into the light of glory I cannot say. I should like to believe that a
great tragedy, public or private, might have called forth some act of
sublime devotion on their part, and made them illustrious in history.
But I will not conceal that nothing in their speech or actions ever
authorized such a hope.
I speak of them because I met them on my path in life. I found it
entertaining to observe them as curious specimens of the class of human
beings whose passive mentality is close to that of beasts of burden, and
who yet are fairly remarkably individualized in the deep recesses of
their inner life. Cattle have, without any doubt, ideas at the back of
their heads, as is proved when we see the drove by tacit agreement
divide among themselves the task of watching all points of the horizon,
while with half-shut eyes they ruminate in the fields where nothing now
threatens them--which performance is a reminder of the days when the
great carnivorous enemies might at any time unexpectedly come down upon
them. Still, they know but one law, the goad that drives them to the
plow or to the shambles. Bovine man taking his part, with or without
reflection, in a more complex life, develops, in addition, despite the
weight of his mental inertia, a considerable capacity for emotion, for
personal activity outside of the rules of action imposed upon him by
society, whether through its laws or its customs.
The two linen drapers of Caen, seen in the street, had the commonplace
appearance of the millions who make up the ordinary stock of humanity,
which is, in fact, what they represented. The chief trouble with
professional psychologists is that, the better to classify them, they
insist that men are all alike. It is not surprising that salient points
in character should be the first to strike the observer. The deep-seated
traits of "indeterminate" personalities are, however, worthy of
analysis, being, by the way of hereditary combinations, the productive
source of characterized energies.
Who will not have concluded from the social passivity of this couple,
stupefied with "linen," that a corresponding somnolence prevailed among
their inward activities? Yet these two amorphous creatures, who had
unresistingly taken the imprint of surrounding wills, lived a life of
their own, remote from the public eye, and felt seething in the depth of
their being intense, at times even violent, passions, which made both
the charm and the torment of their days.
Buying and selling linen had become like a physiological function of
their organs. Eating, drinking, sleeping, and dealing in linen, were all
on the same level in their minds. Both man and wife instinctively loved
money, "because one needs it in order to be honest," they used to say,
"honesty," to them, meaning keeping out of prison--but neither had even
the moderate initiative which would have increased their chances of
becoming rich. After reaching a medium degree of success in their
business, they stood still, evenly balanced between indifference and
cupidity. Outside of laws and customs, the opinion of the trade kept
them straight, like a steel corset. They went to church because "it is
customary." They even gave to the poor if someone were looking, as do so
many other charitable Christians. Then, when the doors were closed, and
their "young ladies" safely bestowed in the Convent of Mercy, where they
had been placed for the sake of "fine connections, useful in the
future," they could finally devote themselves to each other.
I said that they were neither good nor bad, meaning that they were as
incapable of useless malice as of disinterestedness. But the fact that a
moral tendency is not expressed in action does not make the tendency any
better. In deference to the requirements of law and "social propriety"
the pair lived indissolubly united. There was no breaking of marriage
vows. The model wife was really a figure too far from esthetic to
inspire a temptation of a guilty thought in even the most abandoned of
men. Besides, all her activities were centred, conformably with the
precepts of the Church and the Code, upon her "legitimate spouse." As
for the faithful husband, he at all times abstained from "sin," whether
temporary or permanent, for the peremptory reason that the "crime" was
forbidden by law, as well as doctrinally "condemned by morality." Thus
held in check by external barriers, there remained for two souls so
virtuous nothing but to be absorbed in each other, and to seek in the
intimate contact of their respective susceptibilities the satisfaction
of an ideal compatible with their natures. This satisfaction was not
denied them. It was not to be found in love. They found it in a
powerfully concentrated hatred. When it is the dominant emotion of a
life, execration, in a heart convulsed with impotence, may afford the
full amount of violent sensation by which an inferior order of humanity
is reduced to replacing the joys of love.
Husband and wife hated each other voluptuously, hated each other with a
crafty ferocity always on the alert to inflict more exquisite wounds.
And for what reason? They had perhaps never attempted to disentangle it.
A mutual disgust had come upon them in the very first days of their
marriage, upon discovering the double deception of the non-existent
marriage portions. Later on, it is true, they both resorted to identical
methods for decoying sons-in-law; they had none the less taken pleasure,
from the beginning, in secretly calling each other thieves. As,
furthermore, each had a very lively sense of the other's inferiority,
they mutually despised each other for the conspicuous inertia which
succeeded only in holding its own in the business, by the balance of
irresolution in their will.
If they could have found the courage occasionally to discharge the
overflow of wrath that gathered in the depths of their mean souls! But
the effort involved with giving free course to the mounting flood of a
repressed detestation was outside of their possibilities. All they had
capacity for was silently forcing back the desire to insult which
contorted their lips, thus aggravating the repressed rage whose seething
constituted the bitter zest of life. A passion too mighty for their
weakness, impotent to control it.
Unable to expend in speech the accumulating strength of their hatred,
they found in secret acts of aggression the only remaining outlet. How
much more satisfying than idle words was the joy of injuring each
other--outside of business, of course. When thus employed, they knew
what the object was of their living! They felt in those moments the
power of the bond that united them in the only passion for the
satisfaction of which they were necessary to each other.
The details of the petty warfare with which they opened hostilities
would fill a volume. There was, at the beginning, a series of light
skirmishes in which the first thrusts might have seemed due to chance,
had not the one who received them recognized them as hurts he would
have liked to deal. The kitchen furnished excellent occasions for
feminine attack. Too much salt or pepper, tainted meat, cold soups, were
common occurrences during the early days. It would happen on this
particular day that Madame was not hungry, while Monsieur had a good
appetite owing to the more than frugal preceding meal. Monsieur was not,
however, defenceless. Madame had a "delicate chest," and dreaded
draughts above everything. But she was obliged to get used to them and
resign herself to coughing, for by incredible ill luck there was always
a door that would not close, or a broken window pane, which obliged her
to live in a perpetual whirlwind. To balance matters, when caught in a
shower, Monsieur would find his umbrella broken and come home chilled
through. Each cared to excel in the game. They invented a thousand
complicated traps requiring careful preparation. One night, Madame,
alone in bed, had her legs scalded by the stopper suddenly coming out of
the hot water bottle. Monsieur regretted the "accident," for he had to
do double work in the shop while Madame uncomplainingly awaited
recovery. A short time after, Monsieur, jumping out of bed, cut his foot
on a piece of glass. It was his turn to limp.
So they continued, vying with each other, and increasing in efficiency.
Madame seemed to have a weakness for the elder of her two daughters.
Monsieur preferred the younger. A fine battlefield, where each could
stab the other through the innocent victim. The two marriages afforded
occasions for subtle persecution, which ended in the common regret of
feeling so good a weapon slip from the tormentors' hand.
Left alone, face to face, the two, having exhausted their whole arsenal
of perfidy, stared at each other in the stupor of a paroxysm of hatred
that made them powerless to renew their warfare. What was to be done?
Something must be thought of. Madame was the first to hit upon it.
Monsieur, suddenly taken with a violent colic, passed in one night from
life to death. At the last moment he had a suspicion. A smell of matches
was exhaled from the decoction he had been taking. He blew out the
candle, and saw phosphorescence in the glass. In the same moment death
throes convulsed him with excruciating pain. He could only point out to
his wife the damning evidence, with a single word, accompanied by
hideous laughter.
"The guillotine! the guillotine!"
He died repeating it. Mad with terror, Madame fainted. She never
regained consciousness. The terrifying name of the engine of death
fluttered on her lips with her last breath.
The tragic beauty of this ending excited the admiration of the entire
town.
"How they loved each other!" people said. "Such a well-assorted
couple!"
XXIII
LOVERS IN FLORENCE
The question of love and marriage has manifestly the most obsessing
interest for humankind. Presumably dissatisfied with the actual
experiences of life, men, women, old people and young, seek in fiction,
in dreams, the unattainable or the unattained. Life passes. Those among
us who, on the brink of the grave, question themselves honestly,
recognize that more chances of happiness were offered them than they,
fickle or wavering, made shift to grasp.
Our excellent ancestors of the "lower" animal order have a fixed period
for the joys of love, and even in monogamy, as I demonstrated in the
story of my pigeons, do not pride themselves upon a "virtue" beyond
their power. The chief feature of the "higher perfection" to which we
aspire, in word if not in deed, seems to be that we are condemned by it
to an hypocrisy born of discrepancy between the ideal and our ability to
realize it. Marriage, when considered aside from its doctrinal aspect,
is found to be a fairly effectual pledge against the straying of the
imagination which is the forerunner of human weakness. To protect the
weak, that is to say the woman and child, against the caprice of the
strong, is assuredly the duty of society. But who will claim that
marriage, as the law has instituted it, and as custom practises it,
performs that office, and does not oftener than not result in the
triumph, whether just or unjust, of man? Have we not heard, in the
discussion of the divorce law, one of the chiefs of the "advanced" party
lending his eloquence to the furtherance of the doctrine of indissoluble
marriage, while a famous radical argued that there was no equality
between the adultery of the husband and that of the wife, when viewed as
a conjugal misdemeanour justifying final separation?
The mistake lies in regarding as immutable, and acting upon it as such,
a thing that is, in fact, the most unstable and variable in the world,
viz.: the human being, in perpetual process of change. To ensure the
durability of a union for that lightning flash which we pompously term
"all time," the parallel development of two beings would be necessary,
two beings whom differing heredities in most cases predispose to the
most fatal divergences. One must admit that the chance of it is small.
I discussed this topic, only a few days ago, with a charming woman, made
famous throughout Europe by her art, who has with the greatest dignity
practiced that free bounteousness of self which men audaciously claim as
their exclusive prerogative. She ingenuously maintained that the act
which men consider of no consequence when practised by themselves has no
importance either in the case of woman, except in the event of
maternity.
"And," she said, "men take advantage of this iniquitous law of nature,
adding to it a corresponding social injustice which leaves us no choice
except between 'honour' and liberty. Fortunately life is mightier than
words, and women who are not by nature slaves will always have the
resource that masculine vanity has so foolishly made attractive by
making of it forbidden fruit."
"You assert, then," I suggested with a certain timidity, "that all women
worthy of the name either do or should deceive their husbands?"
"Oh, my assertion is merely that most women if deceived by their
husbands have the right to give back what they get. As for those who are
unfaithful to a faithful husband, I see no reason for your refusing them
the initiative you grant to the man who goes out on pleasure bent while
his chaste wife sits at home spinning her wool, and wiping her
children's noses."
"That is practically what I said; that any woman with self-respect----"
"--has the same rights as the man without self-respect----"
"--and should use them----?"
"--and may use them to suit herself without the least shadow of
remorse."
"Complete liberty, then, for each to be unfaithful to the other."
"Proclaim this maxim or not, the world has not waited for you to
formulate it before putting it into practice."
"You think, then, that in reality most women are unfaithful to their
husbands?"
"I think that in reality most men are unfaithful to their wives--and
their mistresses, too, as soon as the wife or mistress expects anything
from duty, even though unwritten duty, instead of the free attraction of
sentiment or of the flesh. I believe that most women who are unfaithful
to their husbands are unfaithful to their lovers under the same
circumstances, that is to say as soon as the lover imposes himself by
the rights of--morally--a husband, if the combination of words is
admissible. Worse than that! As fast as odious habit changes lover into
husband, and mistress into wife, the actual husband, who was the lover
in the first days of marriage, and the actual wife, who was the
legitimatized mistress upon leaving the church door, regain the
ascendency."
"Too late."
"Not always. Stop and think. Women more or less deceive their lovers
with their husbands. That is classic in happy homes."
"So one hears. But how can one be sure?"
"How many cases I might quote to bear me out! Shall I tell you a case I
have recently known?"
"Pray do."
"Very well. Last month in an Italian city----"
"Florence, naturally, I notice that you frequently go there."
"Yes, Florence. A friend of mine, a painter, went there to live three
years ago, with his wife, a woman who would not perhaps be called
beautiful, but who is really full of charm and grace. When my travels
bring me in their neighbourhood I never miss an occasion to see them,
for we are very old friends. He and I, you see, were young together for
six months. He tells me everything, and I tell him many things. Philip,
we will call him that, if you like, made a love match which, as it
happened, was excellent from a worldly standpoint, too. They were the
most utterly devoted couple for nearly four years. That is a long while.
Eighteen months ago, on one of those journeys to Florence which you have
noticed, I easily detected that Philip's wife had a lover. A young
fellow, an Italian noble with a great name and a slender purse,
beautiful as a young wild animal crouching for game--well dressed,
though not as quietly as could be, with a pretty talent for sculpture,
which he had the good sense never to mention. Their art had brought the
two men together, and Alice--we will take the chances of calling
Philip's wife by that name--had, I do not know exactly how, come under a
new attraction, the strength of which increased as time, through the
monotony of habit, blunted the formerly supreme charm of her husband.
"On his side, Philip had gradually returned to studio 'affairs,' giving
as an excuse his research after forms, attitudes, and colours, during
that relaxing of the body which follows the strain of the model's pose,
and is like life after death. He confessed all this to me without
reserve, obviously satisfied that his wife, whose 'angelic sweetness'
and 'tact' he could not sufficiently praise--was willing to leave him a
free field for his fancies.
"'I still love her!' he said, in all sincerity. 'But I have to think of
my painting, do I not?'
"Giovanni, naturally, had a great admiration for Philip's talent, and
made no secret of it. As for Alice, she regarded her husband as nothing
less than a genius. When Philip was dissatisfied with his work he was
frankly unbearable. He indulged in grumbling and complaining and bursts
of anger, followed by long periods of depression. If, on the other hand,
he had succeeded in satisfying himself, it was worse still, for then one
had to endure the recital of the entire performance, down to the least
trifling detail of composition or execution. At first one might listen
with pleasure, or at least benevolence. But the wearisome repetition
from morning until night finally became tedious, even exasperating, when
Philip, with a childish insistence, invited replies, denials, the better
to confound his opponent. The docile Giovanni and the sincerely
admiring Alice lent themselves resignedly to these gymnastic exercises
of patience, but when days and days had been spent in the occupation,
both, exhausted by their efforts, must have longed in body and soul for
a distraction more or less in accordance with current social customs. As
might have been expected, they found it in each other, and from that
moment peace descended upon the happy home.
"When I discovered the affair between Alice and Giovanni in the course
of a visit to Fiesole, where I came upon them suddenly in such a state
of blind absorption that they did not even raise their eyes at the sound
of my footsteps, I judged that passion was at flood tide. They did not
even trouble to conceal themselves, so that had I not been careful, I
should not have escaped the annoyance of an encounter, the revelations
of which could hardly have been blinked. I took the course of going
often to see Philip at his studio, where he had an important piece of
work under way, and I was able to leave town without disturbing the
happy quietude of all concerned.
"On my return the following year it seemed to me at first that nothing
had changed in the arrangement of which I had the secret. Still, Philip
seemed to me less absorbed in his art. I often caught him with his eyes
obstinately fixed upon his wife, who, while avoiding them, seemed
troubled by the obsession of his gaze. Did he suspect something? I did
not long entertain this idea, for he talked to me with such warmth
about Alice, that I could not restrain an exclamation of surprise.
"'God forgive me, Philip,' I cried. 'You are in love! And with your
wife! What has happened?'
"'Nothing' he said. 'I have never ceased to love her.'
"And one confidence leading to another, I learned that a flirtation by
every rule was going on between the two. For a year they had been living
in separate apartments. At first the doors had been on the latch, but
later they had definitely been locked. One day, for no particular
reason, Philip had wondered why, and found no answer. Alice, when
questioned, had had nothing to say, but 'Not now--later,' which could
not fill the function of reasons. That another should have won the heart
which belonged to him could never have occurred to Philip. But as his
mind and senses became insistent, sentiment woke up, too. So that the
inconstant husband began a definite siege of the unfaithful wife.
"Alice appeared to be flattered by the homage, but held back by a sense
of duty toward her lover. As for Giovanni, confident in the stability of
his dominion, he was entertained by the performance in which his vanity
saw nothing but an innocent game started by Alice for the sake of
keeping him on the alert. It was Philip, and no longer Giovanni, who
filled Alice's drawing room with flowers. Giovanni amusingly called my
attention to this detail, with the fine confidence of a man sure of his
power. He was, after all, fond of Philip, and pitied him for his wasted
pains.
"I went to spend six months in Rome, and on my way back to Paris,
stopped for a week in Florence. I was convinced at once and beyond a
doubt that the legitimate betrayal had been consummated, and that the
blind lover Giovanni was being cynically duped. Alice had become her
husband's mistress. I must add, that though the factors were inverted,
the sum of happiness appeared the same. Contentment continued to reign
in Philip's household, as it had not ceased to do since his wedding day,
thanks to the three successive combinations. I even judged that this
time there was a chance of it becoming a settled condition, for Philip
no longer bored us with his pictures, being completely absorbed in the
business of making himself agreeable to his wife, for whom the pleasure
of the conjugal affair was enhanced by the delicately perverse spice of
the secret connected with Giovanni. The value of his conquest rose
appreciably in Giovanni's eyes at sight of Philip in love, and he
peacefully admired as his achievement the perfect contentment of the
household. He was even beginning to cast his eyes about him, and I was
not too greatly surprised when I saw him disposed to make love to me.
Everybody's destiny was sealed. The divorce between Giovanni and Alice
which, I suppose, already existed in fact, would soon be formally
acknowledged.
"I was in the habit of going at nightfall to sit in the Loggia dei Lanzi
to see all Florence pass on its way home, for has not the Piazza della
Signoria for centuries and centuries been the town's general meeting
ground? I have made curious observations there. After a glance at the
Perseus, I used to go and sit on the upper one of the steps that make
seats like those of an amphitheatre against the long back wall, and
there, hidden in the shadow, screened from view by the famous group of
the Rape of the Sabines, gaze about me, dream, and wait for chance to
send an inspiration or a friendly face to tear me from my thoughts.
"One evening I had lingered in my hiding place. Darkness had come.
Ammanati's Neptune and Gian Bologna's Cosimo peopled the night with
motionless ghosts. Suddenly two shapes rose under the arches, a man and
a woman with arms entwined. They glided whispering toward the Sabine
voluptuously struggling in the arms of her new master, and there, out of
sight of the rare passers, but fully in my sight, clasped each other in
a long embrace. Finally I saw their faces. They were Philip and Alice,
who, driven from home by Giovanni's presence, had come to hide in the
public square and make love.
"'Giovanni must have been surprised,' Philip was saying, 'at not
finding us in. But really, he is too indiscreet.'
"'Do you know what you ought to do?' asked Alice, after a silence, 'You
ought to advise him to take a little journey to Rome--or elsewhere.'
"'A good idea. I will do so.'
"Two weeks later Giovanni came to see me in Paris, and made amorous
proposals to me. I still have to laugh when I think of his discomfited
face at the sweeping courtesy I made him. It happened only three days
ago. What do you say to my story?"
"I should have to know the end of it."
"Nothing ever ends. Everything keeps on."
"Well, it is an exception, that is all I can say."
"I admit it. But out of what are rules made, if you please? Is it not
out of exceptions when there are enough of them? I bring my
contribution. You ought in return to tell me some fine story of absolute
monogamic fidelity."
"Such things exist."