My aunt agreed to my proposal. It was really the best thing to do under the circumstances. We resolved to take Pani Celina into our confidence, in order that she might further our plan of departure. I saw all the servants, and gave strict orders that all letters, papers, and telegrams should be brought direct to my room, and nobody approach the young lady with any news or gossip whatever.
My aunt was terribly shocked. According to her views, suicide is one of the greatest crimes anybody can commit; therefore with the pity for the unfortunate man, there was a great deal of horror and indignation. "He ought not to have done this," she said over and over again, – "especially now when he expected to become a father." But I suppose he might not have received news of that. During the last few weeks he must have been in a state of feverish anxiety, travelling from one place to another as the entangled position of his affairs drove him.
I dare not condemn him, and will confess openly that it has raised the man in my esteem. There are some men who, justly accused of fraud and wrong-dealing, and sentenced to imprisonment, take it easy, and pass their time in prison gayly drinking champagne. He did not do that, – he preferred death to disgrace. Maybe he remembered who he was. I should have less sympathy with him if he had made away with himself merely because he had failed; but I suppose even that would have been a sufficient motive for him to do so. I remember what he said about it at Gastein. If my love be a neurosis, then most undoubtedly his feverish desire for gold is the same. When this one aim went out from his life, this one basis slipped away from under his feet, he saw before him, perhaps, a gulf and a desert such as I saw when alone at Berlin. And what could hold him back? The thought of Aniela? He knew we would take care of her; and besides, – who knows? – perhaps in a dim way he felt that he was not necessary to her happiness. I did not think he had it in him; I had not expected from him so much energy and courage, and I confess that I judged him wrongly.
I had put down my pen, but take it up again because I cannot sleep; and besides, while writing my thoughts flow more evenly, and I do not feel my brain reeling. Aniela is free! Aniela is free! I repeat it to myself and cannot encompass the whole meaning. I feel as if I could go mad with joy, and at the same time I am seized with an undefined dread. Is it really true that a new life is dawning for me? What is it? Is it one of Nature's tricks, or is it God's mercy at last for all I suffered, and for the great love I bear in my heart? Perhaps there exists a mystic law which gives the woman to the man who loves her most in order that a great, eternal commandment of the Creator should be fulfilled. I do not know. I have a feeling as if I and all those near me were carried away by an immense wave, beyond human will or human control.
I interrupted my writing again, because the carriage I sent for the doctor has come back without him. He has an operation on hand and could not come, but promised to be here in the morning. He must remain with us at Ploszow until our departure, and go with us to Rome. There I shall find others to take his place.
It is late in the night. Aniela is asleep, and has no foreboding of what is hanging over her, what a complete change in her life has taken place. May it bring peace and happiness to her! She deserves it all. Perhaps it is for her sake God's mercy is showing.
My nerves are so overstrung that I start when I hear a dog barking in the distance, or the watchman's rattle; it seems to me as if somebody were bringing news and trying to get to Aniela. I make an effort to calm myself, and explain away the strange fear that haunts me, by the state of Aniela's health; I try to be convinced that but for this I should not feel so uneasy. I repeat to myself that my fear will pass, as everything passes, and afterwards there will be the beginning of a new life.
I have to familiarize myself with the thought that Kromitzki is no more. Out of this catastrophe springs my happiness, such happiness as I dared not hope for; but there is within us a moral instinct which forbids us to rejoice at the death of even an enemy. And moreover in death itself there is an awful solemnity, – those who speak in presence of it speak in hushed voices; that is the reason I dare not rejoice.
13 November.
All my plans are shattered. The doctor came this morning, and after examining Aniela, announced that there could be no question of any long journey for her, as it would be positively dangerous. There seem to be some irregularities in her state. What a torture to hear his professional jargon, when every word he utters seems to threaten the life of the beloved woman. I told the doctor the position we are in, and he said that between two dangers he preferred the lesser one.
What troubled and angered me most was his advice to tell Aniela, after due preparation, about her husband's death. Alas! I cannot deny that from his point of view he is right. "If you are quite sure," he said, "that you can keep it from Pani Kromitzka for some months to come, it would certainly be better to do so; but if not, it would be advisable to prepare her mind and then tell her; for if she receives the news suddenly there may be another catastrophe."
What is to be done? I must establish a quarantine around Ploszow, not let a paper or letter come in unknown to me, instruct the servants what to say, and to keep even their features under command.
What an impression news like this makes upon every one; I had an illustration in Pani Celina, to whom we had to tell the truth. She fainted twice, and then went off into hysterics; which almost drove me frantic, because I thought she would be heard all over the house. And yet she was not fond of her son-in-law; but she too, I suppose, was mostly afraid for Aniela. I am strenuously opposed to the doctor's advice, and do not think I shall ever agree to it. I cannot tell them one thing, – that Aniela did not love her husband, and that for that very reason the shock will be more terrible to her.
It is not merely a question of sorrow after the death of a beloved being, but of the reproaches she will apply to herself, thinking that if she had loved him more he might have clung more to his life. Empty, trivial, and unjust reproaches, for she did everything that force of will could command, – she spurned my love and remained pure and faithful to him. But one must know that soul full of scruples as I know it, to gauge the depth of misery into which the news would plunge her, and how she would suspect herself, – asking whether his death did not correspond to some deeply hidden desire on her part for freedom and happiness; whether it did not gratify those wishes she had scarcely dared to form. My hair seems to rise at the very thought, because it is his death that opens a new life for her; consequently it will be a twofold shock, – two blows to fall upon the dear head. This, neither the doctor, my aunt, nor Pani Celina can understand. No! she ought not to be told until after the event.
What a misfortune that she cannot go away! Here it is difficult, almost impossible, to guard her. She will read in our faces what has happened. The least word, the least glance will rouse her suspicion, and she will fancy all sorts of things. To-day she was surprised by the sudden arrival of the doctor. Pani Celina told me she had inquired why he was sent for and whether she was in any danger. Fortunately, my aunt, always ready for any emergency, said that it was the usual thing in such a case to call in the doctor from time to time. Aniela has no experience, and believed her at once. How shall I be able to persuade the servants not to look so mysterious? They already guess that something is the matter, from my warnings and cautionings, and they will know all about it in time. I cannot dismiss them all. The frequent telegrams are enough to excite their curiosity. To-day I had another telegram from Chwastowski at Baku, with the inquiry what he is to do with the body. I replied that he should bury it there for the present. I asked the elder Chwastowski to take it to Warsaw, and sent a money order by telegraph. I do not know even whether such an order can be sent from Warsaw to Baku.
To-day I looked through the papers. In two of them there was a paragraph about Kromitzki's death. If that is young Chwastowski's doing, he must be mad. The servants know everything. Their faces are such that I am surprised Aniela does not suspect something. During dinner she was cheerful and unusually lively. The doctor's presence is a great relief to me. Kromitzki is nothing to him. He engages Aniela's attention, makes jokes, and teaches her to play chess. Pani Celina, on the contrary, reduces me to despair. The merrier Aniela grew, the longer and more funereal became her mother's countenance. I spoke to her about it rather sharply.
14 November.
We are all at Warsaw. They told Aniela that hot-water pipes were to be laid in all the rooms at Ploszow, and so, to avoid the general upset and discomfort, we all intended to go to Warsaw. The drive tired her very much; but I am glad we are here, for I can rely upon my servants. The house is a little in disorder. A great many pictures are already unpacked. Aniela, in spite of being tired, wanted to see them, and I acted as cicerone. I told her that it was my greatest wish to be at some time her cicerone at Rome, and she replied, with a shade of sadness: —
"I, too, often dream of seeing Rome, but sometimes I think that I shall never go there."
Her words caused me a twinge of anguish, for I am afraid of everything, even presentiments, and am ready to see in every word a forecast of evil.
"I promise you shall go to Rome and stop there as long as you like," I replied cheerfully.
It is strange how easily human nature adapts itself to a new position and exercises its rights. Involuntarily I look upon Aniela as my own, and guard her as my property.
The doctor was right. We did well to come to Warsaw, – firstly, because in case of any sudden emergency there is help at hand; secondly, we are not obliged to receive visitors. At Ploszow we could not have avoided that, as it is impossible to turn away a visitor from one's own gates; and probably a great many would have come with condolences. Finally, at Ploszow there existed already a mysterious, heavy atmosphere, in which my efforts to give the conversation a light and cheerful turn appeared unnatural. I suppose this cannot be avoided even here, but Aniela's mind will be occupied with hundreds of little sensations, and be less observant of any slight changes in her surroundings than she would be at Ploszow. She will not go out often, and never alone. The doctor orders exercise, but I have found means for that. Beyond the stables there is a good-sized garden with a wooden gallery near the wall. I will have it glazed, and in bad weather Aniela can walk there. It is a terrible strain, this continual anxiety hanging over our heads.
15 November.
How did it happen? How the slightest suspicion could have entered her head I cannot understand. And yet it is there. To-day, during breakfast, she suddenly raised her eyes, looked inquiringly at all of us in turn and said: —
"I cannot quite make it out, but I am under the impression that you are concealing something from me."
I felt myself growing pale, – Pani Celina behaved most fatally; only the dear old aunt did not lose her presence of mind and at once began to scold Aniela: —
"Of course we are hiding something, and did not like to tell you that we consider that little head of yours a foolish one. Leon said yesterday that you would never learn to play chess, as you had no idea about combination."
I breathed more easily, and getting hold of the clue began to make fun of her. Aniela seemed satisfied for the moment, but I am quite certain that we have not dispersed her suspicion, and that even my cheerfulness may have seemed artificial to her. My aunt and Pani Celina were thoroughly frightened, and I was in despair; for I saw how fruitless would be our endeavors so keep the thing from her altogether. I fancy that Aniela suspects we are keeping from her some bad news about her husband's financial affairs; but what will she think if week after week passes and she does not get any letters from him? What can we tell her; how explain the silence?
Towards noon the doctor came. We told him what had happened, and he repeated what he had said before, that it would be better to let her know the truth.
"Naturally Pani Kromitzka will be getting anxious at not receiving any letters, and thence will draw the worst conclusions."
I still tried to avoid extreme measures and said that this anxiety would prepare her mind for the news.
"Yes," replied the doctor, "but anxiety prepares the organism badly for an ordeal which even under more favorable circumstances would not be an easy thing to bear."
Perhaps he is right, but my heart quakes with terror. Everything has its limits, and so has human courage There is something within me that protests desperately against this, and I am afraid of the voice which says, "No."
The ladies have almost made up their minds to tell her to-morrow. I will have nothing to do with it. I had no idea one could be afraid to such an extent. But it is a question concerning her.
16 November.
All was well until evening, when suddenly hemorrhage set in. And I had said no! It is three o'clock at night. She has fallen asleep. The doctor is with her. I must be calm – I must. It is necessary for her that somebody in the house should preserve his presence of mind – I must.
17 November
The doctor says that the first phase of illness is progressing according to rules. What does that mean? Does it mean that she will die? The fever is not very great. This seems to be always so the first two days. She is quite conscious, feels out of sorts and very weak, but suffers little. The doctor prepared us to expect that the fever would increase gradually up to forty degrees; there will be great pains, sickness, and swelling of the feet – that is what he promises!
Let there be at once also the end of the world! O God! if that is to be my punishment, I swear I will go away, never to see her again in life, – only save her!
18 November.
I have not seen her. I sit at her door almost bereft of my senses; but I do not go in, because I am afraid that the sight of me will make her worse and increase the fever. At times a horrible idea crosses my mind that I am going mad and might kill Aniela in a fit of insanity. That is the reason I force myself to write, for it seems to me that it is the best way of keeping my senses under control.
19 November.
I heard her voice and her moans through the door. In that illness the suffering is terrible. According to the doctor it is the usual sign, but to me it seems blind cruelty! My aunt says she clings round her neck and her mother's and asks them for help. And nothing can be done, nothing! Continual sickness, the pains are increasing, the feet are quite swollen. The doctor says nothing, but that it may turn out all right, or may end badly. I know that without him! The fever is at forty degrees. She is always conscious.
20 November.
I know it now. Nobody told me, but I know for certain that she is going to die. I have all my senses under control, I am even calm. Aniela will die! Last night, sitting at her door, I saw it as clearly as I now see the sunlight. A man in a certain condition of mind sees things which other people with less concentrated minds cannot see. Towards morning something passed within me which made me see how it would end; it was as if a veil had been torn from my eyes and brain. Nothing now can save Aniela. I know it better than all the doctors. And that is the reason why I do not resist any longer. What good can it do either to her or to me? The sentence has been pronounced. I should be blind if I did not perceive that some power as strong as the universe is parting us. What this power is, what it is called, I do not know. I know only that if I knelt down, beat my head on the floor, prayed, and cried out for mercy, I might move a mountain sooner than move that power. As nothing now could part me from Aniela but death, she must die. This may be very logical, but I do not consent to part from her.
21 November.
Aniela wished to see me. My aunt took everybody out of the room, thinking she wanted to recommend her mother to my care, and this was really the case. I saw my beloved, the soul of my life. She is always conscious her eyes are very bright and her mental faculties excited. The pain has almost ceased. All traces of her former state have disappeared, and her face is like an angel's. She smiled at me, and I smiled back. Since yesterday I know what is awaiting me, and it seems to me as if I were dead already; therefore I am calm. Taking my hand in hers, she began to speak about her mother, then looked at me as if she wished to see as much as she could of me before her eyes closed forever, and said: —
"Do not be afraid, Leon, – I feel much better; but in case anything should happen to me I wanted to leave you something to remember me by. Perhaps I ought not to say it so soon after my husband's death; but as I might die, I wanted to tell you now that I loved you very, very much."
I replied to her: "I know it, dearest;" and I held her hand and we looked into each other's eyes. For the first time in her life she smiled at me as my betrothed wife. And I wedded her by vows stronger and more lasting than earthly vows. We were happy at this moment though overshadowed by a sadness as strong as death left her only when we were told the priest had come. She had prepared me for his coming, and asked me not to grieve at it; she had sent for him, not because she thought she was dying, but that it might do her good and set her mind at rest.
When the priest had left I went back to her. After so many sleepless nights she was tired and fell asleep she is sleeping now. When she wakes up I will not leave her again until she falls asleep again.
22 November.
She is very much better. Pani Celina is beside herself with joy. I am the only one who knows what it is. There was no need for the doctor to tell me that it means paralysis of the bowels.
23 November.
Aniela died this morning.
ROME, 5 December.
I might have been your happiness, and became your misfortune. I am the cause of your death, for if I had been a different man, if I had not been wanting in all principles, all foundations of life, there would not have come upon you the shocks that killed you. I understood that in the last moments of your life, and I promised myself I would follow you. I vowed it at your dying bed, and my only duty is now near you.
To your mother I leave my fortune; my aunt I leave to Christ, in whose love she will find consolation in her declining years, and I follow you – because I must. Do you think I am not afraid of death? I am afraid because I do not know what there is, and see only darkness without end; which makes me recoil. I do not know whether there be nothingness, or existence without space and time; perhaps some midplanetary wind carries the spiritual monad from star to star to implant it in an ever-renewing existence. I do not know whether there be immense restlessness, or a peace so perfect as only Omnipotence and Love can bestow on us. But since you have died through my "I do not know," how could I remain here – and live?
The more I fear, the more I do not know, – the more I cannot let you go alone; I cannot, Aniela mine, – and I follow. Together we shall sink into nothingness, or together begin a new life; and here below where we have suffered let us be buried in oblivion.