, as soon as I
unfold my plans of going somewhere in the hills to recruit my health,
the good soul will fall into the trap, and say: "Why not go with them?
it will be more comfortable for all of you." I know it will frighten
Aniela, and in the most secret recess of her heart please her a
little. Maybe it will remind her of the poet's line, "You are
everywhere: above me, around me, and within me." Then truly, my love
will surround her as with an enchanted circle, enter her heart in the
guise of thoughtfulness towards the mother,--in the guise of little
services she cannot refuse without exciting her mother's suspicions;
all this will gradually sink into her heart, in the guise of gratitude
and pity for my sufferings, will thrust itself upon her with all the
force of old memories.

She hears my praises sung by everybody: by my aunt, who loves me
blindly as she always did; by young Chwastowski, who, to show the
impartiality people of his opinions are capable of, maintains I am an
exception in the "rotten sphere." I have even won over Pani Celina
by my attentions; she likes me now, and involuntarily, I dare say,
regrets that I am not Aniela's husband. All around Aniela there is one
great suggestion of love.

And you, dearest, are you going to resist all these powers? When will
you come and tell me: "I cannot hold out any longer; take me,--I love
you"?


Warsaw, 31 May.

Pani L., the patroness of a charitable institution, asked Clara to
give another concert for the benefit of the destitute. Clara refused
on the plea that she is busy upon a great musical work that engages
all her attention. The letter,--a very pattern of polite refusal,--was
accompanied by exactly the same sum of money the first concert had
brought in. It is easy to imagine what a sensation this act of
generosity made in Warsaw. The papers were full of it, raising the
musician and her generosity to the sky. Naturally, her private means,
which are considerable, gained in dimensions. I do not know how
society came to couple our names; perhaps, our acquaintance, dating
from a long time, our intimacy, and the exaggerated news of her wealth
gave rise to the rumor. I was at first a little angry on hearing this;
but upon maturer reflection, resolved not to give any direct denial,
because this puts my attentions towards Aniela beyond all suspicion.

When I went to Clara's morning reception, Pani Korytzka came up to me,
and, with that witty, aggressive air of hers, asked me in presence of
some dozen people from the musical world and Warsaw society, in an
audible voice,--

"Tell me, cousin, who was that mythological person that could not
resist the Siren?"

"Nobody resisted, _ma cousine_, except Ulysses; and he only because he
was tied to the mast."

"And why have you not taken these precautions?"

I saw some covert smiles lurking in the faces of those who witnessed
the attack, and I retorted,--

"Sometimes even that is of no use. You know that love sunders the
strongest ties."

In spite of all her self-possession, Pani Korytzka grew confused,
and I gained one of those tiny victories which are comprised in the
proverb, "The scythe hit upon a stone," or in plain English, "The
biter bit."

Whether people repeat to each other that I am going to marry Clara or
not, does not trouble me in the least; in fact, for the above stated
reason I do not mind it at all; but I did not expect that this visit
would turn out so unpleasant, and Clara herself be the cause of it.
When all the people had left, and only Sniatynski and I remained, she
sat down to the piano, and played her new concerto,--played it so
magnificently that we could not find words to express our admiration;
repeating at our request the finale, she said, suddenly,--

"This is my farewell, because everything comes to a finale."

"Surely you are not thinking of leaving us?" asked Sniatynski.

"Yes, in ten days at the furthest I must be at Frankfurt," replied
Clara.

Thereupon Sniatynski turned to me,--

"And what do you say to that,--you who at Ploszow gave us to
understand, made us hope, Miss Hilst would remain with us always?"

"Yes; and I say the same now: her memory will always remain with us."

"Yes; I understood it so," replied Clara, with naïve resignation.

Inwardly I was furious,--with myself, Sniatynski, and Clara. I am
neither so vain, foolish, nor mean that every conquest of that kind
should rejoice me; therefore felt annoyed at the thought that Clara
might love me, and nourish some baseless hopes. I knew she had some
kind of undefined feeling, which, given time and occasion, might
develop into something more lasting; but I had no idea this vague
feeling dared to wish or expect something. It suddenly struck me that
the announcement of her departure was prompted by a desire to find out
how I would receive the news. I received it very coolly. A love like
mine for Aniela ought to teach compassion; yet Clara's sadness and the
mention of her departure, not only did not move me, but seemed to me
an audacious flight of fancy and an insult to me.

Why? Not from any aristocratic notions; that is certain. I could
not account at once for the strange phenomenon; but now explain it
thus,--the feeling of belonging to Aniela is so strong and exclusive
that it seems to me that any other woman wanting but one pulsation of
my heart endeavors to steal something that is Aniela's property. This
explanation is sufficient for me. No doubt, by and by I shall bid
Clara good-by, and feel as friendly as ever towards her; but the
sudden announcement of her departure gave me a distaste for her. It is
only Aniela who may with impunity trample on my nerves. Never did I
look at Clara so critically and resentfully; for the first time
I became fully aware of the amplitude of her figure, the bright
complexion, the dark hair, and blue, somewhat protruding eyes, the
lips like ripe cherries,--in brief, her whole beauty reminded me of
the cheap chromo-lithographs of harem beauties in second-class hotels.
I left her in the worst of humors, and went straight to a book-shop to
select some books for Aniela.

For a week I had been thinking what to choose for her reading. I did
not wish to neglect anything, though I did not attach undue weight
to this, as it acts very slowly. Besides, I have noticed that to
our women, though their imagination is more developed than their
temperament, a book is always something unreal. If it falls even into
the hands of an exceptionally susceptible person, it creates in her
at the most an abstract world, that has no connection with real life
whatever. To almost none of them it occurs that ideas taken from books
can be applied to any practical purpose. I am convinced that if a
great writer tried to prove, for instance, that purity of thought and
mind were not only superfluous in a woman, but even blameworthy from
a moral point of view,--Aniela would opine that the principle might
apply to the whole world with the exception of herself. The utmost I
can hope for is that the reading of appropriate books will render her
familiar with a certain kind of broad views and thoughts. That is all
I wish for. Loving her from my whole soul, I want her to respond to
that love, and do not neglect any means towards that end. I, who never
deceive myself, confess openly that I want Aniela to sacrifice for me
her husband, but I do not want to corrupt her or to soil her purity.
Let nobody tell me that this is a sophism, and that the one includes
the other. The tormenting devil that is always within me raising
difficulties says: "You create new theories; the way of faithlessness
_is_ the way of corruption." How these conflicting thoughts tear me
to pieces! I reply to the familiar spirit: "I might doubt opposite
theories quite as much; I contrive what I can in defence of my
love,--it is my natural law." And there is a greater law still, the
law of love. Some feelings are mean and commonplace, others lofty and
full of nobility. A woman that follows the call of lofty feeling does
not lose the nobility of her soul. Such a great, exceptional love I
try to awake in Aniela, and therefore I may say conscientiously that I
do not want to corrupt her.

Besides, these inward arguments do not lead to anything. Even if I had
not the slightest doubt that I am doing wrong, if I were unable to
give any conclusive answer to the tormenting spirit, I would not cease
loving; and always following where a greater power leads me, I should
go according to my feeling, and not according to abstract reasoning.

But the true misfortune of those analytic and hyper-analytic modern
people is that, though not believing in the result of their analysis,
they have the invincible habit of inquiring into everything that goes
on within themselves. It is the same with me. For some time I have
been questioning myself how it is possible that a man absorbed by a
great feeling should be able to be so watchful, so calculating about
ways and means, and to account for everything as if somebody else did
it for him. I could reply to it in this way: The man of the period
reserves above everything part of himself to observe the other
part. Besides, the whole activity of a mind full of forethought, of
reflections apparently cool, stands eventually in proportion to the
temperature of the feeling. The hotter this grows, the more cool
reason is forced into service. I repeat, it is a mistake to represent
love with bandaged eyes. Love does not suppress reason, as it does
not suppress the breathing, or the beating of the heart,--it only
subjugates it. Reason thereupon becomes the first adviser, the
implement of war,--in other words, it plays the part of an Agrippa to
a Caesar Augustus. It is holding all the forces in readiness, leads
them into war, gains victories, and places the monarch on the
triumphal car; it erects finally,--not a Pantheon, like the historical
Agrippa,--but a Monotheon, where it serves its only divinity. In the
microcosm called man, the part reason plays is a still greater one
than that of chief commander,--for it reflects into infinite parts the
consciousness of everything and of self,--as a collection of properly
arranged mirrors reflect a given object infinitely.


1 June.

Yesterday I received news from Gastein. The rooms for Pani Celina and
Aniela are ready. I sent them the particulars, together with a parcel
of books by Balzac and George Sand. To-day is Sunday, and the first
day of the races. My aunt has arrived from Ploszow and taken up her
abode with me. That she went to the races is a matter of course,
she is altogether absorbed in them. But our horses, Naughty Boy and
Aurora, which arrived here two days ago with the trainer Webb and Jack
Goose, the jockey, are on the list for Thursday; therefore my aunt's
attendance at the Sunday races was merely a platonic affair. The
goings on here are past all description. The stables have been
converted into a kind of fortress. My aunt fancies the jockeys of
other racing studkeepers shake in their shoes at the very mention of
Naughty Boy, and are ready to use every means to prevent his running;
consequently in every orange boy or organ grinder that comes into the
yard, she sees an enemy in disguise, bent upon some evil practice. The
Swiss porter and the servants have strict orders to keep an eye upon
everybody that comes in. In the stables, the precautions taken are
still stricter. The trainer Webb, being an Englishman, remains
impassive, but the unfortunate Jack Goose, a native of Burzany, and
whose name is a literal translation from the Polish Kuba Gonsior,
fairly loses his head; my aunt scolds him and the grooms, natives also
of Burzany, whenever she fancies things are going wrong. She was so
much at the stables that I did not see much of her, and only when
departing she told me that Aniela was to come for the races. I suppose
Pani Celina consented to this in order to please my aunt; besides, she
can very well remain alone for one day, with the doctor and the maids
to look after her. Aniela, who is walled up at Ploszow day after day,
really wants a little change. For me this is joyful news indeed. The
very thought that she will be under my roof has a singular charm for
me. Here I began to love her and maybe her heart kept beating a little
faster after that entertainment my aunt gave here in her honor.
Everything here will remind her of the past.


2 June.

It is fortunate I did not have the rooms altered to suit a museum. I
have an idea to give a dinner-party after the races. In this way I
shall be able to keep her here a few hours longer,--and besides, she
will understand that it is all for her.


3 June.

I ordered a cartload of plants and flowers to put along the staircase
and in the rooms. Aniela's room remains exactly as it was when she
occupied it. I suppose the ladies will arrive in the morning and
Aniela will want to change her dress. I had a large mirror put there,
and every requisite for a lady's toilet. Aniela will meet everywhere
proofs of thoughtfulness, memory, and faithful love. Only now, while
writing, it strikes me how much easier I feel when occupied with
something, when outward activity takes me out of the enchanted circle
of reflection and pondering over myself. Even driving nails into
the wall for the pictures of the future museum would be better than
twisting one idea around another. Why cannot I be a simple-minded man?
If I had been that in times gone by I should be now the happiest man
in the world.


4 June.

I went to-day to invite the Sniatynskis and several other people to
dinner. Sniatynski has spread the news of my founding a museum for the
public, and I am at present the hero of the day. All the papers write
about it, improving the occasion as usual by pitching into those that
waste their substance abroad instead of doing good to the country.
I know their style so well, and it amuses me. There are the usual
phrases about a citizen's duties and "noblesse oblige," but it suits
my purpose. I gathered the whole packet to show my aunt and Aniela.


5 June.

The races have been fixed a day sooner because of to-morrow's holiday.
Aniela and my aunt arrived this morning with a maid and sundry boxes
containing their racing toilets. The first glance at Aniela filled me
with terror. She does not look well at all; her face is wan and
has lost its former warm color; it seems smaller too, and there is
something misty about her that reminds me of Puvis de Chawannes'
figures. My aunt and her mother do not notice it, because they see her
every day; but to me, after the absence of a few days, the change is
very remarkable. I am seized with contrition and sincere pity. It is
evident that the inward struggle is telling upon her. If she would
only end it, and follow the dictates of a heart that is mine,--a
hundred times mine and pleads for me,--all her troubles would
cease and happiness begin. I am getting deeper and deeper into the
quicksands. It seemed to me that I knew her so well; every detail and
every feature stands out before my eyes when I do not see her, and yet
when I meet her, after a few days' absence, I discover a new charm,
and find something new I like in her. How she satisfies my every
taste, and I am deeply conscious that she is my type,--my only
affinity. This consciousness gives me a belief, half mystic, half
approaching the natural hypothesis, that she was meant for me. When
hearing the sound of wheels, I ran down to meet her, and again had the
sensation one might call falling under the spell; again the reality
seemed to me more perfect than the picture I carry in my heart. She
was dressed in a dust-cloak of Chinese silk; a long gray veil was
twisted round her hat and tied under her chin, and from amid that
frame the dear face, always more like a girl's than a married woman's,
smiled at me. Her greeting was more cheerful and more frank than
usual; it was evident the morning drive and the prospect of a little
pleasure had brightened her spirits; this filled me with delight. I
thought, "She is glad to see me again, and Ploszow appears to her dull
and empty without me." I offered one arm to my aunt and the other to
Aniela, as the staircase is wide enough for three persons, and led
them upstairs. At the sight of all the plants and flowers she uttered
a little cry of wonder.

"It is my surprise," I said.

I pressed her arm slightly, so slightly that it might have passed for
an accidental movement, and then turning to my aunt, said:--

"I am giving a dinner in honor of the Ploszowski success."

My aunt was deeply gratified with my belief in that event. Ah! if she
knew how little I care for Naughty Boy, and all the races the Ploszow
horses might win on all the race-courses of Europe. Aniela evidently
guessed something of this, but she was in such spirits that she only
cast a passing glance at me, and bit her lips to hide a smile.

I well-nigh lost my head. In the covert smile I saw a shade of
coquetry I had never noticed there before. It is impossible, I
thought, that she should have no vanity whatever, and not feel
flattered in the least, on perceiving that all I am doing is done
through her and for her sake.

My aunt divested herself of her travelling-wraps, and without delay
went to inspect Naughty Boy and Aurora, and I showed Aniela the list
of the invited guests.

"I tried to bring together people you like; but if there is anybody
else you would like to have, I will go myself, or send an invitation."

"Show it to aunty;" replied Aniela, "let her decide."

"No; aunty will sit at the head of the table, and we shall go to her
with our congratulations or condolences, as the case may be; but the
part of lady of the house I have assigned to you."

Aniela blushed a little, and, trying to change the conversation,
said:--

"Leon, I do hope Naughty Boy will win; aunty has set her heart upon
it, and will be so vexed if it should turn out otherwise."

"I have won already, because I have as guest under my roof a certain
small person who is sitting opposite me."

"You are making fun; but I am really anxious about it."

"My aunt," I replied, more seriously, "will have some compensation if
she loses. My collections will be in Warsaw in a few weeks, and this
has been the dearest wish of her life. She always tried to make my
father give them to the town. All the papers are full of it, and
praise me to an extent you have no idea of."

The dear face lit up with pleasure.

"Show me; read it to me," she said eagerly.

I had a desire to kiss her hands for that glimpse of brightness. It
was a new proof. If I were indifferent to her, would she rejoice so
much when I am praised?

"Not now," I replied. "I will read it when my aunt comes back, or
rather she must read it, and I will hide my blushes behind you; you,
at least, shall not see how foolish I look."

"Why should you look foolish?"

"Because the thing is not worth all the fuss, and if there be any
merit in it, it is yours, not mine. They ought to praise you. I would
give a good deal if I could tell those journalists: 'If you think well
of it, go _en masse_ and kneel at certain little feet and pour out
your gratitude there!'"

"Leon! Leon!" interrupted Aniela.

"Now do not say a word, lest I should feel tempted to divulge the
great secret."

Aniela did not know what to say. The words were those of a man in
love; but the tone was so playful and jesting that she could not
possibly receive them in a tragic spirit.

I was glad I had discovered a way by which I could convey a deeper
meaning without absolutely frightening her. But I did not take too
much advantage of it, and presently, in a more serious tone, began
telling her about the projected changes in the house.

"The whole story is to be given up to the collections, with the
exception of the room in which you lived last winter. This remains as
it was. I have only permitted myself to adorn it a little for your
reception."

Saying this I led her to the door. Standing on the threshold she
exclaimed with astonishment:--

"Oh, what lovely flowers!"

I said in a low voice:--

"And you the most lovely among them!"

Then added, earnestly:--

"You believe me, Aniela, if I tell you that it is in this room I wish
to die some day!"

Oh, how much sincerity there was in these words. Aniela's face grew
misty; all the radiance had gone. I saw that my words had touched a
chord, as all words do that come from the depth of the soul. For
a moment her whole body swayed as if some inward power pushed her
towards me. But she resisted still. She stood before me, her eyes
veiled by the long lashes, and said, with mournful dignity:--

"Let me be at ease with you, Leon; do not sadden me."

"Very well, Aniela; I will not say anything more; here is my hand upon
it."

I gave her my hand, and she pressed it warmly, as if by that pressure
she wanted to say all she forbade her lips to utter. It indemnified me
for all I had suffered, and almost made me stagger on my feet. For
the first time I felt distinctly that I was taking for my own this
being,--body and soul. It was a sensation of such immeasurable
happiness as to cause me almost pain. New, unknown worlds began
to open for me. From this moment I grew quite convinced that her
resistance was only a question of time.

My aunt returned from the stables in excellent humor; no attempt had
been made upon Naughty Boy's precious health. The trainer, Webb, to
all inquiries, had the same answer,--"All right." Jack Goose was
animated by the boldest spirit. We went to the window to see the
future conquerors come from the stables; for it was time they went to
the Mokotoff Field, there to pace around until their turn arrived.
A few minutes later we saw the grooms leading them into the yard,
encased from top to bottom as in a pillow-slip. Only the soft eyes
were visible through the slit; and from below, the shapely feet that
seemed wrought in steel. They were followed by Webb and our little
home-bred Englishman, Jack Goose, in a new overcoat, which concealed
his silks and jockey-boots. I called out to him through the open
window:--

"Mind, and don't get beaten, Kuba!"

He raised his cap, and pointing with it at Naughty Boy, replied in the
purest, not London, but Bursany, dialect:--

"Bedom prosz jasnie hrabiego widzieli, ale ino jegozad." (They will
see him, my lord, but only his hind-quarters.)

We sat down to a hurried lunch; nevertheless my aunt had time to read
what the papers had to say about the future museum. It is strange how
sensitive women are to public applause for their nearest mankind. My
aunt fairly beamed at me through her spectacles, and was incomparable
when she now and then, interrupting the reading, glanced keenly at
Aniela, and then said in her most dogmatic tone:--

"They do not exaggerate the least bit. He was always like that."

Praise heaven there was not another sceptic mind present, otherwise I
should have looked foolish indeed.

It was time for the ladies to dress. Before leaving the room my aunt
turned to me and said with the most innocent expression of face:--

"We must be quick, for I promised to call for Panna Zawilowski; she
was going with her father, but as he is suffering from an attack of
gout I shall have to chaperon her."

With this she went to her room. We looked at each other, Aniela and I;
the corners of her mouth twitched with merriment. "Aniela, it is a new
matrimonial scheme, what shall I do?" She put a finger to her lips
in warning that I spoke too loud, and disappeared within her room;
presently the lovely head peeped out through the half-open door.

"I just remembered you have not asked Miss Hilst," she said.

"No, I have not asked her."

"Why?"

"Because I love her on the sly," I retorted, laughing.

"Seriously, why did you not invite her?"

"If you wish I will invite her now."

"It is as you wish," she replied, and disappeared again.

But I preferred not to invite Miss Hilst.

An hour later we were driving in the Belvederski Avenue. Aniela wore a
cream-colored dress trimmed with lace. I have such a knack of saying
with my eyes what my lips must not utter, that Aniela read in them
my rapture. I recognized it in her face, that looked half-pleased,
half-vexed. We stopped on the way before the Zawilowski villa, and
before I had time to ring, the door opened, and Panna Zawilowska
herself came out. She stood before me a vision in silver gray, rather
a cold vision, as she barely nodded to me before going to my aunt.
She is rather plain than pretty,--a blond with steely blue eyes and
studied manners. She is considered a very pattern of distinction, and
with good reason; that is, if distinction means the same as stiffness.
Her treatment of me is as cold as her eyes, too cold even to be quite
natural. If this is a method adopted on purpose to chafe my vanity, it
is very foolish, for it only bores me, and does not provoke me in the
least. I am rather glad of it, as it permits me to pay her only such
attentions as simple politeness exacts.

To-day I paid her a little more attention; she served me in fact as
a screen to avert any suspicion from Aniela. Presently we drove on
again, but very slowly, as in front and in rear as far as the eye
could reach, all sorts of vehicles were moving in the same direction.
Before us and behind, there was a perfect stream of sunshades; the
various colors of which shone in the sun and created a warmly tinted
shadow from beneath which peeped forth, women's heads with delicate
and refined features. There was the average number of pretty faces,
but they expressed a want of temperament. I did not even see it in the
financial world, which, besides many other things, puts on temperament
rather than possesses it in reality. Among the carriages not a few
displayed considerable taste, and the bright toilets changing and
gleaming in the sun on a background of green trees, the crowds of
fine people and fine horses gave the whole show a highly civilized
appearance, not lacking either in picturesqueness. I was glad to see
Aniela pleased with the motion and turmoil. Replying to my casual
remarks she looked at me with gratitude as if it were I that had
arranged it all for her pleasure. Sitting opposite, I could look at
her without constraint, but I turned oftener towards Panna Zawilowska,
from whom blew a cold air, as from a decanter of iced water, which
began to amuse me; her words and manner seemed to imply that she
agreed to my society, because politeness did not permit her to do
otherwise. I treated her with a certain good-humored courtesy that
seemed to irritate her not a little.

We arrived at last on the Mokotoffskie Pola. There was a reserved
place near the grand stand for my aunt's carriage, and presently
various acquaintances with tickets stuck on their hats came up and
congratulated her upon the promising appearance of Naughty Boy. One of
the greatest horsebreeders said to her that the horse was a splendid
animal, though not sufficiently trained; but as the turf was soft from
yesterday's rain, a strong animal like Naughty Boy stood a fair chance
of coming in a winner.

It seemed to me that he spoke a little ironically, which made me feel
uneasy. Naughty Boy's defeat would spoil the day for my aunt, and
indirectly for me, too, as her bad humor would damp our pleasure. In
the mean while I looked around me at the field, and searched for known
faces. The race course was thronged with people. The grand stand
looked like a dark, compact mass, relieved by bright female toilets.
The course was surrounded by rows after rows of spectators; even the
town walls were alive with them. On either side of the grand stand
stood a long line of carriages; each separately looked like a
flower-basket. Not very far from where I stood I became suddenly aware
of a pink face and aggressive little nose that could not belong to
anybody but Pani Sniatynska. I went up to her and she told me her
husband had just left her to look for Miss Hilst; and then, almost in
one breath, asked me how my aunt was, whether Aniela was at the races,
how the ladies would manage their journey to Gastein since Pani Celina
could not walk, whether I thought Naughty Boy would win the race, and
what we would do if he lost, and how many people had I invited to
dinner. While standing near her carriage I noticed what a sweet
expression her face has, and the pretty foot that peeped forth from
the carriage; but as to answering all the questions, I should have to
borrow Gargantua's mouth, as Shakspeare says. Replying to one or two
of the questions and saying I hoped to see her after the races, I
followed Sniatynski's track in search of Clara. I found her carriage
not far from my aunt's. Clara looked like a hill covered with
heliotrope blossoms. I found her surrounded by a host of admirers and
artists, conversing gayly with them. Her face clouded when she saw me,
and my reception was of the coolest. A friendly word from me would
have changed all that, but I remained cold; after a quarter of an
hour's polite and ceremonious conversation, I went farther, exchanging
here and there a few words with people I knew, and then turned toward
our own carriage. The first two races had taken place, and Naughty
Boy's turn came at last.

I looked at my aunt; the expression of her face was very solemn; she
evidently tried her best to keep cool. On the contrary, Aniela's face
showed evident uneasiness. We had to wait some time before the horses
came out, because the weighing lasted unusually long. Suddenly
Sniatynski came running up, gesticulating with both hands, and showing
some bits of paper.

"I have put a pot of money on Naughty Boy," he exclaimed; "if he
betrays me, I shall have to throw myself upon your well-known
charity."

"I trust--" began my aunt, with all her dignity.

But she did not finish her sentence, as at this moment from amid the
dark mass of people there rose the varicolored caps and silks of the
jockeys. The horses were slowly trotting along. Some of them, finding
themselves in the open, quickened their pace; others followed more
leisurely. At the start they passed us in a group and not very fast,
so as to save their horses' strength, the race being a double one. But
at the second turn they were drawn out in a line. It looked as if the
wind had scattered the petals of some flowers along the road. The
first was a jockey in white, closely followed by another in pale blue
and red, then two together, one in red, the other in red and yellow;
our Kuba in orange and black was last but one, followed by a jockey
in white and blue. This order did not last long. When the horses had
reached the other side of the course, there arose some commotion in
the carriages. The more excited ladies climbed up on the seats so as
not to lose the least part of the race; their example was followed by
my aunt, who evidently could not sit still any longer.

Aniela offered her place to Panna Zawilowska, who, after some
ceremonious protests, accepted it; and I helped Aniela to the back
seat, and, as she had nothing to hold on by, offered her my hand. I
confess that I did not think of the race so much as of the dear little
hand that rested so trustingly in mine.

My aunt's back obscured the view a little; but raising myself on
tiptoe, I swept the whole field with my eyes, and saw the jockeys
drawing near the curve of the other side. Seen from this distance,
they looked like bright-colored beetles flying through the air; the
motion appeared slow, and the throwing out of the horses' fore and
hind legs almost mechanical. But in spite of the apparent slowness,
they cleared the ground very swiftly.

The order of the riders was changed again. The white was still
leading, followed by the red; but our Kuba was third now. The others
remained behind, and the distance between them grew wider every
moment. Naughty Boy was evidently not the worst among them. For a
moment I lost sight of him, and presently saw him again as they passed
us. The red was close upon the white, and Kuba gaining ground. I now
observed for the first time that the white would have no chance, as
the horse's flanks shone with moisture, as if water had been poured
over him. It was clear the race would lie between the red and orange
and black. At the worst, Naughty Boy would be second, and the defeat
not so complete. What inspired me with confidence was the horse's
pace; he threw out his legs so evenly, as if he performed a daily
task. The spectators' excitement became greater every moment.

"Has Naughty Boy lost?" asked Aniela, in a low, excited voice, seeing
the order in which the horses came past the stand.

"No, dear; they have still another round," I replied, pressing her
hand slightly. She did not withdraw her hand; it is true that her
whole attention was absorbed in the race. When the horses came to the
other side, Kuba was second, the white was so exhausted that he had to
fall back, and the three following riders came up to him. It was now a
race between the two, and there were only five or six lengths between
them. Suddenly a loud murmur from the stand told us that something
unusual had happened; Kuba was coming up to his adversary. The murmurs
on the stand grew into a tumult. Aniela was so carried away by
excitement that she squeezed my hand nervously, and asked every
moment, "What are they doing now?" The riders were on the left side of
the field. The red, by the help of his whip, had gained a little;
but presently Naughty Boy almost touched him with his nose. In this
furious pace they came both on a line with the stand, where we lost
sight of them again. The struggle would be over now in a few seconds.
On the stand there was a momentary silence, which suddenly changed
into loud, prolonged cheering. Many people were running along the
lines which hide the road, and at this moment we saw the red nostrils;
the horse's head, stretched out like a cord, orange and black, was
carried along as if by a hurricane. The bell rang on the grand
stand,--the victory was ours.

The red had lost by a dozen lengths.

I must say for my aunt that she never lost her self-possession. Nobody
but me noticed the few drops of perspiration which stood on her
forehead; she fanned with her pocket-handkerchief. Aniela was excited,
amused, and happy. We both congratulated our aunt; even Panna
Zawilowska said a few French sentences, stiff and proper, as if taken
from a copy-book. Presently a crowd of acquaintances thronged around
our carriage, and my aunt's triumph was complete.

I was also intoxicated, but by something quite different; namely,
the pressure of Aniela's hand. In vain I said to myself that it was
nothing but the excitement of the moment; because it occurred to me
that a woman's resistance often passes a crisis in such moments of
exaltation, when carried beside herself by some amusement, beautiful
view, or other circumstance different from the even tenor of every-day
life. Then a certain relaxation of the nerves takes place, in presence
of which a loss of the usual balance is easily explained. Taking
into account this special state of Aniela's mind, I arrived at the
conclusion that she did not fight against her feeling any longer; and
I resolved to put an end to it.

I suppose at Ploszow there will be no difficulty about a chance. We go
back to-morrow. To-day's entertainment, the dinner, the conversation,
and the excitement are so many drops of narcotic. She does not
even suppose what happiness there is in store for us; but she must
surrender her soul to me, wholly and unconditionally.

Though my aunt had notified Pani Celina that we might remain at Warsaw
until the next day, we really intended going back after dinner,--when
something occurred that prevented our starting. Dinner and tea
afterwards lasted until ten o'clock. When the last of our guests had
departed somebody came to tell my aunt that Naughty Boy had been taken
ill. There was a great confusion. The vet was sent for in a hurry, but
it was midnight before he arrived. My aunt would not think of going so
late as that.

Aniela wanted to go very much, but knew I would have to go with her;
and she is still afraid of me. My aunt told her she would only rouse
the whole house, disturbing thereby her mother, and wound up by
saying:--

"Leon does not mind my looking at his house as my own; consequently
you are my guest. It would be the same if I gave up Ploszow to him; I
should live there, and you with me,--at least, so long as Celina has
not recovered her health."

And finally Aniela had to remain.

It is now three o'clock in the morning. It is already growing light;
but lanterns are still flitting across the yard near the stables,
where they are busy with Naughty Boy.

My aunt, when wishing us good-night, announced that she intended to
remain a day longer at Warsaw; whereupon I said that I had left some
papers at Ploszow, and would go and fetch them, and see Aniela home at
the same time. We shall be alone, and I will hesitate no longer. The
blood rushes to my heart at the thought that I shall travel, though
only a short distance, with the dear love close to my heart, and
listen to her confession that she loves me as much as I love her.

The sky is clouded, and it has begun to rain. A few hours only divide
me from the moment when a new life is to begin for me. Of course I do
not sleep; I could not sleep now for anything in the world. There is
no heaviness on my eyelids,--I write, and recall memories. I still
seem to feel the pressure of her hand on mine. I made that soul,
educated, developed it, and prepared it for love. I am like the head
of an army, who has foreseen all chances, arranged and calculated
everything, and does not sleep on the eve of the day that will decide
his fate. But Aniela sleeps peacefully on the other side of the house;
and even her dreams plead for me, for my love. When I think of this,
all my nerves are vibrating.

In that ocean of trouble, evil, foolishness, uncertainties, and doubts
we call life, there is one thing worth living for, as certain and as
strong as--nay, stronger than--death; and that is love. Beyond it
there is nothingness.


6 June.

I went with Aniela, and am even now asking myself, "Have I gone mad?"
I did not hold her close to my heart, did not hear an avowal of love.
I was spurned without a moment's hesitation; all her modesty risen
in arms, she reduced me to a mere nothing. What is it? Am I a fool
without brains, or has she no heart? What am I fighting against? What
are the obstacles in my way? Why does she spurn me? My head is in such
a chaotic state that I can neither think, write, nor reason. I only
repeat to myself, over and over again, "What is it that bars my way?"


7 June.

I have made an enormous mistake somewhere; there is something in
Aniela I have not observed or taken into account. For two days I have
tried to understand what has happened to me, but my head was in such a
whirl that I could not think. Now I am collecting my thoughts, pulling
myself together to look the situation in the face. It would be clear
enough if Aniela were guarded by a strong love for her husband. I
could understand then the offended modesty and indignation with which
a being, so meek and sweet-tempered usually, spurned me from her feet.
But I cannot even suppose such a thing. I have still enough brains
left to know that it is a mistake to see things too black, as it is
a mistake to see them too rose-colored. Where should her love for
Kromitzki have come from? She married him without love. In the short
time they lived together, he deceived her and sold the land so dear
to both of those women, and injured her mother's health. They have no
child; besides, a child does not teach a woman to love her husband; it
only teaches her to take him into account; it makes her safer,--that
is to say, it strengthens the union of hands, not of hearts. Aniela
besides does not belong to that kind of women to whom love comes
suddenly, as a revelation after marriage; women like that pine more
after their husbands, or more readily take a lover. I speak of all
this in such a matter of fact way that it hurts me; but why should
I spare myself? Finally, I am convinced she has no feeling even
approaching to love for Kromitzki,--what is more, does not even
respect him; she does not permit herself to despise him, that is all.
I consider that as proved, otherwise I should be blind.

Then if her heart at the moment of my return was a _tabula rasa_ I
must have contrived to write something on it, I who managed this in
other conditions, and was more bent on it than I ever was on anything
in my life, who worked upon her feelings of friendship, touched the
chords of pity and memories of the past, not neglecting anything,
considering every trifle, and moreover am possessed of the power a
strong, earnest feeling gives. I take myself by the shoulders: "Man,
whatever you may be, you are not a provincial lion, that considers
himself irresistible to any woman chance throws in his way; have you
not deluded yourself into the belief that she loves you?"

What speaks in favor of its being a delusion?

At the first glance, her resistance.

But I never supposed for a moment that she would not resist. I fancy
to myself any other married woman, desperately in love with another
man; can one suppose she would not resist and struggle against it and
the loved one, until her strength gave way? Resistance is not the
outcome of love, but since those two forces can exist side by side
like two birds in a nest, one does not exclude the other.

I write this diary not only because it has become my second nature, my
passion, not only because it gives an outlet for my pent-up feelings,
but still more because it gives me a clear view and keeps account of
all that is passing. I read over again the pages where I have written
down my and Aniela's history from the time of my arrival at Ploszow.
I have taken note of well-nigh every glance, every smile and tear,
caught every tremor of her heart; and no! I do not deceive myself, the
analysis is not wrong! Hers were the tears, the words, the glances and
smiles of a woman--maybe unhappy--but not indifferent. I must have
influenced her, made an impression upon her. I am not blind; it tears
my heart day after day to see how her face is getting smaller, the
hands more transparent--and it makes my hair stand on end to think she
is paying out her life in this struggle. But all these are invincible
proofs. Her heart, her thoughts belong to me. For that very reason she
is unhappy--perhaps even more unhappy than I.

I read over what I wrote a moment ago,--that I did not even suppose
she would not resist. I thought so soon after my return to Ploszow,
but lately and when she was at Warsaw I fancied that I saw signs of
yielding. I was wrong. She did not give way in the least, showed no
sign of pity; my words to which she would not even listen seemed
blasphemy to her. I saw in her eyes sparks of anger and resentment;
she tore away her hands I covered with kisses, and the words: "You
insult me!" were continually on her lips. Her energy daunted me the
more as I had least expected such an explosion of wrath. Ah me! She
threatened to leave the carriage and go on foot in the pelting rain
to Ploszow. The word "divorce" acted upon her as a red-hot iron. I
obtained nothing, nothing, nothing with all my eloquence and audacity;
neither my entreaties nor my love moved her; she took everything as an
insult to her womanhood, spurned my love and trampled on it. To-day
when I see her so meek and sweet-tempered it seems like a horrid
dream, and I can scarcely believe that it is the same woman. I cannot
hide it from myself; I have met with a defeat so complete and decisive
that if I had the strength, or anything else to live for I ought to go
away at once.

Supposing she does love me, what good can it be to me if that feeling
is to remain for ever imprisoned within her own heart, and never show
itself--either in word or deed? I might as well be loved by Greek
Helen, Cleopatra, Beatrice, or Mary Stuart. Such must be the feeling
which does not desire anything, exact anything, and is sufficient
unto itself. Maybe her heart belongs to me, but it is a faint heart,
incapable of any action.

Possibly she poses before herself as a lofty soul, sacrificing her
love upon the altar of duty--and pleases herself in that pose. It is a
satisfaction worth doing something for. Be it so! Sacrifice me; but if
you think you sacrifice much in immolating your feeling, and feed your
duty upon it, you are mistaken. I cannot, I cannot either think or
write calmly.


8 June.

A coquette is like a usurer, giving very little and exacting upon it a
high percentage. To-day, as I am growing more composed and can think
again, I must render Aniela justice; she never encouraged me or
exacted anything. What I mistook for a touch of coquetry at Warsaw
was mere joyfulness of a youthful spirit that had shaken itself
momentarily free from all trouble. All that has happened was brought
on by me. I made mistake after mistake, and it is all my fault.

To know something, and to make it a matter of calculation are two
different things. We account to ourselves for unknown factors which
act upon the soul of a given individual, but in dealing with the same
we generally take ourselves as a point of issue. This happened to me.
I knew, or at least was conscious of the fact, that Aniela and I are
as different from each other as if we were the inhabitants of two
separate planets, but I did not always remember it. Involuntarily I
counted upon her acting in a certain position as I should have acted.

In spite of the consciousness that we two are the most dissimilar
beings under the sun, as opposite as the poles, I note it down with a
certain surprise, and seem not able to get used to the thought. And
yet it is true. I am a thousand times more like Laura Davis than
Aniela.

And now I begin to understand why I failed.

The rock I split against is the want of that which has vanished within
me, thereby freeing my thoughts, but bringing instead of it the mortal
disease that has become my tragedy; it is the catechismal simplicity
of the soul.

Now I can account for it clearly, perhaps not quite satisfactorily,
for I am of so complex a disposition as to have lost the very instinct
of simplicity. "I hear thy voice, but I see thee not." My spiritual
sight suffers from Daltonian disease and cannot distinguish colors.

I cannot even understand how any one can accept a principle, however
hallowed by ages, without looking at it from both sides, pulling it to
pieces, into shreds and atoms, until it crumbles into dust and cannot
be put together any more.

Aniela cannot understand that a principle once considered good,
hallowed by religion, as well as by public opinion, could be
considered otherwise than as a sacred duty.

It does not matter to me whether she is conscious of it, or it is
instinctive impulse reasoned out by her intelligence, or merely
acquired; it is enough that it has entered her very nature.

I had a glimpse of it the other day when I spoke about Pani Korytzka's
divorce suit: "You can prove everything, and yet when one does wrong
conscience tells us: 'It is wrong, it is wrong!'" I did not then
attach the importance to these words that belonged to them. In Aniela
there is no wavering, no doubt whatever. Her soul winnows the chaff
from the grain with such precision that there can be no question about
its purity. She does not try to find her own norma, but takes it
ready-made from religion, general moral principles, and clings to
them so strongly that they become her very own, for they permeate her
system. The simpler the differential quality of good and