BERLIN, November 20.
Dear Gustav--I have some news to tell you to-day which will certainly
surprise you. I have separated from my wife, or rather we have
separated from each other. We have come to an amicable agreement
henceforth to live entirely independent of each other. My wife has gone
to her family in Freiburg, where she will no doubt remain. I am for
the present in our old house; perhaps in the spring I may look for a
smaller house--perhaps not, for I can hardly hope to find so quiet a
workroom as I now have, and the idea of moving appals me, especially
when I think of my large library. You will, of course, want to know
what has happened, though, to tell the truth, nothing has happened.
The world will seek for all possible and impossible reasons why two
people who married for love and who have for eleven years lived what
is called happily together should now have decided to part. Yes, this
world which thinks itself so wise, but whose judgments are nevertheless
so petty, so superficial, will doubtless be of the opinion that there
is something hidden--will include this case too in one of the two great
categories prepared for such affairs, because it can not conceive of
the fact that life in its inexhaustible variety never repeats itself
and that the same circumstances may assume different aspects according
to the character and disposition of those interested. I need not tell
you this, my dear Gustav. You will understand how two finely organized
natures should rebel against a tie which binds them together after they
have once become fully convinced that in all matters of real importance
a mutual understanding was impossible.
My wife and I are too unlike. Between her views of life and mine there
yawns an impassable gulf. The first few years I hoped to influence
her, to win her to my ways of thinking--she seemed so docile, so
yielding, took so warm an interest in my work, so willingly allowed
herself to be taught by me. Not till after our children’s death did
she begin to change. Her grief at this loss--a grief which neither of
us has ever been able to live down--matured her, made her independent
of me. A tendency to morbid introspection took possession of her,
and gave increased tenacity to those ideas and convictions which my
influence had hitherto held in check, though not wholly eradicated. She
plunged deeper and deeper into those mists of sentimentally fantastic
imaginings, passionately demanding my concurrence in her views. She
lost all interest in my professional work, evidently regarding the
results of my researches in natural science as troops from an enemy’s
camp. At last there was hardly a subject in the wide realm of nature
and human existence on which we agreed. To be sure we never came to
an open quarrel, but the breach between us was constantly widening.
Every day we saw more and more plainly that though we lived side by
side, we no longer belonged to each other. This discovery irritated
and distressed us, and at last forced all other feelings into the
background. If we had not once loved each other so dearly, or even
if we had now ceased to feel a mutual respect, this state of affairs
might perhaps have lasted for years, but our ideas of the true meaning
of marriage were too lofty, our sense of our own dignity as human
beings too profound to permit us to be content with so incomplete a
realization of our ideals. I hardly know who spoke first, but our
resolution was at once taken, and the decisive words uttered as calmly
and naturally as the overripe fruit falls from the tree. For the first
time in many years we were able with perfect unanimity of sentiment
to discuss a subject of the greatest importance to us both, and this
fact alone soothed our overwrought nerves. We parted yesterday with the
utmost decorum, without a word of reproach, a note of discord. Memories
of our early married life, of the long years we had lived together,
made it difficult to refrain from some manifestation of tenderness, and
I assure you that I never felt greater respect for my wife than at the
moment when, all petty considerations cast aside, the true magnanimity
of her nature asserted itself. Her manner, what she said, and also what
she did not say, robbed the situation of all trace of the commonplace,
and gave it dignity. Deeply moved, almost in tears, we clasped hands in
farewell, so we may look back upon the closing scene of our wedded life
with unalloyed satisfaction.
I had already, with her consent, referred all business details to our
lawyers, for we were not even to communicate with each other by letter.
Life must begin again for both of us, and already I breathe more
freely. The Rubicon is passed. I believe that you will congratulate me.