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.