At times this influence of hers over me seems well-nigh incredible; then again I explain it, and as usual take the worst view of it. I have lived too quickly, passed already the zenith, and am going down hill, where it is dark and cold. I feel that in her I could recover my lost youth, vitality, and the desire for life. If she be lost to me, then truly nothing remains but to vegetate, and gloominess unutterable as the foretaste of decay. Therefore I love Aniela with the instinct of self-preservation, – not with my senses only, not with my soul, but also from the fear of annihilation.
Aniela does not know all this; but I suppose she pities me, just as I torture her, who would give my life to make her happy. And therefore I say again that the love for another man's wife is the greatest misfortune, since it leads the man to make her unhappy whose happiness he would ensure at the cost of his own. The result of this is that we are both unhappy. But you, Aniela, have at least your dogma to support you, whereas I am verily like a boat drifting without helm and oar.
I am not well in health either. I sleep very badly, or rather scarcely at all. I should like to fall ill and lie unconscious for a month without memories, without trouble – and rest. It would be a kind of holiday. Chwastowski examined me yesterday, and said I had the nerves of a decaying race, but had inherited a fair supply of muscular strength. I believe he is right; but for that I should have succumbed ere this to my nerves. Maybe to my very strength I may ascribe this present concentration of feeling; it had to find an outlet somewhere, and as it did not find it either in science or other useful work, it all got absorbed into love for a woman. But owing to my nervous system it is turbid, stormy, and crooked, – above all, crooked.
What sensations I pass through every day! Towards evening the dear old aunt came to me and began to apologize for praising Panna Zawilowska to me. I kissed both her hands, and in my turn asked her to forgive my momentary show of temper. She then said, —
"I promise never to mention her again. It is true, my dear Leon, I wish from all my heart to see you married, for you are the last of our race; but the Lord knows what is best. But believe me, dearest boy, it is not family pride, but your happiness I am thinking of."
I soothed her agitation as well as I could, and then said: —
"You must not mind me, dearest aunt; I am like a woman, – a nervous woman!"
"You a woman?" she said, indignantly. "Everybody is liable to make mistakes. I only wish everybody had as much intelligence and character as you; the world would then be quite a different place!"
Ah, me! how can I dispel these illusions? Sometimes I grow quite desperate as I say to myself: "What business have I in this house, among these women who have taken a monopoly for saintliness? For me it is too late to convert myself to their faith; but how many troubles, disappointments, misfortunes may I not bring upon them?"
10 June.
To-day I received two letters, – one from my lawyer in Rome, the other from Sniatynski. The lawyer informs me that the difficulties the Italian government usually raises at the exportation of art treasures can be got over, my father's collections being private property and as such not under government control, and that they could be transported simply as furniture.
I shall have to see to the arrangement of the house, which I do unwillingly, as my heart is not any more in the scheme. What does it matter to me now, and what is the use of it? If I do not give it up altogether, it is only because I spread the news about it myself, and cannot possibly draw back. I have fallen back into that state of mind which possessed me during my wanderings after Aniela's marriage. Again I understand nothing, cannot act or look upon anything that has no direct bearing upon Aniela. The thoughts in which I do not see her image at the bottom are meaningless to me. It is a proof how far a man may sink his own self. I read this morning a lecture by Bunge called "Vitality and Mechanism," and I perused it with exceptional interest. He demonstrates scientifically that which has been in my mind more as a dim, shapeless idea than a definite conviction. Here science confesses scepticism in regard to itself, and, moreover, not only confirms its own impotence but clearly points to the existence of another world which is something more than matter and motion, which cannot be explained either physically or chemically. It does not concern me in the least whether that world be above matter or subject to it. It is a mere play of words! I am not a scientist; I am not bound to be careful in my deductions; therefore I throw myself headforemost into that open door, and let science prate and say a hundred times over that all is dark there. I feel it will be lighter than here. I read with almost feverish eagerness and great relief. Only fools do not acknowledge how materialism wearies and oppresses us, what secret fear lurks in the mind lest their science should prove true, what a dreary waiting for new scientific evolutions, and joy of the prisoners when they see a small door ajar through which they may escape into the open air. The worst of it is that the spirit is already so oppressed that it dares not breathe freely or believe in its own happiness. But I dared, and had a sensation as if I had escaped from a stifling cellar.
Perhaps this is only a momentary relief, for I understand well that Neo-Vitalism does not form an epoch in science; maybe to-morrow I shall go back to prison, – I do not know. In the meantime the breath of air did me good. I said to myself over and over again: "If it be possible that by way of scepticism one can arrive at the undoubted certainty of another world, mocking at mechanical explanation, being absolutely beyond all physico-chemical elucidation, then everything is possible, – every creed, every dogma, every mysticism! It is permissible then to think that, as there is infinite Space, there is also infinite Reason, infinite Good, enfolding the whole universe as in a vast cloak, under which we may find rest and shelter and protection. And if so, all is well! I shall know at least why I live and why I suffer. What an immense relief!"
I repeat once more that I am not obliged to be timid and wary in my deductions, and, as I said before, no one is so near mysticism as the sceptic. I realized it once more in myself when I began spreading my wings, like the bird which has been caged and delights in its new freedom. I saw before me endless space covered with new life. I did not know whether it was on another planet or farther still, beyond the planetary sphere, – enough that the space was different from ours, the light brighter and softer, the air cool and full of sweetness; the difference consisted mainly in the closer union of the individual spirit with the spirit of the universe; it was so close that it was difficult to understand where the individual ceased and the universe began. I felt at the same time it was upon that very dimness of the boundary that the happiness of this other life rested, as the being did not live in opposition or exclusion but in harmony with his surroundings, and thus lived with the whole power of universal life.
I do not say it was a vision; it was only a crossing of the narrow boundary beyond which reasoning leaves off and conscious feeling begins, – a feeling which as yet is only a conclusion of former premises, but carried so far as to be difficult to grasp, as a golden thread spun out to its utmost length. Moreover, I did not know how to incorporate myself with that new life and new space, – how to melt in it my own self. I had kept to a certain extent my own individuality, and there was something wanting near me, – something I searched for. Suddenly I became aware it was Aniela I was searching for. Of course, only her and always her. What could another life matter to me without her? I found her at last, and we roamed about together like the shadow of Paolo with the shadow of Francesca di Rimini. I write this down because I see in it an almost terrifying proof how far my whole being has been absorbed by this love.
What connection is there between Bunge's Neo-Vitalism and Aniela? Nevertheless, even when thinking of things far removed, it all brings me back to her. Science, art, nature, life, – all are carried back to the same denominator. It is the axis around which turns my world.
This is of great importance to me, for, in presence of all this, is it possible that I should ever listen to the advice of reason and that inward monitor that bids me to go away?
I know it all will end in ruin. But how can I go away; how summon strength and will and energy when all these have been taken from me? Tell a man deprived of his legs to go and walk about. On what? And from myself I add: "Why? whereto? My life is here."
Sometimes I feel tempted to let Aniela read this diary, but do not intend to do so. Her pity for me might be increased, but not her love. If Aniela be ever mine, she will want to look up to me for support, peace, and immovable faith for both; that is how it ought to be where happiness is at stake. Here she would find nothing but doubts. Supposing even she could understand all that has been and is going on in my mind, there are many things she could not sympathize with. We are too different from each other. For instance, when I plunge into mysticism, when I say to myself that everything is possible, even a future life, I do not shape it according to generally admitted ideas, and if those general ideas may be called a normal point of view, mine must needs be an abnormal one. Why? If everything is possible, then why not a hell, a purgatory, a heaven, or my subplanetary spaces, – and Dante's vision, which is far greater and more magnificent than mine? Then why? For a twofold reason. First, because my scepticism, which poisons itself by its own doubts, as the scorpion poisons itself with its own venom, is nevertheless strong enough to exclude the most simple and generally accepted ideas; secondly, I cannot fancy myself in the Dantean divisions with Aniela, – I do not desire such a life.
It is only part of myself that writes and thinks, the greater part is always with Aniela. At this moment I see a streak of light from her window resting on the barberry bushes. My poor love has sleepless nights too. I saw her dozing over her needle-work to-day. Seated in a deep armchair she looked to me so small, and she drew such a long breath as if from weariness. I had a feeling for her as if she were my child.
11 June.
They have sent me at last the Madonna by Sassoferrato. I handed it to Aniela in presence of the elder ladies, as a thing left to her in my father's will, and so she could not refuse it. Afterwards I hung it up myself in her little sitting-room, and it looks very pretty there. I am not fond of Madonnas by Sassoferrato, but this one is so simple and so serene in its clear shades. I like to think that as often as she looks at it she will remember that it was I who gave her that relic, gave it her because I love her. In this way the love she considers sinful must in her thought be united to holy things. It is a childish comfort, but he who has no other must be satisfied even with that.
I had another crumb of comfort to-day. When the picture had been hung in its place, Aniela came to thank me. As the armchair in which Pani Celina sits was at the other end of the room, I held for a moment the hand Aniela was about to withdraw, and asked in a low voice: —
"Is it true, Aniela, that you hate me?"
She only shook her little head, as if in sadness.
"Oh, no!" she replied quickly.
This one word expressed so much. It was a way of saying that if the feeling of the loved woman were always to remain hidden in her breast, it would be the same as not to be loved at all. No! it is not the same. Let me have it, if only that. I would not give it up for anything in the world. If this were taken from me, I should have nothing to live for any more.
12 June.
I am at Warsaw in consequence of the letter from Sniatynski, received the day before yesterday, in which he asked me to take part in a farewell dinner in honor of Clara Hilst. I did not go to the dinner, which took place yesterday, but said good-by to Clara at the station. I have just returned thence. The good soul was going away, most likely disappointed, and with some resentment against me in her heart, but upon seeing me, forgave me everything, and we parted the best of friends. I felt too that I should miss her, and that the loneliness around me would be greater still. On my mystic fields there will be no farewells. This one was truly sad, – in addition to it the sky was overcast, and there was a drizzling rain that looked as if it would last for days. In spite of that a great many people had come to see the last of the celebrated artist. Her sleeping-car was filled with bouquets and wreaths like a hearse; she will have to discard them unless she lets herself be suffocated. Clara, at the moment of departure, without taking into account what people might think or say, devoted herself to me as much as the bustle of the place would permit. I went into her carriage, and we conversed together like two old friends, not paying any attention to the old and always silent relative, or to the other people, who at last retired discreetly into the corridor. I held both Clara's hands, and she looked at me with those honest blue eyes of hers, and said in a moved voice: —
"It is only to you I say it openly, that I never was so sorry to go away from anywhere as from here. There is no time to say much, with all these people around us, but believe me, I am sorry to go. At Frankfurt I meet many people, great artists, scientists; only there is a difference, – you are like one of the more delicate instruments. As regards yourself, I will not say anything."
"You will let me write to you?"
"I will write too. I wanted to ask you that. I have my music, but it is not always sufficient now. I think you too will want to hear from me now and then; though you may have many friends, you have none more sincere and devoted than I. I am very foolish; anything upsets me, and it is time to go."
"We are both wanderers on the earth, you as an artist, I as a Bohemian; therefore it will not be farewell, but au revoir."
"Yes, au revoir, and that speedily. You too are an artist. You may not play or paint, but you are an artist all the same. I saw it the first moment I met you, – and also that you may seem happy, but are very sad at heart. Remember there is a German girl who will be always as a sister to you."
I raised her hand to my lip, and she, thinking I was going, said quickly: —
"There is still time, they have only rung the second bell!"
But I really wished to leave. Oh, those wretched nerves of mine! Clara's companion wore a stiff mackintosh which rustled at her every motion; and that rustle, or rather swish of the india-rubber, set my very teeth on edge. Besides, we had only a few minutes left. I stepped aside to make place for Pani Sniatynska, who came rushing up.
"Hilst, Frankfurt," Clara called out after me; "at home they will forward my letters wherever I go!"
Presently I found myself on the platform under the window of her carriage, among all those who had come to see her off. Their farewells and good-bys mingled with the labored breathing of the locomotive and the shouts of the railway men. The window of the carriage was lowered, and I saw the friendly, honest face once more.
"Where are you going to spend the summer?" she asked.
"I don't know, I will write to you," I replied.
The panting of the locomotive grew quick, then came the last shrill whistle, and the train began to move. We gave Clara a loud cheer, she waved her hands to us, and then disappeared in the distance and the dusk.
"You will feel very lonely," said suddenly close to me Pani Sniatynska's voice.
"Yes, very," I said, and lifting my hat to her, I went home. And truly I had the feeling as if somebody had left, who in case of need would have given me a helping hand. I felt very despondent. Possibly the gloomy evening, the mist and drizzling rain, in the midst of which the street lamps looked like miniature rainbow arches, had something to do with it. The last spark of hope seemed to have died out. There was darkness not only within me, but it seemed to encompass the whole world, and weigh upon it as the atmosphere weighs upon us and permeates all nature.
I carried home with me a heaviness of feeling and great restlessness and a fear as if something unknown was threatening me. There woke up within me a sudden longing for the sun and brighter skies, for countries where there is no mist, no rain, and no darkness. It seemed to me that if I went where there was sun and brightness, it would shield me from some unknown danger.
Oh, to go away! The entire capacity of my thoughts was filled with that eager desire. Then suddenly another fear clutched at my heart: if I went away, Aniela would be exposed to that same impalpable danger from which I wanted to fly. I knew it was only a delusion of my brain, and that really my departure would be the best thing for her. Yet I could not get rid of the sensation that to desert her would be cowardice and meanness. All my reasoning cannot get over this. Besides, the going away is only an empty word; I may say it to myself a hundred times, but if I were to try to change it into fact I should find it altogether beyond my power. I have put so much of my life in that one feeling that it would be easier to cut me into pieces than to part me from it.
I possess so much control over my thoughts, such a consciousness of self that it seems to me impossible that I could ever lose my reason. I cannot even imagine it; but at moments I feel as if my nerves could not bear the strain any longer.
I am sorry Clara is gone. I have seen but little of her lately; but I liked to know that she was not far off; now Aniela will absorb me altogether, because I give to her that power which rules our likings, and makes us conscious of friendship.
When I returned home, I found there young Chwastowski, who had come to town in order to consult with his brother, the bookseller. They have some scheme in hand about selling elementary books. They are always scheming something, always busy, and that fills their life. I have come to such a pass that I rejoiced to see him as a child that is afraid of ghosts is glad to see somebody coming into the room. His spiritual healthiness seems to brace me. He said that Pani Celina was so much better that within a week she would be able to bear the journey to Gastein. Oh yes! yes! Anything for a change! I shall push that plan with all my powers. I will persuade my aunt to go too. She will do it for my sake, and in that case nobody will be astonished at my going. There is at least something I desire, and desire very much. I shall have so many chances of taking care of Aniela, and shall be nearer to her than at Ploszow. I feel somewhat relieved; but it has been a terrible day, and nothing oppresses me so much as dark, rainy weather. I still hear the drops falling from the waterspouts; but there is a rift in the clouds, and a few stars are visible.
12 June.
Kromitzki arrived to-day.
Gastein, 23 June.
We arrived at Gastein a week ago, – the whole family: Aniela, my aunt, Pani Celina, Kromitzki, and myself. I interrupted my diary for some time, not because I had lost the zest for it, nor because I did not feel the necessity for writing, but simply because I was in a state of mind which words cannot express. As long as a man tries to resist his fate, and wages war against the forces that crush him, he has neither brains nor time for anything else. I was like the prisoner in Sansson's memoirs, who when they tore his flesh and poured molten lead into the wounds shouted in nervous ecstasy, "Encore! encore!" until he fainted. I have fainted too, which means that I am exhausted and resigned.
A great hand seems to weigh upon me, as immense as the mountains that loom up before me. What can I do against it? Nothing but submit and remain passive while it crushes me. I did not know that one could find, if not comfort, at least some kind of peace in this consciousness of impotence and the looking straight at one's misery.
If only I could keep from struggling against it, and not disturb this state of quiescence. I could write then about things that happen to me as if they had happened to somebody else. But I know from experience that one day does not resemble another, and I am afraid of what the morrow will bring forth.
24 June.
Towards the end of my sojourn at Warsaw I put down these words: "Love for another man's wife, if only a pastime, is a great villany, and if real, is one of the greatest misfortunes that can happen to a man." Writing this before Kromitzki's arrival, I had not taken into account all the items which make up the sum of this misfortune. I also thought it nobler than it really is. Now I begin to see that besides great suffering, it includes a quantity of small humiliations, the consciousness of villany, ridicule, the necessity of falsehood, the doing of mean things, and the need of precautions unworthy of a man. What a bouquet! Truly the scent of it is enough to overpower any man.
God knows with what delight I would take such a Kromitzki by the throat, press him to the wall, and tell him straight in his face, "I love your wife!" Instead of that I must be careful lest the thought should enter his mind that she pleases me. What a noble part to play in her presence! What must she think of me? That too is one of the flowers in the bouquet.
As long as I live I shall not forget the day of Kromitzki's arrival. He had gone straight to my house. Coming home late at night, I found somebody's luggage in the anteroom. I do not know why it did not occur to me that it might be Kromitzki's. Suddenly he himself looked out from the adjacent room, and dropping his eyeglass rushed up with open arms to salute his new relative. I saw as in a dream that dry skull, so like a death's-head, the glittering eyes, and the crop of black hair. Kromitzki's arrival was the most natural thing in the world, and yet I felt as if I had looked into the face of death. It seemed to me like a nightmare, and the words, "How do you do, Leon?" the most fantastic and most improbable words I could have heard anywhere. Presently such a rage, such a loathing combined with fear, seized me that it took all my self-control to prevent me from throwing him down and dashing out his brains. I have sometimes felt such paroxysms of rage and loathing, but never combined with fear; it was not so much fear of a living man as horror of the dead. For some time I could not find a word to say. Fortunately he might suppose I had not recognized him at first, or was astonished that a man I scarcely knew should treat me so familiarly. It still irritates me when I think of it.
I tried to recover myself; he in the mean while readjusted his eyeglass, and shaking my hand once more, said: —
"Well, and how are you? How are Aniela and her mother? Old lady always ill, I suppose. And our aunt, how is she?"
I was seized with amazement and anger that this man should mention those nearest and dearest to me as if they belonged to him. A man of the world bears most things and hides his emotions, because he is trained from his earliest years to keep himself under control; nevertheless I felt that I could not bear it any longer, and in order to pull myself together and occupy my thoughts with something else, I called for the servant and told him to get tea ready.
Kromitzki appeared uneasy that I did not reply at once to his questions; the eyeglass dropped again, and he said, hurriedly: —
"There is nothing wrong, is there? Why don't you speak?"
"They are all well," I replied.
It suddenly struck me that my emotion might give the hateful man an advantage over me, and the thought restored all my self-possession at once. I led him into the dining-room, asked him to sit down, and then said: —
"How is it going with you? Have you come to make a long stay?"
"I do not know," he replied. "I was longing for Aniela; and I fancy she too must have been anxious to have me back again. We have only been a few months together, and for a newly married couple that is not much, is it?" and he burst out into one of his wooden laughs. "Besides," he added, "I have some business here to look after. Always business, you see."
Then he began a long-winded harangue about his affairs; of which I did not hear much, except the often repeated words "combined forces," observing meanwhile the motion of the eyeglass. It is a strange thing how in presence of some great calamity small things will thrust themselves into evidence. I do not know whether this be so with everybody, but in the present instance the reiterated words "combined forces" and the shifting of the eyeglass irritated me beyond endurance. In the earlier moments of the interview I was almost unconscious, and yet I could count how often that eyeglass dropped and was put up again. It always used to be thus with me, and it was so now.
After tea I conducted Kromitzki to the room he was to occupy for the night. He did not cease talking, but went on in the same strain while with the help of the servant he unpacked his portmanteau. Sometimes he interrupted his flow of words in order to show me some specimens brought from the East. He undid his travelling straps, unfolded two small Eastern rugs, and said: —
"I bought these at Batoum. Pretty things, are they not? They will do to put before our bed."
He got tired at last, and after the servant had gone he sat down in the armchair, and still continued to talk about his affairs, while I thought of something else. When we are not able to defend ourselves from a great misfortune, there is one safety-valve, – we may be able to grapple with some of its details. I was now mainly busy with the thought whether Kromitzki would go with us to Gastein or not. Therefore after some time I remarked: —
"I did not know you formerly; but I begin to think that you are the kind of man to make your fortune. You are not in the least flighty, and would never sacrifice important affairs for mere sentimentality."
He pressed my hand warmly. "You have no idea," he said, "how much I wish you to trust me."
At the moment I did not attach any special meaning to his words. I was too much occupied with my own thoughts, and especially with the reflection that in regard to Kromitzki I had already been guilty of a lie and a meanness, – a lie, because I did not believe in his business capacities at all; a meanness, because I flattered the man I should have liked to kill with a glance. But I was only anxious to induce him not to go to Gastein; therefore I went deeper and deeper into the quagmire.
"I see this journey does not suit you in the least," I said.
Thereupon, egoist that he is, feeling things only in so far as they concern himself, he began to grumble at his mother-in-law.
"Of course it does not suit me," he said; "and between ourselves I do not see the necessity of it. There is a limit to everything, even to a daughter's affection for her mother. Once married, a woman ought to understand that her first duty is toward her husband. Besides, a mother-in-law who is always there, either in the same room or in the next, is a nuisance, and prevents a young married couple from drawing near to each other, and living exclusively for themselves. I do not say but that love for one's parents is a good thing, if not carried too far and made an impediment in one's life."
Once embarked upon that theme he gave expression to very commonplace and mean sentiments, which irritated me all the more that from his point of view there was certainly some truth in what he said.
"There is no help for it," he concluded; "I made a bargain, and must stick to it."
"Then you mean to go with them to Gastein?"
"Yes; I have some personal interest in the journey. I want to enter into closer relation with my wife's family and gain your confidence. We will speak of that later on. I am free for a month or six weeks. I left Lucian Chwastowski in charge of the business, and he is, as the English say, a 'solid' man. Besides, when one has a wife like Aniela one wants to stop with her a little while, – you understand, eh?"
Saying this he laughed, showing his yellow, decayed teeth, and clapped me on the knee. A cold shiver penetrated to my very brain. I felt myself growing pale. I rose and turned away from the light to hide my face, then made a powerful effort to collect myself and asked "When do you intend going to Ploszow?"
"To-morrow, to-morrow."
"Good-night."
"Good-night," he replied, his eyeglass dropping once more. He put out both hands, adding: "I am tremendously glad to have the opportunity to get more acquainted with you. I always liked you, and I am sure we shall understand each other."
We understand each other! How intensely stupid the man is! But the more stupid he is, the more horrible to me is the thought that Aniela belongs to him, is simply a thing of his! I did not even try to undress that night. I never had seen so clearly that there may be situations where words come to an end, the power of reasoning ceases, even the power of feeling one's calamity, – to which there seems to be no limit. A truly magnificent life which is given unto us! It is enough to say that those former occasions when Aniela trampled upon my feelings, and when I thought I had reached the height of misery, appear now to me as times of great happiness. If then, if even now, the Evil One promised me in exchange for my soul that everything should remain as it was, Aniela forever to reject my love, but Kromitzki not to come near her, – I would sign the agreement without hesitation. Because in the man rejected by a woman there grows involuntarily a conviction that she is like a Gothic tower far out of his reach, to which he scarcely dares to lift his eyes. Thus I always thought of Aniela. And then comes a Pan Kromitzki, with two rugs from Batoum, and drags her from the height, that inexorable priestess, down to a level with those rugs. What a terrible thing it is, that imagination can bring it all so clear before us! And how repulsively mean he is, and how ridiculous withal!