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.