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.