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.