Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz

by Henryk Sienkiewicz

  What a tremendous power there is in human hands, — the power of cutting the thread. Now I am ready. Evil genius of my life, do thy worst; pile weight upon weight, — but only up to a certain time, as long as I consent. If I find it too much I throw off the burden! “E poi eterna silenza,” Nirvana, the “fourth dimension” of Zöllner — what do I know? The thought that it all depended upon me gave me an immense relief.

  I remained thus an hour, stretched out on the couch, thinking how and when I would do it; and that very abstraction of my thoughts from Kromitzki seemed to calm me. Such a thing as the taking of one’s life wants some preparation, and this also forced my thoughts into another groove. I remembered at once that my travelling revolver was of too small a calibre. I got up to look at it and resolved to buy a new one. I began to calculate ways and means to make it appear an accident. All this of course as a mere theory. Nothing was settled into a fixed purpose. I might call it rather a contemplating the possibility of suicide than a purpose. On the contrary, I was now certain it would not come to that soon. Now that I knew the door by which I could escape I thought I might wait a little to see how far my evils would extend, and what new tortures fate had in store for me. I was consumed by a burning and painful curiosity as to what would happen next, how those two would meet, and how Aniela would face me? I became very tired, and dressed as I was I fell into a troubled sleep, full of Kromitzkis, eyeglasses, revolvers, and all sorts of confused combinations of things and people.

  I woke up late. The servant told me that Pan Kromitzki had gone to Ploszow. My first impulse was to follow and see them together. But when seated in the carriage I suddenly felt I could not bear it, that it would be too great a trial, and might hasten my escape through the open door into the unknown; and I gave orders to drive somewhere else.

  The greatest pessimist instinctively avoids pain, and fights against it with all his might. He clutches at every hope and expects relief through every change. There awoke within me such a desire to make them go to Gastein as if my very life depended upon it. To make them leave Ploszow! The thought did not give me rest, and took such possession of me that I gave my whole mind to its realization. This did not present great difficulties. The ladies were almost ready to start. Kromitzki had come unexpectedly, evidently intending to give his wife a surprise. A few days later he would not have found us at Ploszow. I went to the railway office and secured places in a sleeping-car for Vienna; then sent a messenger with a letter to my aunt telling her I had bought tickets for the following day, as all the carriages were engaged for the following week, and we should have to go to-morrow.

  26 June.

  I still linger over the last moments spent at Warsaw. These memories impressed themselves so strongly on my mind that I cannot pass them over in silence. The day following Kromitzki’s arrival I had a strange sensation. It seemed to me that I did not love Aniela any longer, and yet could not live without her. It was the first time I felt this — I might call it psychical dualism. Formerly my love went through its regular course. I said to myself, “I love her, therefore I desire her,” — with the same logic as Descartes employs in the statement, “I think, therefore I exist.” Now the formula is changed into, “I do not love her, but desire her still;” and both elements exist in me as if they were engraved on two separate stones. For some time I did not realize that the “I do not love her” was merely a delusion. I love her as before, but in such a sorrowing manner, with so much bitterness and venom, that the love has nothing in common with happiness.

  Sometimes I fancy that even if Aniela were to confess to me her love, if she were divorced or a widow, I should not be happy any more. I would buy such an hour at the price of my life, but truly I do not know whether I should be able to convert it into real happiness. Who knows whether the nerves that feel happiness be not paralyzed in me? Such a thing might happen. Really, what is life worth under such conditions?

  The day before our departure, I went to a gunsmith’s shop. It was a quaint old man who sold me the revolver. If he were not a gunsmith he might become a professor of psychology. I told him I wanted a revolver, no matter whose make, Colt’s or Smith’s, provided it were good and of a large calibre. The old man picked out the weapon, which I accepted at once.

  “You will want cartridges, sir?”

  “Yes, I was going to ask you for them.”

  “And a case, sir?” he said, looking at me keenly.

  “Of course, a case.”

  “That’s all right, sir; then I will give you cartridges of the same number as the revolver.”

  It was now my turn to look attentively at him. He understood the inquiring look, and said: —

  “I have been in the trade over forty years, sir, and learned something about my customers. It often happens that people buy revolvers to blow out their brains. Would you believe it never happens that such a one buys a case? It is always this way: ‘Please give me a revolver.’ ‘With the case?’ ‘No, never mind the case.’ It is a strange thing that a man about to throw away his life should grudge a rouble for the case. But such is human nature. Everybody says to himself, ‘What the devil do I want with a case?’ And that’s how I always find out whether a man means mischief or not.”

  “That is very curious indeed,” I replied; and it seemed to me a very characteristic sign.

  The gunsmith, with a slight twinkle in his eye, went on: “Therefore as soon as I perceive his drift I make a point of giving him cartridges a size too large. It is not a small thing, the taking away one’s life; it requires a deal of courage and determination. I fancy many a man breaks into a cold perspiration as he finally says: ‘Now for the revolver! Ah, the cartridges do not fit; the gunsmith made a mistake;’ and he has to put it off until the following day. And do you think, sir, it is an easy thing to do it twice over? Many a man who has faced death once cannot do it again. There were some who came the next day to buy a case. I laughed in my sleeve and said: ‘There’s your case, and may it last you a long time.’”

  I note down this conversation because everything relating to suicide has become of interest to me, and the old gunsmith’s words appeared to contain a bit of philosophy worth preserving.

  27 June.

  Now and then I remind myself that Aniela loved me, that I could have married her, that my life might have been made bright and happy, that it merely depended upon me, and that I wasted all that through my incapacity for action. Then I put to myself the question: “Is there any sign of insanity in me, and is it indeed true that I could have had Aniela forever?” It must be true, for how could I otherwise recall all the incidents from the time I met her first up to the present moment? And to think that she might have been mine, and as faithful and loyal to me as she is to that other one! — a hundred times more faithful, because she would love me from her whole soul. Innate incapacity? — yes, that is it. But even if it justifies me in my own eyes, what matters it to me, since it does not give me any comfort? The only thought that gives me comfort is that the descendants of decayed as well as of the most buoyant races have to go the same way, — to dust and ashes. This makes the difference between the weak and the strong a great deal less. The whole misfortune of beings like me is their isolation. What erroneous ideas have our novelists, and for the matter of that even our physiologists, about the decaying races. They fancy that inward incapacity must invariably correspond with physical deterioration, small build, weak muscles, anæmic brain, and weak intelligence. This may be the case now and then, but to regard it as a general principle is a mistake and a pedantic repetition of the same thing over and over again. The descendants of worn-out races have no lack of vital powers, but they lack harmony among these powers. I myself am physically a powerful man, and never was a fool. I knew people of my sphere built like Greek statues, clever, gifted, and yet they did not know how to fit themselves into life, and ended badly, exactly through that want of even balance in their otherwise luxuriant vital powers. They exist among us as in a badly organized society whe
re nobody knows where the rights of the one begin and those of another cease. We live in anarchy, and it is a known fact that in anarchy society cannot exist. Each of the powers drags its own way, often pulling all the others with it; and this produces a tragic exclusiveness. I am now suffering from this exclusiveness, by reason of which nothing interests me beyond Aniela, nothing matters to me, and there is nothing else to which I can attach my life. But people do not understand that such a want of even balance, such anarchy of the vital powers, is a far greater disease than physical or moral anæmia. This is the solution of the problem.

  Formerly the conditions of life and a differently constituted community summoned us, and in a way forced us, into action. Now, in these antihygienic times, when we have nothing to do with public life, and are poisoned by philosophy and doubts, our disease has grown more acute. We have come to this at last, that we are not capable of sustained action, that our vitality shows itself only in sudden leaps and bounds, and consequently the most gifted among us always end in some kind of madness. Of all that constitutes life there is only woman left for us; and we either fritter and squander ourselves away in licentiousness or cling to one love as to a branch that overhangs a precipice. As it is mostly an unlawful love we cling to, it carries within itself the elements of a tragedy. I know that my love for Aniela must end badly; and therefore I do not even try to defend myself from it. Besides, whether I resist or submit, it means ruin either way.

  28 June.

  The baths and especially the cool, bracing air are improving Pani Celina’s health, and she is growing stronger day by day. I surround her with every care and think of her comforts as if she were my own mother. She is grateful for it, and seems to be growing very fond of me. Aniela notices it, and cannot help feeling a certain regret at this vision of happiness that might have been ours if things had turned out differently. I am quite certain now that she does not love Kromitzki. She is and will be faithful to him; but when I see them together I notice in her face a certain constraint and humiliation. I see it every time when he, whether really in love or only showing himself off as a doting husband, fondles her hands, smoothes her hair or kisses her brow. She would rather hide herself in the very earth than be forced to submit to these endearments in my and other people’s presence. Nevertheless she submits, with a forced smile. I smile too, but as a diversion I mentally plunge my hands into my vitals and tear them to pieces. At times the thought crosses my mind that this priestess of Diana is more at ease and less reticent when alone with her husband. But I do not often indulge in thoughts like these, for I feel that one drop more and I shall lose my self-control altogether.

  My relation to Aniela is terrible for me as well as for her. My love shows itself in the guise of hatred, scorn, and irony. It frightens Aniela and hurts her. She looks at me now and then, and her pleading eyes say, “Is it my fault?” And I repeat to myself, “It is not her fault;” but I cannot, God help me, I cannot be different to her. The more I see her oppressed and hurt, the fiercer becomes my resentment towards her, towards Kromitzki, myself, and the whole world. And yet I pity her from my whole heart, for she is as unhappy as I am. But as water, instead of subduing a conflagration, makes it rage all the fiercer, so my feelings are rendered fiercer by despair. I treat the dearest being with scorn, anger, and irony, and thereby hurt myself far more than I hurt her; for she is capable of forgiveness, but I shall never be able to forgive myself.

  29 June.

  That man notices there is some ill-feeling between me and his wife, and he explains it in a manner worthy of him. It seems to him that I hate her because she preferred him to me. He fancies that my resentment is nothing but offended vanity. Truly only a husband can look upon it in this light. Consequently he tries to make it up to her by his caresses, and treats me with the kind indulgence of a generous victor.

  How vanity blinds some people! What a strange creature he is! He goes every day to the Straubinger hotel, watches the couples promenading on the Wandelbahn, and with a certain delight puts the worst construction upon their mutual relations. He laughs at the husbands who, according to his views, are deceived by their wives; every new discovery puts him into better humor, and his eyeglass is continually dropping out and put back again. And yet the same man who considers conjugal faithlessness such an excellent opportunity for making silly jokes, would consider it the most awful tragedy if it happened to himself. Since it is only a question of other people it is a farce; touching his own happiness it would cry out to heaven for vengeance. Why, you fool! — go to the looking glass, see yourself as you are, your Mongolian eyes, that hair like a black Astrachan cap, that eyeglass, those long shanks; enter into yourself and see the meanness of your intellect, the vulgarity of your character, — and tell me whether a woman like Aniela ought to remain true to you for an hour! How did you manage to get her, you spiritual and physical upstart? Is it not an unnatural monstrosity that you are her husband? Dante’s Beatrice, marrying a common Florentine cad, would have been better matched.

  I had to interrupt my writing because I felt I was losing my balance; and yet I fancied myself resigned! May Kromitzki rest easy; I do not feel that I am any better than he. Even if I supposed I was made of finer stuff than he, it would be small comfort, since my deeds are worse than his. He has no need of hiding anything, and I am obliged to play the hypocrite, take him always into account, conceal my real feelings, deceive and circumvent him. Can there be anything meaner than pursuing such a course of action, instead of taking him by the throat? I abuse him in my diary. Such underhand satisfaction even a slave may permit himself towards his master. Kromitzki never could have felt so small as I did in my own eyes when I committed a multitude of littlenesses, devised cunning plans to make him take separate lodgings and not stop in the same house with Aniela. And after all, I gained nothing. With the simple sentence, “I wish to be near my wife” he demolished all my plans. It is simply unbearable, especially as Aniela understands every movement of mine, every word and scheme. I fancy she must often blush for me. All this taken together makes up my daily food. I do not think I shall be able to bear it much longer, as I cannot be equal to the situation, — which simply means: I am not villain enough for the conditions in which I live.

  30 June.

  I overheard from the veranda the end of a conversation carried on in an audible voice between Kromitzki and Aniela.

  “I will speak to him myself,” said Kromitzki; “but you must tell your aunt the position I am in.”

  “I will never do it,” replied Aniela.

  “Not if such is my wish?” he said sharply.

  Not desirous of playing the part of eavesdropper, I went into the room. I saw on Aniela’s face an expression of pain, which she tried to hide upon seeing me. Kromitzki was white with anger, but greeted me with a smile. For a moment an unreasonable fear got hold of me that she had confessed something to her husband. I am not afraid of Kromitzki; my only fear is that he may take away Aniela and thus part me from my sorrows, my humiliations, and torments. I live by them; without them I should be famished. Anything rather than part from Aniela. In vain I racked my brain to guess what could have taken place between them. At moments I thought it probable that she had told him something; but then his manner towards me would have changed, and it was if anything even more polite than usual.

  Generally speaking, but for my aversion to the man, I have no fault to find with him in so far as I am concerned. He is very polite and friendly, gives way to me in everything as if he were dealing with a nervous woman. He tries all means to gain my confidence. It does not discourage him in the least that I meet his advances at times brusquely or sarcastically, and without much consideration for his feelings show up his ignorance and want of refined nerves. I do not miss any opportunity to expose before Aniela how commonplace he is in heart and intellect. But he is wonderfully patient. Maybe he is so only with me. To-day I saw him for the first time angry with Aniela, and his complexion was of the greenish hue of people who are an
gry in cold blood and nurse their wrath long afterwards. Aniela is probably afraid of him, but she is afraid of everybody, — even of me. It is sometimes difficult to understand how this woman with the temper of a dove can at a given moment summon so much energy. There was a time when I thought her too passive to be able to resist me long. What a disappointment! Her resistance is all the stronger, the more unexpected it is. I do not know what was the question between her and Kromitzki, but if she says that she is not going to do what he asks her, she will shake with fear but will not yield. If she were mine, I would love her as the dog loves its mistress; I would carry her on my hands, and not allow the dust to touch her feet; I would love her until death.

  1 July.

  My jealousy would be a miserable thing if it were not at the same time the pain of the true believer who sees his divinity dragged in the dust. I would abstain even from touching her hand if I could place her on some inapproachable height where nobody could come near her.

  2 July.

  I deluded myself as to my state of quiescence. It was only a temporary torpidity of the nerves, which I mistook for calmness. Besides, I knew it could not last.

  3 July.

  Yes, something has passed between them. They hide some mutual offence, but I see it. For some days I have noticed that he does not take her hands, as he used to and kiss them in turn; he does not stroke her hair or kiss her forehead. I had a moment of real joy, but Aniela herself poisoned it. I see that she tries to conciliate and humor him as if wishing to restore their former relations. At the sight of this a great rage possessed me, and showed itself in my behavior to Aniela. Never had I been so pitiless to her and myself.