I leave Berlin, I renounce Rome, and go back to Ploszow. I wrote some
time ago that Aniela is not only the beloved woman, but the very
crown of my head. Yes, it is a fact; let it be called by any
name,--neurosis, or an old man's madness; I have got it in my blood
and in my soul.
I am going to Ploszow. I will serve her, take care of her, do for her
what I can; and for all reward let me be able to look at her. I wonder
at myself that I fancied I should be able to live without seeing her.
One letter from my aunt brought out all that was buried within me. My
aunt says:--
"I did not write much about us, because I had nothing cheerful to tell
you; and as I am not clever at disguising things, I feared I should
make you uneasy, knowing that you were not well. I am in terrible
anxiety about Kromitzki, and should like to have your advice.
Chwastowski showed me his son's letter, in which he says that
Kromitzki's affairs are in a deplorable state, and that he is
threatened with legal prosecution. Everybody has deceived him. He
suddenly received orders to deliver a great quantity of goods, and as
the appointed term was very short, he had no time to look into things
and see whether everything was as it should be. It turned out that all
the goods were bad,--imitations, and second and third rate quality.
They were rejected; and in addition Kromitzki is threatened with a
trial for defrauding the agency. God grant that we may be able to
prevent this, especially as he is innocent. Ruin does not matter,
provided there be no disgrace. I am altogether at a loss what to do
and how to save him. I do not like to risk the money I intended Aniela
to have, and yet we must not let it come to a trial. Tell me what to
do, Leon; for you are wise and will know what is expedient in these
matters. I have not told Celina anything about it, nor Aniela,--and I
am very anxious about Aniela. I cannot understand what is the matter
with her. Celina is the worthiest of women, but she always had
exaggerated ideas about modesty, and has brought up Aniela in the same
way. I do not doubt that Aniela will be the best of mothers, but now
I am quite angry with her. A married woman ought to be prepared for
consequences, and Aniela seems to be in despair, as if it were a
disgrace. Nearly every day I see traces of tears in her eyes. It
torments me to see her looking so thin and pale, with those dark
rings under her eyes and ready to burst into tears at the slightest
provocation; and there is always an expression of pain and humiliation
in her face. I have never in my life seen a young woman so distressed
at her situation. I tried persuasion and I tried scolding,--all in
vain. Perhaps I love her too much, and in my old age am losing my
former energy; but then she is such an affectionate creature! If you
only knew how she asks after you day by day, whether a letter has
arrived and if you were well, when you will be going, and how long you
mean to stop at Berlin. She knows I like to speak about you, and
she makes me talk for hours. God give her strength to bear all the
troubles that are awaiting her. I am really so concerned about
her health that I positively dare not give her any hint about her
husband's position. But sooner or later it must come to her ears. I
have not said anything to Celina either, because she is troubled about
Aniela, and cannot understand why she should take her position so
tragically."
Why? I alone in the world understand and could have answered that
question,--and that is the reason I go back to Ploszow. It is not her
position she takes tragically, but my desertion. My despair she is
aware of, the sundering of those ties that have grown dear to her from
the time when after so much suffering, so many efforts, she contrived
to change them into ideal relations. Only now I enter into her
thoughts, into her very soul. From the moment I came back to Ploszow
there arose a struggle between duty and feeling in that noble heart.
She wished to remain true to him to whom she had promised her faith,
because her spiritual nature abhors impurity and falsehood; and at the
same time she could not help being drawn to the man she had loved with
all the fresh feelings of her young heart,--all the more as the man
was near her, loved her, and was supremely unhappy. Whole months had
passed in that struggle. At last there came a moment of peace, when
the feeling had become a union of souls so pure and unearthly that
neither her modesty nor her loyalty could take exception to it. This
is the reason of her unhappiness; I am reading now her soul as an open
book,--therefore I go back.
I also now see clearly that I would not have left her if I had had a
complete certainty that her feelings would outlast all changes in her
life. The mere animal jealousy that fills my mind with rage because
another has rights over her which are denied to me would not have been
sufficient to drive me away from the one woman who is all the world to
me. But I thought that the child, even before it was born, would take
possession of her heart, draw her closer to her husband, and blot me
out of her heart and life forever.
I do not delude myself even now, for I know that I shall not be to
her what I have been, nor what I might have been but for the combined
forces of circumstances. I might have been the dearest and only one
for her, attaching her to life and happiness; now it will be quite
different. But as long as there is a glimmering spark of feeling for
me I will not leave her, because I cannot; I have nowhere to go.
Therefore I return; I shall nurse that spark, fan it into life again,
and get some warmth from it for myself. I am reading again my aunt's
words: "If you only knew how she asks after you day by day, whether a
letter has arrived, and if you were well, when you will be going, and
how long you mean to stop at Berlin," and I cannot fill myself enough
with these words. It is as if I had been starving, and somebody had
given me a piece of bread. I am eating it, and feel as if I could cry
from sheer gratitude. Perhaps God's mercy toward me is beginning to
appear at last. For I feel that I am changed; the former self has
died in me. I shall not revolt against her will any more; I will bear
everything, will soothe and comfort her; I will even save her husband.