PART III

I

What inexpressible happiness it is to be married! To be always near

the beloved one, safe from the prying eyes of the fatuous world. It is

as if one had regained the home of one's childhood with its sheltering

love, a safe port after the storm, a nest which awaits the little ones.

Surrounded by nothing but objects which belonged to her, mementoes and

relics of her parents' house, I felt as if I were a shoot grafted on

her trunk; the oil paintings of her ancestors deluded me into thinking

that I had been adopted by her family, because her ancestors will also

be the ancestors of my children. I received everything from her hand;

she made me wear her father's watch and chain; my dinner was served on

her mother's china; she poured on me a continuous stream of trifling

presents, relics of old times, which had belonged to famous warriors

celebrated by the poets of her country, a fact which impressed me not

a little. She was the benefactress, the generous giver of all these

gifts, and I entirely forgot that it was I who had reclaimed her,

lifted her out of the mire, made her the wife of a man with brilliant

prospects; forgot that she had been an unknown actress, a divorced wife

condemned by her sisters, a woman whom very probably I had saved from

the worst.

What a happy life we led! We realised the dream of freedom in marriage.

No double-bed, no common bed-room, room, no common dressing-room;

nothing unseemly degraded the sanctity of our union. Marriage as we

understood and realised it was a splendid institution. The tender

good-nights, repeated again and again; the joy of wishing each other

good-morning, of asking how we had slept, were they not due to the fact

that we occupied separate rooms? How delightful were the stolen visits

to each other, the courtesy and tenderness which we never forgot!

How different compared with the brazen boldness, the more or less

graciously endured brutalities which are as a rule inseparable from

matrimony.

I got through an amazing amount of work, staying at home by the side

of my beloved wife who was sewing tiny garments for the expected baby.

What a lot of time I had wasted in rendezvous and idleness in the days

gone by!

* * * * *

After a month of the closest companionship Marie was laid up with a

premature confinement. We had a tiny daughter, hardly able to draw

breath. Without a moment's delay the baby was taken charge of by a

nurse whom we knew to be a decent woman, and two days later it passed

away as it had come, without pain, from sheer want of vitality, just

after it had received private baptism.

The mother received the news with regret, but it was regret not

unmingled with relief. A burden of infinite cares and worries had

fallen off her shoulders, for well she knew that social prejudice would

not have permitted her to keep the prematurely-born infant under our

own roof.

After this incident we firmly made up our minds to one thing: No more

children! We dreamed of a life together, a life of perfect comradeship,

of a man and a woman, loving and supplementing each other, but living

their own lives, restlessly straining every nerve to realise their

individual ambitions.

Now that every obstacle had been removed, every threatening danger

overcome, we began to breathe freely and reconsider our position. I

was ostracised by my relations, no meddlesome member of my family

threatened the peace of our home, and since the only relative of my

wife's who lived on the spot was her aunt, we were spared the frequent

calls and visits which so often give rise to serious troubles and

trials in a young _ménage_.

II

Six weeks later I made the discovery that two intruders had insinuated

themselves into my wife's confidence.

One of them was a dog, a King Charles, a blear-eyed little monster,

which greeted me with deafening yelping and barking every time I

entered the house, just as if I had been a stranger. I always disliked

dogs, those protectors of cowards who lack the courage to fight an

assailant themselves; but I particularly disliked this dog, because

it was a relic of her first marriage, a constant reminder of her late

husband.

The first time I protested, and ordered it to lie down, my wife

reproached me gently, and made excuses for the little beast, which she

called her late daughter's legacy, pretending to be horror-struck at

this suddenly revealed strain of cruelty in my disposition.

One day I found traces of the little monster on the drawing-room

carpet. I punished it, and she called me a coward who ill-treated dumb

creatures.

"But what else could I do, my dear? It's no use arguing with animals;

they don't understand our language."

She began to cry, and sobbingly confessed that she could not help being

afraid of a cruel man....

And the monster continued to dirty the drawing-room carpet.

I decided to take the trouble to train the dog, and did my utmost

to convince her that a little perseverance does wonders with an

intelligent animal.

She lost her temper, and for the first time drew my attention to the

fact that the carpet belonged to her.

"Take it away, then; I never undertook to live in a pig-sty."

The carpet remained where it was, but the dog was watched more

carefully; my remonstrances had some effect.

Nevertheless fresh catastrophes occurred.

In order to keep down our expenditure and save the trouble and expense

of a kitchen fire, we decided to have a cold supper in the evening.

Entering the kitchen accidentally on one occasion, I was amazed to find

a roaring fire and the maid engaged in frying veal cutlets.

"Who are these cutlets for?"

"For the dog, sir."

My wife joined us.

"My dear girl----"

"Excuse me, I paid for them!"

"But I have to be content with a cold supper! I fare worse than your

dog.... And I, too, pay."

She paid!

Henceforth the dog was looked upon as a martyr. Marie and a friend, a

brand-new friend, adopted the habit of worshipping the beast, which

they had decorated with a blue ribbon, behind locked doors. And the

dear friend heaved a sigh at the thought of so much human malice

incarnate in my detestable person.

An irrepressible hatred for this interloper who was everywhere in

my way, took possession of me. My wife, with a down pillow and some

blankets, made a bed for it which obstructed my way whenever I wanted

to say good-morning or good-night to her. And on every Saturday, the

day I looked forward to through a week of toil, counting on a pleasant

evening with her alone when, undisturbed, we could talk of the past and

make plans for the future, she spent three hours with her friend in the

kitchen; the maid made up a blazing fire; the whole place was turned

upside down--and why? Because Saturday was the monster's tub-day.

"Don't you think you are treating me heartlessly, cruelly?"

"How dare you call her heartless?" exclaimed the friend. "A gentler

soul never breathed. Why, she doesn't even shrink from sacrificing her

own and her husband's happiness to a poor forsaken animal!"

Some little time after I sat down to a dinner which was below criticism.

For some time past the food which was sent in daily from a neighbouring

restaurant had been steadily deteriorating, but my beloved wife, with

her irresistible sweetness, had made me believe that I had grown more

fastidious. And I had not doubted her word, for I always took her at

her own valuation and looked upon her as the soul of truth and candour.

The fatal dinner was served. There was nothing on the dish but bones

and sinews.

"What is this you are putting before me?" I asked the maid.

"I am sorry, sir," she replied, "but I had orders to reserve the best

pieces for the dog."

Beware of the woman who has been found out! Her wrath will fall on your

head with fourfold strength.

She sat as if struck by lightning, unmasked, shown up as a liar, a

cheat even, for she had always insisted that she was paying for the

dog's food out of her own pocket. Her pallor and silence made me feel

sorry for her. I blushed for her, and hating to see her humiliated,

I behaved like a generous conqueror, and tried to console her. I

playfully patted her cheek and told her not to mind.

But generosity was not one of her virtues. She burst into a torrent

of angry words: My origin was very evident; I had no education, no

manners, since I rebuked her before a servant, a stupid girl who had

misunderstood her instructions. There was no doubt that I, and I only,

was to blame. Hysterics followed, she grew more and more violent,

jumped up from her chair, threw herself on the sofa, raved like a

maniac, sobbed and screamed that she was dying.

I was sceptical, and remained untouched.

Such a fuss, and all about a dog!

But she continued to scream; it was a frightful scene; a terrible

cough shook her frame, which since her confinement had grown even more

fragile; I was deceived after all, and sent for the doctor.

He came, examined her heart, felt her pulse, and surlily turned to go;

I stopped him on the threshold.

"Well?"

"H'm! nothing at all," he answered, putting on his overcoat.

"Nothing?... But...."

"Nothing whatever.... You ought to know women.... Good day!"

If I had only known then what I know now, if I had known the secret,

the remedy for hysteria which I have discovered since! But the only

thing which occurred to me at the time was to kiss her eyes and ask her

pardon. And that was what I did. She pressed me to her heart, called

me her sensible child who should take care of her because she was very

delicate, very weak, and would die one day if her little boy had not

the sense to avoid scenes.

To make her quite happy I took her dog upon my knees and stroked its

back; and for the next half hour I was rewarded with looks full of the

tenderest affection and gratitude.

From that day the dog was allowed to do exactly as it liked, and it

dirtied the place without shame or restraint. Sometimes it seemed to

me that it did it out of revenge. But I controlled my temper.

I waited for a favourable opportunity, for the happy chance which would

deliver me from the torture of a life spent in an unclean home....

And the moment arrived. On returning to dinner one day, I found my wife

in tears. She was in great distress. Dinner was not ready. The maid was

looking for the lost dog.

Hardly able to conceal my joy, I made every effort to comfort my

inconsolable wife. But she could not understand my sympathy with her

grief, for she realised my inward satisfaction in finding the enemy

gone.

"You are delighted, I know you are," she exclaimed. "You find amusement

in the misfortunes of your friends. That shows how full of malice you

are, and that you don't love me any more."

"My love for you is as great as ever it was, believe me, but I detest

your dog."

"If you love me, you must love my dog too!"

"If I didn't love you, I should have struck you before now!"

The effect of my words was startling. To strike a woman! Carried away

by her resentment, she reproached me with having turned out her dog,

poisoned it.

We went to every police-station, we paid a visit to the knacker, and in

the end the disturber of our peace and happiness was recovered. My wife

and her friend, regarding me as a poisoner, or at any rate a potential

poisoner, celebrated its recovery with great rejoicings.

Henceforth the monster was kept a prisoner in my wife's bedroom; that

charming retreat of love, furnished with exquisite taste, was turned

into a dog's kennel.

Our small flat became uninhabitable, our home-life full of jars. I

ventured to make a remark to the effect, but my wife replied that her

room was her own.

Then I started on a merciless crusade. I left her severely alone; and

by and by she found my reserve unbearable.

"Why do you never come to say good-morning to me now?"

"Because I can't get near you."

She sulked. I sulked too. For another fortnight I lived in celibacy.

Then, tired out, she found herself compelled to make friends. She took

the first step, but she hated me for it.

She decided to have the troublesome interloper destroyed. But instead

of having it done forthwith, she invited her friend to assist her

in the enactment of a farewell farce, entitled "The Last Moments of

the Condemned." She went to the length of begging me on her knees

to embrace the wretched little brute as a proof that I harboured no

ill-will, arguing that dogs might possibly have an immortal soul and

that we might meet again in another world. The result was that I gave

the dog its life and freedom, an action which found its reward in her

gratitude.

At times I fancied that I was living in a lunatic asylum, but one does

not stand upon trifles when one is in love.

This scene, "The Last Moments of the Condemned," was renewed every six

months during the next three years.

You, reader, who read this plain tale of a man, a woman and a dog, will

not deny me your compassion, for my sufferings lasted three times three

hundred and sixty-five days of twenty-four hours each. You will perhaps

admire me, for I remained alive. If it be true, however, that I am

insane, as my wife maintains, blame no one but myself, for I ought to

have had the courage to get rid of the dog once and for all.

III

Marie's friend was an old maid of about forty years, mysterious, full

of ideals with which I had lost all sympathy long ago.

She was my wife's consoler. In her arms she wept over my dislike of

her dog. She was a ready listener to Marie's abuse of matrimony, the

slavery of women.

She was rather reserved and careful not to interfere; anyhow I noticed

nothing, for I was completely preoccupied with my work. But I had an

idea that she was in the habit of borrowing small sums from my wife.

I said nothing until one day I saw her carrying off some of the table

silver with the intention of pawning it for her own benefit.

I said a word or two about it to Marie, and gave her to understand that

even under the dotal system this sort of comradeship was very unwise.

She never dreamed of helping me, her husband and best friend, in this

way, although I was in difficulties and worried by debts.

"Since you listen to such proposals from strangers," I said to her,

"why not lend me your shares? I could raise money on them."

She objected, arguing that the shares had fallen so low as to be

practically valueless and consequently unsaleable. Moreover it was

against her principles to transact business with her husband.

"But you don't object to a stranger, who can give you no security

whatever, who lives on a pension of seventy-five crowns, per annum!

Don't you think it wrong to refuse to help your husband who is trying

to make a career, and provision for you when you have spent your own

money, not to mention the fact that your interests are identical with

his?"

She yielded, and the loan of three thousand five hundred francs, or

thereabouts, in doubtful shares, was granted.

From this day onward she looked upon herself as my patroness, and told

everybody who cared to listen that she had safeguarded my career by

sacrificing her dowry. The fact of my being a well-known writer before

I had ever set eyes on her was quite lost sight of. But it was bliss to

me to look up to her, to be indebted to her for everything: my life, my

future, my happiness.

In our marriage contract I had insisted on settling all her property

on herself, partly because her financial affairs were chaos. The Baron

owed her money; but instead of paying her in cash, he had guaranteed

a loan which she had raised. In spite of all my precautions I was

requested by the bank on the morning after our wedding to guarantee the

sum. My objections were so much waste of breath; the bank did not look

upon my wife as responsible, since by her second marriage she had again

legally become a minor. To my great indignation I was compelled to sign

the guarantee, to put my signature by the side of that of the Baron.

In my perfect simplicity I had no idea of what I was doing. It merely

seemed to me that what every man of the world would have done in my

place, was the right thing to do.

* * * * *

One evening, while I was closeted in my room with a friend, the Baron

called. It was his first call since our wedding. My predecessor's

visit seemed to me in bad taste, to say the least of it; but since he

did not mind meeting me, I pretended to be pleased to see him. When

I accompanied my friend to the door, however, I did not think it

necessary to introduce him. Later on, my wife reproached me for the

omission, and called me unmannerly. I accused both her and the Baron of

tactlessness.

A violent quarrel ensued, in which she called me a boor. One word led

to another, and certain pictures were mentioned which had once belonged

to the Baron, but were now decorating my walls. I begged her to send

them back to him.

"You cannot return presents without hurting the giver," she exclaimed.

"He doesn't dream of returning the presents you gave him, but keeps

them as a proof of his friendship and trust."

The pretty word "trust" disarmed me. But my eye fell on a piece of

furniture which awakened unpleasant memories.

"Where does this writing-table come from?"

"It was my mother's."

She was speaking the truth, although she omitted to add that it had

passed through her first husband's house.

What a strange lack of delicacy, what bad form, how utterly regardless

of my honour! Was it done intentionally so as to depreciate me in the

eyes of my fellow-men? Had I fallen into a trap set by an unscrupulous

woman? I wondered....

Yet I surrendered unconditionally without struggling against her subtle

logic, convinced that her aristocratic bringing-up ought to serve me as

a guide in all doubtful cases where my education did not suffice. She

had a ready answer to everything. The Baron had never bought a single

piece of furniture. Everything belonged to her--and since the Baron did

not scruple to keep my wife's furniture, I need not scruple to accept

all articles which belonged to my own wife.

The last phrase: "Since the Baron did not scruple to keep my wife's

furniture," caused me lively satisfaction. Because the pictures which

hung in my drawing-room were proofs of a noble trust and evidenced the

ideal character of our relationship, they remained where they were;

I even carried simplicity to the length of telling all inquisitive

callers who cared to know who the giver of those landscapes was.

I never dreamed in those days that it was I, the man belonging to the

middle-classes, who possessed tact and delicacy, instincts which are

as frequently found amongst the lower strata of society as they are

wanting in men and women of the upper ones, where coarse minds are only

too often cleverly concealed under a thin layer of veneer. Would that

I had known what manner of woman she was in whose hands I had laid my

fate!

But I did not know it.

IV

As soon as Marie had got over her confinement, which compelled her to

live quietly for a time, she was seized with a craving for excitement.

Under the pretext of studying her art, she visited the theatres and

went to public entertainments while I stayed at home and worked.

Protected by the title of a married woman, she was received in circles

which had been closed to the divorced wife. She was anxious that I

should accompany her, for she considered the fact of her husband's

absence prejudicial to her best interests. But I resisted, and

while claiming for myself personal freedom, according to our verbal

agreement, I allowed her absolute liberty, and let her go where she

pleased.

"But no one ever sets eyes on the husband," she objected.

"People will understand him," I replied.

The husband! The very way in which she pronounced the word conveyed

opprobrium; and she fell into the habit of treating me with a certain

amount of superciliousness.

During the solitary hours which I spent at home I worked at my

ethnographical treatise, which was to be the ladder on which I hoped

to climb to promotion at the library. I was in correspondence with

all the learned authorities in Paris, Berlin, Petersburg, Irkutsk and

Peking, and, seated at my writing-table, I held in my hand the threads

of a perfect net of inter-relations which stretched all over the world.

Marie did not approve of this work. She would have preferred to see me

engaged in writing comedies, and was angry with me. I begged her to

await results, and not condemn my work prematurely as waste of time.

But she would have none of these Chinese researches which brought in

no money. A new Xanthippe, she severely tried my Socratic patience by

reiterating that I was frittering away her dowry--her dowry!

My life was a strange mingling of sweetness and bitterness, and one

of my greatest worries was Marie's theatrical career. In March it was

rumoured that the company of the Royal Theatre would be reduced at the

end of May, the period when contracts were renewed. This gave rise

to fresh floods of tears during the next three months, in addition

to the usual every-day grievances. The house was overrun by all the

failures from the Royal Theatre. My soul, broadened and uplifted by the

knowledge I had acquired, and the growth and development of my talent,

rebelled against the presence of these unfit ones, these incapables

who possessed no culture, who were detestable on account of their

vanity, their ceaseless flow of banalities, uttered in the slang of the

theatre, which they called new truths.

I became so sick of the torture of their tittle-tattle that I begged

to be in future excused from my wife's parties. I urged her to cut her

connection with those mental lepers, those disqualified ones, whose

presence must of necessity depress us and rob us of our courage.

"Aristocrat!" she sneered.

"Aristocrat, if you like, but aristocrat in the true sense of the

word," I replied; "for I yearn for the summits of genius, not for the

mole-hills of the titled aristocracy. Nevertheless, I suffer all the

sorrows of the disinherited."

When I ask myself to-day how I could have lived for years the slave

of a woman who treated me disgracefully, who shamelessly robbed me in

company of her friends and her dog, I come to the conclusion that it

was thanks to my moderation, to my ascetic philosophy of life, which

taught me not to be exacting, especially in love. I loved her so much

that I irritated her, and more than once she plainly showed me that

my passionate temperament bored her. But everything was forgotten and

forgiven at those rare moments when she caressed me, when she took my

throbbing head into her lap, when her fingers played with my hair.

This was happiness unspeakable, and like a fool I stammered out the

confession that life without her would be impossible, that my existence

hung on a thread which she held in her hand. In this way I fostered

a conviction in her that she was a higher being, and the consequence

was that she treated me with flattery and blandishments as if I were a

spoilt child. She knew that I was in her power, and did not scruple to

abuse it.

When the summer came she went into the country and took her maid with

her. She moreover persuaded her friend to accompany her, for she was

afraid of feeling lonely during the week when my work kept me at the

library. It was in vain that I objected, that I reminded her that her

friend was not in a position to pay, and that our means were limited;

Marie looked upon me as a "spirit of evil," and reproached me with

speaking ill of everybody. I gave in eventually, in order to avoid

unpleasantness. I gave in--alas! I always gave in.

After a whole week's loneliness I welcomed Saturday as a red-letter

day. With a jubilant heart I caught an early train and then set out

joyfully for half-an-hour's walk under the scorching sun, carrying

bottles and provisions for the week. My blood danced through my veins,

my pulse throbbed at the thought of seeing Marie in a few moments; she

would come to meet me with open arms, her hair flying in the breeze,

her face rosy with the sweet country air. In addition I was hungry and

looking forward to a gay little dinner, for I had eaten nothing since

my early breakfast. At last the cottage among the fir-trees, close to

the lake, came in sight. At the same time I caught a glimpse of Marie

and her friend, in light summer dresses, stealing away to the bathing

vans. I shouted to them with all the power of my lungs. They could

not help hearing me, for they were well within earshot. But they only

hastened their footsteps, as if they were running away from me, and

disappeared into a bathing van. What did it mean?

The maid appeared as soon as she heard my footsteps in the house; she

looked uneasy, afraid.

"Where are the ladies?"

"They have gone to bathe, sir."

"When will dinner be ready?"

"Not before four o'clock, sir. The ladies have only just got up, and I

have been busy helping the young lady to dress."

"Did you hear me call?"

"Yes, sir."

... So they had really run away from me, driven from my presence by an

uneasy conscience, and, hungry and tired as I was, I had to wait for a

couple of hours for my dinner.

What a reception after a week full of hard work and longing! The

thought that she had run away from me like a school-girl caught

breaking the rules stabbed me like a dagger.

When she returned to the house I was fast asleep on the sofa, and in

a very bad temper. She kissed me as if nothing had happened, trying

to prevent the storm from breaking. But self-control is not always

possible. A hungry stomach has no ears, and a distressed heart is not

soothed by deceitful kisses.

"Are you angry?"

"My nerves are on edge, don't irritate me."

"I'm not your cook!"

"I never said you were, but don't prevent the cook we have from doing

her work!"

"You forget that Amy, as our paying guest, is entitled to the services

of our maid."

"Didn't you hear me calling?"

"No!"

She was telling me lies.... I felt as if my heart would break.

Dinner--my eagerly-looked-for dinner--was a long torture. The afternoon

was dismal; Marie wept and inveighed against matrimony, holy matrimony,

the only true happiness in the world, crying on the shoulder of her

friend, covering her villainous little dog with kisses.

Cruel, false, deceitful--and sentimental!

And so it went on during the whole summer in infinite variety. I spent

my Sundays with two imbeciles and a dog. They were trying to make me

believe that all our unhappiness was due to my irritable nerves and

persuade me to consult a doctor.

I had intended to take my wife for a sail on Sunday morning, but she

did not get up before dinner time; after dinner it was too late.

And yet this tender-hearted woman, who tortured me with pin-pricks,

cried bitterly one morning because the gardener was killing a rabbit

for dinner, and confessed to me in the evening that she had been

praying that the poor little beast's sufferings might be short.

Not long ago I saw somewhere a statement made by a psychopathist to the

effect that an exaggerated love for animals combined with indifference

towards the sufferings of one's fellow-creatures is a symptom of

insanity.

Marie could pray for a rabbit and at the same time torment her husband

with smiling lips.

On our last Sunday in the country she took me aside, talked in

flattering terms of my generosity, appealed to my kind heart and begged

me to cancel Miss Amy's debt to us, pleading her very small means.

I consented without discussing the matter, without telling her that

I had anticipated the suggestion, foreseen the trick, the inevitable

trick. But she, armed to the teeth with arguments, even when she was

unopposed, continued--

"If not, I could, if necessary, pay her share for her!"

No doubt she could have done so. But could she have paid for the

annoyance and trouble caused by her friend?...

Ah, well--husband and wife must not fall out over trifles.

V

In the commencement of the new year a general crisis shook the credit

of the old country, and the Bank which had issued the shares lent to me

by Marie failed. I received notice that the loan would be called in. I

was forced to pay cash for the sum I had been compelled to guarantee.

It was a heavy blow, but after endless difficulties I came to terms

with the creditors, who agreed to a year's respite. It was a terrible

year, the worst period of my life.

As soon as things were a little more settled I began to make every

effort to extricate myself.

In addition to my work at the library I started a novel on modern

morals and customs; filled newspapers and periodicals with essays,

and completed my scientific treatise. Marie, at the expiration of her

contract with the theatre, was re-engaged for another year, but her pay

was reduced to fourteen hundred crowns.... Now I was better off than

she, for she had lost her capital in the general smash.

She was in a vile temper, and made me suffer for it. To re-establish

the equilibrium, and thinking of nothing but her independence, she

attempted to raise a loan, but these attempts proved abortive and

only led to unpleasantness. Acting thoughtlessly, despite her good

intentions, she did me harm with her efforts to save herself and render

my task more easy. I appreciated her good intentions, but I could not

help remonstrating.

Always capricious and wayward, she showed unmistakable signs of malice

and fresh events disclosed a state of mind which filled me with

apprehension.

A fancy-dress ball, for instance, was given at the theatre, and I

had her promise not to attend the ball in male attire. She had bound

herself by a solemn oath, for I had been very emphatic on the subject.

On the morning after the ball I was told that she had not only broken

her promise, but that she had gone to supper later on with some of her

male friends.

I was angry because she had lied to me, and the thought of the

subsequent supper made me feel uneasy.

"Well," she replied, when I expostulated with her, "am I not free to

please myself?"

"No, you are a married woman! You bear my name, and we are responsible

to each other. Whenever you compromise yourself, you compromise me,

and, in fact, you do me a greater injury than you do yourself."

"That means that I am not free?"

"Nobody can be absolutely free in a community where every individual is

inextricably mixed up with the fate of others. Supposing I had invited

some women friends to supper, what would you have said?"

She insisted that she was free to do as she liked; that she was at

liberty, if she felt so inclined, to ruin my reputation; that her

freedom was, in fact, absolute. She was a savage; freedom, as she

interpreted it, was the rule of an autocrat who trampled the honour and

happiness of her fellow creatures into the dust.

This scene, which began with a quarrel, led to floods of tears and

ended with hysterics, was followed by another which made me feel even

more uneasy, more especially as I was not sufficiently initiated into

the secrets of sexual life to deal with its anomalies, which terrified

me, like all anomalies which are difficult of explanation.

One evening, when the maid was busy making up Marie's bed for the

night, I heard a half-suppressed scream and smothered laughter, as if

some one were being tickled. I felt a sudden fear; an inexplicable

terror and a wave of passionate anger swept over me; I opened the door

quickly and caught Marie, with her hands on the girl's shoulders, in

the act of pressing her lips upon her white throat.

"What are you doing," I exclaimed furiously, "are you mad?"

"I am only teasing her," answered Marie cynically. "What has that to do

with you?"

"It has everything to do with me! Come here!"

And under four eyes I explained to her the nature of her offence.

But she accused me of a vicious imagination, told me that I was

perverted and saw vice everywhere.

It is a fatal thing to catch a woman red-handed. She deluged me with

abuse.

In the course of the discussion I reminded her of the love she had

confessed to have felt for her cousin, pretty Matilda. With an

expression of angelic innocence she replied that she herself had been

amazed at the strength of her feelings, as she had never thought it

possible for one woman to be so deeply in love with another.

This naïve confession reassured me. I remembered that one evening, at

my brother-in-law's, Marie had quite openly spoken of her passionate

love for her cousin, without blushing, without being conscious that

there was anything at all unusual in her conduct.

But I was angry. I recommended her to beware of fancies which, though

harmless to begin with, degenerated only too often into vice and led to

disastrous results.

She made some inane reply, treated me like a fool--she loved treating

me as if I were the most ignorant of ignoramuses--and finished off by

saying that I had been telling her a pack of lies.

What was the use of explaining to her that offences of that sort were

legal offences? What was the use of trying to convince her that medical

books termed caresses calculated to arouse amorous feelings in others

"vicious"?

I, I was the debauchee, steeped in vice. Nothing could persuade her to

stop her innocent gambols.

She belonged to that class of unconscious criminals who should be

confined in a house of correction and not allowed to be at large.

Towards the end of the spring she introduced a new friend, one of her

colleagues, a woman of about thirty, a fellow sufferer, threatened,

like Marie herself, with the lapse of her contract, and therefore,

in my opinion, worthy of compassion. I was sorry to see this woman,

once a celebrated beauty, reduced to such straits. No one knew why her

contract was not to be renewed, unless it was because of the engagement

of the daughter of a famous actress; one triumph always demands

hecatombs of victims.

Nevertheless, I did not like her; she was self-assertive and always

gave me the impression of a woman on the look-out for prey. She

flattered me, tried to fascinate me, in order, no doubt, to take

advantage of me.

Jealous scenes took place occasionally between the old friend and the

new one, one abused the other, but I refused to take sides....

Before the summer was over Marie was expecting another baby. Her

confinement would take place in February. It came upon us like a bolt

from the blue. It was now necessary to strain every effort to make port

before the fatal day dawned.

My novel appeared in November. It was an enormous success. Money was

plentiful, we were saved!

I had reached the goal. I breathed freely. I had made my way; I was

appreciated at last and hailed with acclamations as a master. The years

of trouble and black care were over; we were looking forward to the

birth of this child with great joy. We christened it in anticipation

and bought Christmas presents for it. My wife was happy and proud of

her condition, and our intimate friends fell into the habit of asking

how "the little chap" was, just as if he had already arrived.

Famous now and content with my success, I determined to rehabilitate

Marie and save her ruined career. To achieve this I planned a play

in four acts, and offered it to the Royal Theatre. It contained a

sympathetic part in which she had every chance of reconquering the

public.

On the very day of her confinement I heard that the play was accepted

and that she had been cast for the principal part.

Everything was well in the best of all worlds; the broken tie between

me and my family was firmly reknitted by the birth of the baby. The

good time, the spring-time of my life had arrived. There was bread in

the house, and even wine. The mother, the beloved, the adored, was

taking new pleasure in life, and had regained all her former beauty.

The indifference and neglect with which she had treated her first baby

were transformed into the tenderest care for the newborn infant.

VI

Summer had come again. I was in a position to ask for a few months'

leave, which I purported spending with my--family in the solitude of

one of the green islands on the shores of the Stockholm Archipelago.

I was beginning to reap the harvest of my scientific researches. My

treatise was read by the Académie des Inscriptions et Belles Lettres

in the Institut de France. I was elected a member of several foreign

scientific societies, and the Imperial Russian Geographical Society

conferred its medal upon me.

At the age of thirty I had won an excellent position in the literary

and scientific world and a brilliant future lay before me. It was pure

happiness to lay my trophies at Marie's feet.... But she was angry with

me because I had "disturbed the equilibrium." I had to make myself

small to spare her the humiliation of having to look up to her husband.

Like the good-natured giant in the fable I allowed her to pull my

beard, and as a consequence she presumed on my good-nature. She took a

pleasure in belittling me before the servants and before her friends

who were on visiting terms with us, especially her women friends.

She gave herself airs; raised by me on a pedestal, she posed-as my

superior, and the more insignificant I pretended to be, the more she

trampled on me. I deliberately fostered in her the delusion that I

had to thank her for my fame, which she did not understand and which

she apparently thought little of. I took a positive delight in making

myself out to be inferior to her. I contented myself with being no

more than the husband of a charming woman, and eventually she came to

believe that she, and not I, possessed genius. This applied even to

the details of everyday life. Being an excellent swimmer myself, for

instance, I taught her to swim. In order to encourage her, I simulated

nervousness, and the pleasure she took in ridiculing my efforts

and talking of her own grand achievements was a constant source of

amusement to me.

The days passed; into the worship of my wife as mother a new thought

stole and began to haunt me persistently: I was married to a woman of

thirty--a critical age, the beginning of a period full of dangers and

pitfalls--I could see indications every now and then which made me feel

nervous, indications, perhaps not fraught with disaster for the moment,

but which carried in them the germ of discord.

After her confinement physical antagonism came to be added to

incompatibility of temper; sexual intercourse between us became odious.

When her passion was aroused, she behaved like a cynical coquette.

Sometimes she took a malicious delight in making me jealous; at other

times she let herself go to an alarming extent, possibly, I thought,

under pressure of licentious and perverse desires.

One morning we went out in a sailing boat, accompanied by a young

fisherman. I took charge of tiller and mainsail, while the lad was

attending to the foresail. My wife was sitting near him. The wind

dropped and silence reigned in the boat. All at once I noticed that

the young fisherman, from under his cap, was casting lewd glances in

the direction of my wife's feet.... Her feet? ... Perhaps there was

more to be seen; I could not tell from where I sat. I watched her. Her

passionate eyes devoured the young man's frame. In order to remind her

of my presence I made a sudden gesture, like a dreamer rousing himself

from a dream. She pulled herself together with an effort, and, her eyes

resting on the huge tops of his boots, she clumsily extricated herself

from an awkward position by remarking--

"I wonder whether boots of this sort are expensive?"

What was I to think of such a stupid remark?

To divert her mind from the voluptuous current of her thoughts, I made

the lad change places with me under some pretext or other.

I tried to forget this irritating scene; tried to persuade myself that

I had been mistaken, although similar scenes were stored up in my

memory, recollections of her burning eyes scrutinising the lines of my

body underneath my clothes.

* * * * *

A week later my suspicions were re-awakened by an incident which once

and for all destroyed all my hopes of ever seeing this perverse woman

realise my ideal of motherhood.

One of my friends spent a week-end with us. He made himself very

agreeable to her. She rewarded his courtesy by flirting with him

outrageously. It grew late; we said good-night to each other and

separated. I thought that she had gone to bed.

Half-an-hour later I heard voices on the balcony. I stepped out

quickly, and found wife and friend sitting together, drinking liqueurs.

I treated the matter as a joke, but on the following morning I

reproached her with making me a public laughing-stock.

She laughed, called me a man of prejudices, cursed with a fantastic and

vicious imagination ... in fact, deluged me with her whole repertory of

futile arguments.

I lost my temper; she had hysterics and played her part so well that I

apologised for doing her an injustice. Doing her an injustice--when I

considered her conduct absolutely culpable!

Her final words silenced me completely.

"Do you think," she said contemptuously, "I could bear to go through

divorce proceedings a second time?"

And brooding over my troubles I slept with the calm of the duped

husband.

What is a coquette?... A woman who makes advances. Coquetry is nothing

but making advances.

And what is jealousy?... The fear of losing one's most precious

possession.... The jealous husband? A ridiculous individual because of

his absurd objection to lose his most precious possession.

VII

Success followed success. All our debts were paid. It rained money.

But although a great proportion of my income went towards household

expenses, our financial position was chaos. Marie, who kept the

accounts and had the cash, was always clamouring for more money, and

her constant demands were the cause of violent scenes.

Her contract with the theatre was not renewed. It goes without saying

that I had to bear the consequences. It was all my fault!... If only

she had never married me!... The part which I had written for her was

forgotten; she had indeed completely ruined it, for she had bungled it,

and played it without the slightest conception of its subtleties.

About this time much interest was aroused in what has been called the

"woman question." The famous Norwegian male blue-stocking had written

a play on the subject, and all feeble minds were obsessed by a perfect

mania of finding oppressed women everywhere. I fought against those

foolish notions, and consequently was dubbed "mysogynist," an epithet

which has clung to me all my life.

A few home-truths on the occasion of our next quarrel threw Marie into

a violent fit of hysterics. It was just after the greatest discovery of

the nineteenth century in the treatment of neurotic diseases had been

made. The remedy was as simple as all great truths.

When the screams of the patient were at their loudest, I seized a

water-bottle and thundered the magic words--

"Get up, or I shall pour this water over you!"

She stopped screaming at once--and shot at me a look of sincere

admiration, mingled with deadly hatred.

For a moment I was taken aback, but my reawakened manhood would not be

denied....

Again I lifted the water-bottle--

"Stop your screaming, or I shall pour this water over you!"

She rose to her feet, called me a blackguard, a wretch, an

impostor--signs that my remedy had been effective.

Husbands, duped or otherwise, believe me, for I am your sincere friend:

this is the secret of the great cure for hysterics; remember it, maybe

the time will come when you need it.

* * * * *

From that day my death was irrevocably settled. My love began to detest

me. I knew too much of female cunning; there was no room for me in this

world. The sex had determined my physical and mental destruction, and

my own wife, as the avenging fury, had accepted the awful and difficult

mission of torturing me to death.

She began her task by introducing her friend into the house as a

tenant, persuading her to rent a furnished room contiguous to our

flat; she did that in spite of my most violent opposition. She went

to the length of suggesting that she should take her meals with us,

a proposition which I fought tooth and nail. But notwithstanding my

protest and all my precautions, I was constantly brought into contact

with the intruder. I could almost fancy that I was a bigamist. The

evenings which I should have spent in my wife's company I spent by

myself, for she remained invisible, closeted with her friend. They

enjoyed themselves in her room at my expense, smoking my cigarettes

and drinking my wine. I hated the woman, and since I could not hide my

feelings--at any rate not sufficiently--I many a time brought on my

head Marie's wrath for having been found wanting in courtesy towards

the "poor child."

Not satisfied with having estranged Marie from husband and child--the

baby was boarded out with a neighbour, a termagant of forty-five years

of age--the fair friend demoralised the cook; the consumption of beer

rose to the almost incredible quantity of five hundred bottles a month;

my cook sat in the kitchen intoxicated, fast asleep; the food was

wasted.

The fair friend was a _mangeuse d'hommes_, and I was her prey.

One day Marie showed me a cloak which she said she wanted to buy. I

disapproved the colour and cut, and advised her to choose another. The

friend, who happened to be present, kept it for herself, and I forgot

all about it. Two weeks later I received a bill for a cloak bought

by my wife. I inquired into the matter and found that Marie had lent

herself to a trick well known by the theatrical demi-monde.

As usual, she was furious with me when I asked her to break off her

connection with the adventuress....

And things grew worse and worse.

A few days later Marie, trying to work on my feelings, posing as the

submissive wife, asked me, quite humbly, whether I had any, objection

to her chaperoning the "poor child" on a visit to an old friend of

her late father's, whom she intended to ask for a loan. The request

struck me as so strange that it set me thinking, especially when I took

into account her friend's bad reputation. I implored Marie, for our

child's sake, to open her eyes, to rouse herself from the trance in

which she seemed to live, and which would surely end with her complete

ruin--her only reply was a repetition of her old phrase: "Your base

imagination...."

And still matters declined.

Her friend gave a luncheon for the secret purpose of beguiling on this

occasion a well-known actor into making her a proposal of marriage. A

fresh revelation awaited me, a revelation which effectually roused me

from my lethargy.

Champagne had been drunk, and the ladies had taken more than was good

for them. Marie was reclining in an arm-chair, and before her knelt her

friend, kissing her on the lips. The famous actor, interested in the

strange spectacle, called to one of his friends, and pointing at the

couple as if he were bringing proof of an accusation, exclaimed--

"Look here! D'you see?"

Doubtless he was alluding to certain rumours, and there was a hidden

meaning in the laughing words.

As soon as we arrived home, I implored Marie to shake off this fatal

infatuation and be more careful of her reputation. She made no secret

of the pleasure she found in kissing pretty women; her friend was not

the only one of her colleagues whom she treated in this way; at the

theatre, in the dressing-rooms she bestowed the same favour on others.

She had no intention of denying herself this pleasure, this innocent

pleasure, which in my perverted imagination only was vicious.

It was impossible to make her see her conduct in a different light;

there was but one remedy....

* * * * *

She was again going to be a mother; this time she was furious, but her

condition kept her at home for a time.

VIII

After her confinement she changed her tactics. Whether she was

influenced by fear of the consequences of her perverted passions, or

whether her female instincts had been reawakened, I cannot say. She

paid a great deal of attention to young men; but she did it too openly

to make me really, jealous.

Without an engagement, with nothing to occupy her time, full of whims,

despotic, she was bent on war with me to the knife.

One day she tried to prove to me that it was cheaper to keep three

servants than two. As I thought it waste of time to argue with a

lunatic, I simply turned her out of my room.

She swore vengeance. She engaged a third maid, who was absolutely

superfluous in the house. Consequently no work was done at all.

Everything was turned upside down, the three girls quarrelled all day

long, drank beer and entertained their lovers at my expense.

To complete the picture of my matrimonial happiness, one of my children

fell ill. This brought two more servants into the house and the visits

of two doctors. At the end of the month I had to face a deficit of five

hundred crowns. I redoubled my energies to meet the expenses, but the

strain on my nerves was beginning to tell.

She was for ever taunting me with having squandered her more than

doubtful dowry, and forced me to make an allowance to her aunt in

Copenhagen. This woman accused me of having wasted her "fortune," and

her incredibly silly arguments irritated me beyond endurance. She

affirmed that Marie's mother, on her deathbed, had distinctly expressed

the wish that she should share my wife's inheritance. I failed to see

what that had to do with me, for the "fortune" which she was to inherit

existed in imagination only; but the fact remained that the burden of

the aunt, who was lazy and incapable, was added to my other burdens.

I gave way in the matter; I even agreed to guarantee a sum of money,

raised by an older friend, adventuress number one, for my beloved wife

had hit on the idea of selling me her favour. I admitted everything

for the privilege of kissing her; I admitted having wasted her dowry,

squandered her aunt's "fortune," ruined her theatrical career by

marrying her, even having undermined her health.

Holy matrimony was degraded to legal prostitution.

She carefully treasured up all my admissions, and worked them into a

legend which the papers greedily snapped up later on, and which was

assiduously spread by all those of her friends whom I had turned out,

one after the other.

My ruin had become an obsession with her. At the end of the year

I found that I had given her twelve thousand crowns for household

expenses, and I was compelled to ask my publishers for a sum in advance.

Whenever I reproached her with her extravagance, she invariably

replied--

"Well, why have children and make your wife miserable? When I consider

that I gave up a splendid position to marry you...."

But I had an answer to that taunt--

"As Baroness, my dear, your husband gave you three thousand crowns and

debts. I give you three times as much, more than three times as much."

She said nothing, but she turned her back upon me, and in the evening

I admitted all her charges; I agreed that three thousand is three times

as much as ten thousand that I was a blackguard, a miser, a "bel ami,"

who had risen at the expense of his adored wife, adored more especially

in her nightgown.

She poured all her venom into the first chapter of a novel, the subject

of which was the exploitation of an oppressed wife by a criminal

husband. Through my writings, on the other hand, always glided the

white wraith of a lovely golden-haired woman, a madonna, a young

mother. I was for ever chanting her praises, creating a glorious myth

round the figure of the wondrous woman who by God's grace had been sent

to brighten the thorny path of a poet....

And the critics never tired of lauding the "good genius" of a

pessimistic novelist, of pouring on her full measures of entirely

undeserved praise....

The more I suffered under the persecutions of my shrew, the more

eagerly I strove to weave a crown of light for her sacred head. The

more I was depressed by the reality, the more I became inspired by my

hallucinations of her loveliness ... alas for the magic of love!

IX

MIDSUMMER IN WINTER

Winter night, the streets forsaken,

Ice-king holds the world in thrall;

Sudden gusts of wind awaken

Eerie sounds, the walls are shaken

By the wild, rebellious call.

Gay as gods we have been dining,

All alone, just you and I.

Light the candles, let their shining

Drive out darkness and repining,

Perfect joy is nigh.

Draw the blinds, the shutters tighten!

Safely screened from prying eyes,

Take the cup and pledge me! brighten

Winter-gloom with song, and lighten

Darkness with sweet harmonies.

Sing of woods, or sing the wonder

Of the sea, serene and bland;

Or the sea, that lashed asunder

Breaks in crashing peals of thunder

On the foam-flecked sand.

Like a great enchanted river,

Full of witchcraft is your voice;

See my pelargoniums quiver

Like a leafy wood a-shiver

In the breeze when daylight dies.

On my screen, her ensign flying,

Leaps a brig with white sails set;

Snugly on the hearthrug lying

Silky fur with sable vying,

Sleeps your Persian cat.

In the mirror's clear perspective

I can see our little home;

Wrapped in dreams, my introspective

Humour conjures up affective

Scenes of past joys, joys to come.

On the desk where I was writing

Falls the candle's mellow glow;

Falls on virgin sheets, exciting

Rose-warm blushes, softly lighting

Their unblemished snow.

In your chamber's sweet seclusion,

Hung with green, a vernal nook,

I can glimpse a wild confusion--

Tangled skeins in rank profusion

Cover work and household book.

In the glass our eyes are meeting;

Flashing blue, like tempered steel

Are your glances, but a fleeting

Smile from tender lips in greeting,

Tells me that your heart is leal.

Radiant brow, my soul entrancing,

Puts the candle-light to shame;

From your jewels flashing, dancing

Sparks are flying and enhancing

Long-lashed eyes' alluring flame.

Hush! the bell disturbs the slumber

Of the house--the postman's ring!

Let him be! His dreary lumber

Shall not darken and encumber

Love's eternal spring.

Letter-box holds proofs and letters

Safely under lock and key;

Sing and play! Till morn unfetters

These officious care-begetters

Love our guerdon be.

Sing, beloved, my soul's desire!

World holds, naught but you and me;

Sing with lips no love can tire,

Sing of passion's quenchless fire,

Fill the night with ecstasy!

X

There were times when I had no doubt that my wife hated me and wished

to get rid of me in order to marry again.

Sometimes strange reflections in the expression of her face made me

suspect her of having a lover, and her coldness towards me strengthened

my suspicion; all of a sudden my smouldering jealousy burst into fierce

flames, our marriage was shaken to its very foundations, and hell

opened wide at our feet.

My wife declared that she was ill, suffering from some vague disease of

the spine or the back, she was uncertain which.

I sent for the family doctor, an old college friend of mine. He

diagnosed rheumatic knots on the muscles of the back, and prescribed

a course of massage. I had no objection to make, for there seemed to

be no doubt of the reality of the disease. As I had no idea of the

intimate nature of the treatment, I remained completely absorbed in my

literary work, and paid no attention whatever to the progress of the

cure. My wife did not appear to be dangerously ill, for she came and

went as usual, visited the theatres, never refused an invitation, and

was always the last to leave a party.

One evening, at a small gathering of friends, some one suddenly began

to bewail the dearth of lady doctors. The speaker maintained that it

must be very unpleasant for a woman to undress before a stranger, and,

turning to Marie, he said--

"Am I not right? Isn't it very unpleasant?"

"Oh! a doctor doesn't count."

The nature of the treatment was revealed to me by a sudden flash. I

noticed an expression of sensuality on Marie's face, an expression

which had puzzled me for some time, and a terrible suspicion gripped

my heart. She undressed before a notorious voluptuary! And I had been

completely ignorant of it.

When we were alone, I asked her for an explanation.

She described the treatment, apparently quite unconcerned.

"But don't you mind?"

"Why should I mind?

"You always appeared to me almost prudish in your modesty."

Two days later the doctor called to see one of the children. Seated in

my room, I overheard a more than strange conversation between him and

my wife. They were laughing and whispering.

Presently they entered my room, the smile still on their lips. Plunged

in sinister speculations, my mind kept wandering from the subject of

our conversation; by and by it drifted to women patients.

"You thoroughly understand women's complaints, don't you, old boy?" I

said.

Marie looked at me. She was furious. There was so much hatred blazing

in her eyes that I felt a cold thrill running down my back.

When the doctor had left, she turned on me furiously.

"Prostitute!" I flung the word into her face. It escaped my lips

against my will, giving expression to an intuitive flash which I had

not had time to analyse. The insult came home to me and oppressed me.

My eyes fell on the children, and with a contrite heart I apologised.

But she remained angry, so angry that nothing would soften her.

To make amends for the great injustice which I had done her, and to

some extent, also, influenced by her hatred, I conceived the idea

of arranging for her a pleasure trip to Finland in the shape of a

theatrical tour, extending over several weeks.

I started negotiations with theatrical managers, succeeded in coming to

terms, and raised the money.

She went to Finland, where she won patriotic victories and a number of

laurel wreaths.

I was left alone with the children. I fell ill. Believing myself to

be on the point of death, I sent her a telegram, asking her to return

home. As she had fulfilled all her engagements, this did not interfere

with business.

On her return I was better; she accused me of having brought her back

on false pretences, telegraphed lies, merely to take her away from her

relations and her native country....

Soon after her return I noticed a new phase, a phase which filled me

with increased uneasiness. Contrary to her former habits, she gave

herself to me unreservedly.

What was the reason? I wondered, but I felt no inclination to probe too

deeply....

On the next morning and the days which followed she talked of nothing

but the pleasant time she had spent in Finland. Carried away for the

moment by her memories, she told me that she had made the acquaintance

of an engineer on the steamer, an enlightened, up-to-date man, who had

convinced her that there was no such thing as sin in the abstract,

and that circumstances and destiny alone were responsible for all

happenings.

"Certainly, my dear," I agreed, "but for all that our actions do not

fail to draw their consequences after them. I admit that there is no

such thing as sin, because there is no personal God; nevertheless we

are responsible to those we wrong. There may be no sin in the abstract,

but crime will exist as long as there is a Law. We may smile at the

theological conception of it, but vengeance or, rather, retribution,

remains a fact, and the aggressor never escapes."

She had grown grave, but pretended not to understand me.

"Only the wicked revenge themselves," she said at last.

"Agreed; but with so many wicked people in the world, who can be sure

that he is dealing with a man brave enough not to retaliate?"

"Fate guides our actions."

"True; but Fate also guides the dagger of the avenger."

* * * * *

... At the end of the month she had a miscarriage, sufficient proof, I

thought, of her infidelity. And from that moment suspicion grew slowly

into certainty and filled my heart with bitterness.

She did her utmost to persuade me that I was "mad," that my suspicions

were but the figments of an overworked brain. And once again she

forgave me. To mark our reconciliation I wrote a play containing a

splendid part for her, a part which it was impossible to ruin. On the

seventeenth of August I handed her the play together with the deed of

gift, which conferred on her all the rights. She could do with it what

she liked as long as she herself played the part which I had written

for her. It was the result of two months' strenuous work. She accepted

it without a word of thanks, a sacrifice due to Her Majesty, the

second-rate actress.

XI

Our housekeeping went from bad to worse. I was unable to interfere,

for she regarded every opinion expressed by me, every suggestion of a

change made by me, as an insult. I had to remain passive, powerless in

face of the wanton extravagance of the servants who wasted the food and

neglected the children.

There was nothing but misery, discomfort and quarrels. When she

returned from her journey to Finland, the expenses of which I had paid

in advance, she had two hundred crowns in her pocket, the financial

result of her performances.... Since she kept the cash I made a mental

note of the sum, and when she asked me for money, long before the date

on which it was due, I asked her, surprised by the unexpected demand,

what she had done with her money? She replied that she had lent it

to her friend, and argued that according to the law she was free to

dispose of all moneys earned by her.

"And I?" I replied.... Moreover, to withdraw housekeeping money is not

disposing....

"It's a different thing in the case of the woman!"

"In the case of the oppressed woman, you mean? In the case of the

female slave who permits the man to defray, the whole expenses of the

household? These are the logical consequences of the humbug called 'the

emancipation of woman.'"

Emile Augier's prophesies in the _Fourchambault_, with reference to the

dotal system have indeed been fulfilled. The husband has become the

slave of the wife. And there are plenty of men who allow themselves to

be deceived to such an extent that they dig their own graves. Fools!

While the misery of my married life slowly unfolded itself, as a ribbon

winds off a spool, I took advantage of my literary reputation to tilt

at foolish prejudice and attack antiquated superstitions. I wrote

a volume of satires. I threw a handful of pebbles at the principal

charlatans of the metropolis, not forgetting the sexless women.

I was at once denounced as a writer of pamphlets. Marie was strong in

her disapproval, and immediately made friends with the enemy. She was

respectability personified, and complained bitterly of the misery of

being tied to a scandalmonger! She lost sight of the fact that the

satirist was also a famous novelist and had made a name as a playwright.

She was a saint, a martyr. She deplored the dismal prospects of her

unhappy children. They would have to bear the consequences of the

dishonourable actions of a father who had squandered their mother's

dowry, ruined her theatrical career, ill-treated her....

One day a paragraph appeared in one of the papers stating that I

was insane; a brochure, written to order and paid for in cash,

spread abroad the martyrdom of Marie and her friends; not one of the

absurdities which her little brain had hatched was forgotten.

She had won the game.

And as she saw me go down before my enemies, she assumed the role

of the tender mother, weeping over the prodigal son. Amiable to all

the world, except to me, she drew all my friends over to her side,

false ones and true ones alike. Isolated, in the power of a vampire,

I abandoned all attempt at defence. Could I raise my hand against the

mother of my children, the woman whom I loved?

Never!

I succumbed. She surrounded me with kindness--abroad, at home she had

nothing for me but contempt and insults.

* * * * *

I was exhausted by overwork and misery; I suffered much from headaches,

nervous irritability, indigestion ... the doctor diagnosed catarrh of

the stomach.

It was a very unexpected result of mental strain.

It was strange that the illness did not break out until after I had

decided to go abroad, the only means of escape, so it seemed to me,

from the net woven round me by those countless friends who were

everlastingly condoling with my wife. The symptoms of this mysterious

malady first showed themselves on the day succeeding a visit to the

laboratory of an old friend, from where I had taken a bottle of

cyanide; it was to bring me release, and I had locked it in a piece of

furniture belonging to my wife.

Paralysed and depressed, I was lying on the sofa, watching my children

at play, thinking of the beautiful days that lay behind me, preparing

myself for death.

I determined to leave nothing in writing which could throw light on the

cause of my death and my sinister suspicions.

I was ready to make my exit, disappear from ken, killed by the woman

whom I forgave with my last breath.

Marie was watching me out of the corners of her eyes; wondering,

perhaps, how much longer I should linger on this earth, before I left

her to enjoy in peace the income which the collected works of the

famous writer would yield her, and the sum which doubtless Government

would grant her towards the education of the children.

She was a success in my play, so big a success that the critics called

her a great tragedienne. She almost burst with pride. She was allowed

to choose her next part; the result was a complete fiasco. Now she

could no longer deny the fact that it was I who had made her, that she

had to thank me for her laurels, and feeling herself in my debt, the

strength of her hatred increased. She besieged the various theatrical

managers, but could find no engagement. Eventually I was obliged to

reopen negotiations with Finland. I was willing to leave my country, my

friends, my publisher, to settle in the midst of her friends who were

my enemies. But Finland would have none of her. Her career was over.

During all this time she led the life of a woman free from all duties

as mother and wife. My health did not permit me to accompany her to the

artistic circles which she frequented, and consequently she went alone.

Sometimes she did not come home until early in the morning, very often

she was intoxicated and made sufficient noise to wake up the whole

house. I could hear her stumbling into the night nursery where she

slept.

What is a man to do in a case of this sort? Is he to denounce his own

wife? Impossible! Divorce her? No! I looked upon the family as an

organism, like the organism of a plant; a whole, of which I was a part.

I could not exist independently of it; without the mother, life seemed

impossible to me, even if I had had the custody of the children. My

heart's blood, transmitted through my wife, flowed through the veins of

their small bodies. The whole was like a system of arteries intimately

connected and interdependent. If a single one were cut, my life would

ebb away with the blood which trickled down and was sucked up by the

sand. For this reason the infidelity of the wife is a terrible crime.

One cannot help sympathising with the "Kill her!" of a well-known

author, who shows us a father stricken to death because he has come to

doubt the legitimacy of his offspring.

Marie, on the other hand, identified herself with the crazy endeavours

to increase women's rights and liberties, and fully endorsed the new

doctrine that the woman who deceives her husband is not guilty, because

she is not his property.

I could not degrade myself to spy on her, I did not want proof which

meant death to me. I wanted to deceive myself, live in a world of my

own, which I could create at my pleasure.

But I was deeply wounded. I doubted the legitimacy of my children; I

was haunted by the suspicion that although they bore my name and were

supported by my earnings, they were yet not my children. Nevertheless,

I loved them, for they had come into my life as a pledge of my future

existence. Deprived of the hope to live again in my children, I floated

in mid-air, like a poor phantom, breathing through roots which were not

my own.

Marie seemed to lose patience, because I lingered so long. It was true

before witnesses she treated me with the tender love of a mother, but

when no one was present she tortured me, just as the little acrobat is

pinched by his father behind the scenes. She tried to hasten my end by

cruelty. She invented a new torture; justifying her conduct with my

temporary weakness, she treated me as if I were a cripple. One day,

proudly boasting of her physical strength, she threatened to strike me.

She rushed at me, but I seized her by the wrists and forced her down on

the sofa.

"Admit that I am the stronger, in spite of my illness!"

She did not admit it; she merely looked disconcerted, and, furious at

having made a mistake, she left the room, sulking.

In our mutual struggle she had all the advantages of the woman and

actress. It was impossible for me, a hardworking man, to hold my own

against an idle woman who spent all her time spinning intrigues. In an

unequal struggle of this sort the man is certain to be caught in the

end in a net which enmeshes him on all sides.

"In love," said Napoleon, that most excellent judge of women, "one only

wins by flight." But how could a carefully guarded prisoner escape? and

as for a man sentenced to death....

* * * * *

My brain recovered after a rest, and I conceived a plan of escape from

this stronghold, although it was most carefully guarded by my wife and

the friends which she had so successfully duped. I used cunning; I

wrote a letter to the doctor in which I expressed a haunting dread of

insanity, and suggested a trip abroad as a remedy. The doctor fell in

with my suggestion, and I at once informed Marie of his opinion against

which there was no appeal.

"By doctor's orders!"

Her very formula when she had successfully dictated to the doctor the

treatment she wished him to prescribe for her.

She grew pale when she heard it.

"I don't want to leave my country!"

"Your country?... Finland's your country! And as far as I know, there

is nothing in Sweden which you could possibly miss; you have no

relations here, no friends, no career."

"I refuse to accompany you!"

"Why?"

She hesitated, and after a while continued--

"Because I'm afraid of you! I won't be left alone with you!"

"You are afraid of a lamb that you lead by the nose? You aren't

serious!"

"You are a knave, and I won't stay with you unprotected!"

I felt sure that she had a lover. Or else she was afraid of my

discovering her indiscretions.

So she was afraid of me, of me who crouched at her feet like a dog,

whose leonine mane she had clipped, leaving him but a fringe like a

horse's; who waxed his moustache and wore up and down collars, to be

better equipped for the struggle with dangerous rivals. Her fear of me

increased my dread and stimulated my suspicions.

"This woman has a lover whom she is loath to leave, or else she is

afraid of retribution," I said to myself.

After endless discussions she wheedled a promise out of me to stay away

no longer than a year.

The will to live returned, and I eagerly finished a volume of poems

which was to be published in the winter following my departure.

Summer in my heart, I sang with fresh inspiration. I sang of my beloved

wife as she appeared to me on the day of our first meeting, a blue veil

fluttering from her straw hat, a blue veil which became the flag which

I hoisted when I sailed into the stormy sea. One evening I read this

poem to a friend. Marie listened with profound attention. When I had

finished she burst into tears, put her arms round me and kissed me.

A perfect actress, she played before my friend the part of the loving

wife. And the simpleton regarded me from that day as a jealous fool

whom heaven had blessed with the sweetest of wives.

"She loves you, old boy," my friend assured me again and again. And

four years later he reminded me of the scene as a convincing proof of

her fidelity.

"I swear to you at that moment she was sincere," he reiterated.

Sincere in her remorse, perhaps! Face to face with my love which

transformed the wanton into a madonna. It was not very surprising.

XII

SUN-MISTS

He looked round anxiously to see if everything was there, as if it were

possible to see anything at all in that confusion of people and luggage

on the upper deck.

He felt guilty of an unknown crime, until the steamer had passed the

mill. He was dazzled by the blinding sun, the sea appeared to be

boundless, and the hazy blue mountains called him with irresistible

force. His eyes fell on the children's perambulator; the one painted

white with the blue cover, not the other one; he knew it so well,

there were little white milkspots on the blue cover. And over there

was the big arm-chair and the drawing-room sofa and the bath with the

flower-pots. How dusty the poor things looked, they had spent the

whole winter in a cloud of tobacco smoke; the pelargoniums used to

stand on the writing-table in the lamplight, in the early spring, when

the evenings were still long; the arm-chair stood to the right of the

writing-table, and whenever he looked up from his work, whenever the

restless pen stopped for a second, he received a friendly nod. But when

there was no one sitting in the arm-chair, his tired eyes travelled to

the cretonne flowers on the sofa; but there were so many eyes staring

into the room, and how the lamp flickered! Ah! it was the sun shining

on the upper deck! What was that over there? A pair of eyes familiar

last year--how dull they were! Had he been ill? No! They had not met

since last year; one never met in town, one was so busy there! One left

one's school and went home! The children had had measles.... It was

cold on deck, he had better go downstairs into the saloon.

There were the eyes again, staring at the sofa and the arm-chair. But

they looked happy, longing, yearning for something which must surely

happen.

He left his place and stepped forward to let the fresh breeze cool his

face. Smoke and the smell of food were rising from the kitchen. There

was the cook, taking a rest, trying to grow cool. And the large cabin!

The table-cloth was as white as it had been last year, the silver

epergne sparkled as before, the flowers on the sideboard were as new

and fresh, the lamps were swinging in their brass brackets; everything

was exactly as it had been before, and yet everything was new, thanks

to the ever-rejuvenating power of nature, thanks to spring!

And the shore glided past, a long, triumphant march past, now

threatening and sinister, now happy and smiling, but always new,

endowed with eternal youth.

He was the helpless sport of gloomy dreams; he was pressed in between

houses in narrow, dark streets; he was at the bottom of a well; he was

trying to creep through a tunnel and was held fast; bricks were being

heaped on his breast, when he was awakened by a loud knocking at the

window shutters. He jumped up, but the room was pitch dark; he opened

the shutters and a sea of light and green greeted his eyes. Oh, Nature!

Reality which surpasses all dreams!

Behold, you dreamer, your brain could never invent such a dream, and

yet you would talk of cold reality!

The morning sun was shining on an August landscape. He put a piece

of bread in his pocket, slung his drinking-cup across his shoulder,

took a stick and a basket and went out in search of sport--sport, not

bloodshed.

His path lay between oak trees and hazels; autumn flowers grew here,

flowers which had waited until after the passing of the scythe before

they appeared, so that they could enjoy life undisturbed until the

frost killed them. He crossed the stubble field, climbed over the

fence, and the sport began.

On the short, springy turf, woven of reed-grass and stunted mudwort,

the mushrooms lay scattered like new-laid eggs, waiting for the sun to

enable them to fulfil their destiny before they decayed; but that was

impossible now, since fate had decreed that they should die in their

youth.

He left the battlefield and entered the forest with its odour of

turpentine--health and sick-room--balm for the wounded breast, as the

saying is; he walked below the branches in a dead calm, while twenty

yards above his head the tempest shrieked. A woodcock flew up; the

branches rattled. If only he had a gun!

Why does a man long for a gun whenever he happens to come across a

harmless creature of the woods? There are many occasions in life when a

gun would be much more in its place.

Here was a cart track; the wheels of the cart, drawn by oxen, had cut

deeply into the turf; nevertheless, a red species of the poisonous

spit-devils had shot up in the ruts; maybe they required strake-nails

and kicks from the hoofs of oxen before they could enter into material

existence.

The wood opened out and the path ceased at a place where many trees had

been felled; before him lay what remained of the giants of the forest,

cut down by the axe because it had been impossible to dig them-up with

the roots. He gazed at a huge stump which had been attacked by a host

of fungi of all sizes; they had settled on it as a swarm of flies

settles on carrion, but their crowd was densest round the decayed

parts which they could overcome more easily; they looked starved,

pale and bloodless; they were neither pretty nor poisonous, like the

spit-devils; they were merely useful.

Denser and darker grew the wood; the Scotch firs mingled their branches

with the moss which covered the ground, embraced the stones and built

cool little huts for the yellow merulius which grew embedded in the

moss and enjoyed a short life, protected alike from scorching sun and

preying insects.

The ground became damp; the bog-myrtle, in times gone by highly

valued and eagerly gathered on account of its medicinal qualities,

grew undisturbed between tiny hillocks, at the foot of degenerated

grey pines which had died of superabundance. A woodpecker hammered

high above and stopped every now and then to listen whether the sound

betrayed a hollow. The sun's rays were scorching; the ground became

stony, the wood opened again; he could hear a low, muffled roar; fresh

breezes, laden with the smell of oysters, cooled his face; he caught

glimpses of a shining blue expanse through the lower branches of the

Scotch firs.

A few more steps up the incline--and before him lay the sea--the sea!

The waves leaped up the cliffs and were thrown down again, only to

begin their game afresh.

Off with the clothes and down into the deep! What was it that he saw

down there for the space of a moment? A different world, where the

trees were red like seaweed and the air emerald green like the waves;

now he was again on the surface amid the bellowing, fighting breakers;

he fought with them until he was tired; he lay on his back and floated;

they threw him up sky-high, they dragged him down into dark chasms, as

if they meant to throw him into the abyss; he ceased to wish, he ceased

to will; he made no resistance; his body had lost all weight; the law

of gravity no longer applied to him; he floated between water and

air--in absolute calm, devoid of all sensation.

He let the waves carry him to the shore, the shallow, sandy shore,

where it formed a lumber-room between the rocks for the sea's

collection of all things it could not devour; here they lay, sorted,

washed and polished; broken oars, a legion of corks, bark, reed-pipes,

staves and hoops. He sat down and stared at a broken plank.

* * * * *

They had been shut up in the house for a week, for it was raining. He

had established himself in the window-seat, for one of the panes was

all colours with age and sunlight, and when he looked through it at the

grey, cloud-covered expanse of water, the sun seemed to be shining;

the grey reefs, where the seagulls nested, looked red, the air was

flooded with gold, the trees were of a brilliant emerald green; and if

he looked through the window-pane at a certain angle he could see a

rainbow in the sky, and that kindled in him the hope of fine weather.

Far away, out in the sea, there was a small island, an island which

looked less profaned than the other islands; the Scotch firs grew more

closely together; the cliffs were greener and the shore was covered

with reeds. His soul yearned for it, for from there he could see the

open sea.

And the sun shone again. He set sail and steered for the little island.

The boat danced over the rolling waves, the channel broadened; far away

the green island called him; it swam nearer steadily, until at last the

boat was moored among the whispering reeds and he landed.

His dream had been realised; he was alone among the trees and reefs,

with the sea before him and the infinite blue sky above his head. No

sound betrayed the disturbing vicinity of a human being, no sail on the

horizon, no cottage on the shore. A solitary oyster-plover flew away

from him, terrified, uttering its impotent: help! help! A family of

creek-ducks, led by the mother, scudded away, running on the water,

frightened by the arrival of dread man; a grey adder uncurled and made

good its escape, slipping away between the stones, like a tiny, winding

brooklet. The seagulls came flying from the reefs to have a look at the

intruder, screamed like little children and hurried away again. A crow

rose from a large Scotch fir; it fluttered and beat its wings, screamed

and threatened and groaned and escaped to outlying reefs; every living

thing shunned the dreaded being who had fled from his own kind.

He walked along the sandy shore; he came upon the skeleton of a

pine-tree, washed by the sea and bleached by the sun to a deadly

pallor; it lay there like a skeleton of a dragon and between its ribs

flowered the purple lythrum and the golden lysimachia; little piles of

shells lay heaped round the wild aster which lived its life on empty

sepulchres; the air was laden with the scent of valerian which grew in

profusion on a bed of evil-smelling seaweed.

He left the shore and turned his footsteps towards the wood. How tall

and straight the trees were, a little too straight perhaps, but he

could see the sea through the trunks, the sea--solitude--nature! The

ground was as smooth as if it had been stamped down and flattened by

human feet; here was the stump of a tree--the axe had been here; over

there a nettle grew, men had been here; there could be no mistake, for

the nettle is a parasite which follows in the wake of man and never

ventures into the solitude of the woods or the large stretches of

meadow-land; the nettle is vermin, supported by man, and can only exist

in the vicinity of man; it collects all dust and dirt on its hairy,

sticky leaves and burns the finger which touches it,--a magnificent

breed, nourished by sin.

He went on. His eyes fell on a sparrow, the denizen of the gutter

and backyard--the winged creature which feels at home in the dust,

bathes in dirt and should have been a rat since it makes no use of its

wings--man's jackal. What was it doing out here where there were no

men? What did it live on? On the seed of the nettle?

A few more steps and he found the sole of a shoe; a large foot, a foot

deformed by hard work, had trodden heavily on this sole. Between the

trunks he came upon a fire-place made of boulders, an altar perhaps,

on which Nature's conqueror had sacrificed to Strength. The fire had

long been extinct, but the effects of it were still visible. The ground

was dug up as if by the hoofs of animals, the trees were stripped of

their bark, even the rocks were broken; there was a gigantic well in

the mountain, filled with dirty brown water; the bowels of the earth

had been laid bare and the broken pieces scattered as if by naughty

children, disappointed because they had not found what they sought. But

a great piece of mountain was missing. It had been taken away with a

feldspar to the china factory, and only when there was no more to be

got, man had stayed away.

He fled from the devastation, down to his boat. He noticed the traces

of footsteps on the sand. He cursed and turned to fly when he suddenly

saw in a flash that he had been cursing himself; and all at once he

understood why the seagulls and the adder and all the others had

shunned him, and he retraced his footsteps, for he could not escape

from himself.

He gazed at the sea through his field-glasses in the direction whence

he had come. A white dress and a blue cover shone among the oak-trees.

He climbed into the boat, ate his bread, drank a liqueur and muttered,

seizing the oars--

"You, whose every desire has been fulfilled, who possess the best of

all things Life has to bestow, why are you discontent?"

XIII

At last the house had been cleansed of her friends. The last one, the

pretty one, had disappeared in the company of a well-known professor,

who had returned from an expedition with four orders and an assured

position. Having no home of her own, the fair lady had lived in my

house, cost free. She had seized the opportunity, fastened herself on

to the poor fellow and seduced him one evening in a cab, where, for

some reason or other, she found herself with him; she forced him into

marrying her by making a scandalous scene in a third house, to which

they had both been invited. As soon as she felt sure of her position

she dropped the mask, and at a party, under the influence of too much

wine, she called Marie a degenerate. A colleague, who happened to hear

the remark, thought it his duty to tell me at once.

Marie, with a few words, proved that the accusation was unjust, and in

future my door was closed to the lady, although this meant the loss of

my old friend for ever.

I was not sufficiently curious to go more deeply into the meaning of

the word "degenerate," but it left its sting in my bleeding flesh. New

insults, uttered by the same impure lips, referred to the suspicious

life Marie had led during her tour in Finland. My old suspicions arose

with fresh vigor, her miscarriage, our conversation on destiny, her

complete surrender.... All these things strengthened my intention to

leave the country.

Marie had discovered the use of a sick poet, and constituted herself

sister of mercy, sick-nurse, keeper even, if a keeper was required.

She wove a martyr's crown for her own head, acted with absolute

independence behind my back, and, as I discovered later on, went so

far as to borrow money from my friends in my name. At the same time

valuable pieces of furniture disappeared from our house, and were

carted to adventuress No. I, to be sold by the letter.

All this aroused my attention.

"Had Marie expenses of which I was ignorant?" I often asked myself

this question. Was this the cause of those secret sales? The cause of

the enormous housekeeping expenditure? And if this was the cause, what

was the object of them? I enjoyed the income of a Swedish minister of

State, a larger income than that of a Swedish general, and yet I led

a miserable life; it was as if my feet were fettered, as if I were

dragging a leaden weight with me wherever I went. And yet we lived very

simply. Our table was the table of a labourer; the food was cooked so

badly that it was at times uneatable. We drank beer or brandy, like

a working-man; our cellar was so inferior that our friends upbraided

us more than once. I smoked nothing but--a pipe. I had hardly any

recreation, only very occasionally, about once a month, I spent an

evening with friends.

Once only, beside myself with anger, I determined to look into the

matter. I asked an experienced lady for advice. She laughed when I

asked her whether our household expenses were not rather, high, and

told me that we must be mad.

I had every reason therefore to believe in extraordinary and secret

expenditure. But the object? the object?

Relations? friends? lovers? Nobody cares to enlighten a husband, and so

everybody becomes an accessory in crime....

* * * * *

After endless preparations the date of our departure was fixed. But

now a new difficulty arose, a difficulty which I had long forseen and

which was accompanied by a series of unpleasant scenes. The dog was

still alive! How much annoyance it had caused me already! especially as

so much attention was devoted to him that the children were habitually

neglected.

However, the day had dawned when to my inexpressible joy Marie's idol

and my evil genius, old, diseased, half-rotten, was to end its days;

Marie herself now desired the animal's death, and only the thought

of the innocent pleasure which its disappearance would cause me led

her to postpone the "dog-question" again and again, and invent fresh

annoyances to make me pay for the longed-for relief.

But at last a farewell feast was arranged. She made heart-rending

scenes, had a fowl killed, of which I, still a semi-invalid, received

the bones, and then--we were in the country at the time--she went to

town, taking the dog with her.

After two days' absence she announced her return in a few cold words.

What else could a murderer expect? Full of happiness, freed of a

burden which I had borne for six years, I went to the landing-stage to

meet her, expecting to find her alone. She received me as if I were a

poisoner, her eyes were suffused with tears, and when I approached to

kiss her, she pushed me aside. Carrying in her arms a large parcel of

extraordinary shape, she walked on, slowly, as if she were walking in

a funeral procession, with a certain rhythm as if to the strains of a

funeral march.

The parcel held the corpse! The funeral ceremony had been reserved

for me! She ordered a coffin and sent for two men to dig a grave.

Although determined to have nothing to do with the matter, I was

compelled to be present at the obsequies of the murdered innocent. It

was most touching. Marie collected her thoughts and then prayed to

God for the victim and its slayer. Amid the laughter of the onlookers

she placed a cross on the grave, the cross of the Saviour who had--at

last--delivered me from a monster, innocent itself, but yet terrible as

the embodiment and instrument of the malice of a woman who lacked the

courage to persecute her husband openly.

After a few days' mourning, during which she refused to have anything

to say to me--for she could have nothing to say to a murderer--we left

for Paris.