I had taken circular tickets for a two months' ramble through
Switzerland and Italy, intending to visit Lucerne, Berne, Interlaken,
Chamouni, and Geneva, then on to the Italian lakes, and I was studying
the plan I had mapped out, and making notes of bye-excursions from the
principal towns, when Barbara burst in upon me with the exclamation
that she was sick of Paris. This surprised me. We had intended to
remain for two weeks, only one of which had elapsed, and I had
supposed that the busy, brilliant life of the gay city would be so
much to Barbara's liking that I should have a difficulty in getting
her away from it. For my own part I was glad to leave, glad to travel
sooner than we intended to regions where we should be in closer
contact with nature. Barbara had never visited Switzerland or Italy,
and I hoped that association with the lakes and mountains of those
beautiful countries would be beneficial to her, would help her to
shake off the fatal habit which she had allowed to grow upon her.
"Very well, Barbara," I said, "we will leave for Lucerne to-morrow."
"How long does it take to get to Geneva?" she asked.
"From Lucerne?"
"No, from here."
"There is a morning train, which gets there in the evening."
"Then we will go to-morrow morning to Geneva."
"But that will make a muddle of the route I have mapped out, and
jumble up the dates."
"What does that matter? You can easily make out another; our time is
our own. I want to be in Geneva to-morrow night."
"For any particular reason?" I asked, rather annoyed, for I knew how
difficult it was to divert her from anything upon which she had set
her mind.
"For a very particular reason. Maxwell will be there."
"Did he tell you so before we left England?"
"No; he tells me in a letter, and says how nice it will be for us to
meet there."
I thought otherwise. I had no wish to see Maxwell, but I did not say
so.
"When did you hear from him?"
"This morning."
"His letter did not come to the hotel. They told me in the office that
there were none for us."
"He doesn't address me at the hotel."
"Where then, for goodness sake? The hotel is the proper place."
"Perhaps I don't care about always doing what is proper," she
retorted, lightly. "Besides, do I need your permission to carry on a
correspondence with my brother?"
"Not at all; you are putting a wrong construction upon my words."
"Oh, of course. I don't do anything right, do I? Never mind, you may
make yourself as unpleasant as you like, but you won't get me to join
in a wrangle. Do I pry into your letters? Well, then, don't pry into
mine."
"I have no desire to do so. Only, as I suppose this is not the first
letter you have received from Maxwell since we have been in Paris----"
She interrupted me with "I have had three letters from him."
"Well, I thought you might have mentioned it--that's all."
"I didn't wish to annoy you."
"Why should it annoy me?"
"Now, John," she said, in a more conciliatory tone, "haven't I eyes in
my head? Women, really, are not quite brainless. Do you think I didn't
find out long ago that there was no love lost between you and Maxwell?
Not on his side--oh, no; on yours."
I could have answered that, according to my observation of her, her
feelings towards Maxwell were similar to mine, but I was determined to
avoid, as far as was possible, anything in the shape of argument that
might lead to contention.
"I do hope you will get to like him better," she continued, "and you
will when you understand him. That is what we were talking about a few
days ago, isn't it?--about the advisability of people understanding
each other before they pronounce judgment. If they don't they are so
apt to do each other an injustice. Maxwell is as simple as a child;
the worst of it is, he takes a delight in placing himself at a
disadvantage when he is talking to you, saying the wrong thing, you
know, but never meaning the least harm by it--oh, no. He leaves you to
find it out--so boyish, isn't it? He is inconsistent; it is a serious
fault, but it is a serious misfortune, too, when one can't help it. It
is a shame to blame us for our imperfections; we didn't make them;
they are born with us."
"But, Barbara," I said, a feeling of bewildered helplessness stealing
over me at the contradictions to which she was everlastingly giving
utterance, "we are reasonable beings."
"Oh, yes, to a certain extent, but no farther. The question is to what
extent. Take the son of a thief, now; how can he help being a thief?
He was born one."
"You wouldn't punish him for stealing?"
"I don't think I would, for how can he help it? I would teach him--I
would lead him gently."
I brightened up. "That is what we are trying to do."
"Yes; for it is so wrong to take what doesn't belong to us--and to
take it on the sly, too! To go over boxes when one is ill and
unconscious. Fie, John! I hoped we were not going to speak of that
again."
"But it is you who brought it up."
"Oh, no, love, it was you. You shouldn't allow things to rankle in
your mind; it is hardly manly. What was I saying about Maxwell? Oh,
his inconsistency. I am glad I am not inconsistent, but I am not going
to boast of it. Only you might take a lesson from me. The weak
sometimes can help the strong. Remember the fable of the lion and the
mouse."
I changed the subject.
"We will start for Geneva to-morrow morning. It is a delightful
journey."
"Everything is delightful in your company, you dear boy. You are glad
that we shall soon see Maxwell, are you not?"
"Yes, I am glad if it will give you pleasure."
"Thank you, dear. Could any newly-married couple be happier than we
are? Give me a kiss and I will go and do my packing."
I recall these conversations with amazement. I was as a man who was
groping in the dark, vainly striving to thread his way through the
labyrinths in which he was environed. There was an element of masterly
cunning in Barbara's character by the exercise of which I found myself
continually placed in a wrong light; words I did not speak, motives I
did not entertain, sentiments which were foreign to my nature, were so
skillfully foisted upon me, that, communing afterwards with my
thoughts, I asked myself whether I was not the author of them and had
forgotten that they had proceeded from me. But Barbara's own
conflicting utterances were a sufficient answer to these doubts. One
day she informed me that Maxwell had a contempt for me, the next that
he had a high opinion of me. Now she despised him, now she was longing
for his society. One moment he was all that was bad, the next all that
was good.
I did not allow these contradictions to weigh with me. My aim was to
do my duty by my wife, and to save her from becoming a confirmed
drunkard; to that end all the power that was within me was directed.
In order not to put temptation in Barbara's way I became a teetotaler,
and from that day to this, except upon one occasion, have not touched
liquor of any kind.
"No wine, John?" Barbara said, as we were eating dinner.
"No, Barbara; I am better without it."
"Turned teetotaler?" She looked at me with a quizzical smile.
"Yes."
"About the most foolish thing you could do. Wine is good for a man.
Everything is good in moderation."
"I agree with you--in moderation."
"I said in moderation--the word is mine, not yours. You will alter
your mind soon."
"Never," I said.
"It would be common politeness to ask if I would have some."
"Will you, Barbara?"
"No," she replied vehemently, "you know I hate it."
The next morning we were comfortably seated in the train for Geneva.
Annette was knitting, I was looking through some English papers and
magazines I had obtained at Brentano's, and Barbara was reading a
French novel she had purchased at the railway stall. She appeared to
be so deeply interested in it that I asked her what it was. She handed
it to me. I started as I looked at the title. "L'Assoimmoir!" I handed
it back to her, thinking it strange she should have selected the work,
but drawing from it a happy augury, for there is no story in which the
revolting effects of drink are portrayed with greater coarseness and
power. It did not occur to me that I should have been sorry to see
such a work in the hands of a pure-minded woman, and that the absence
of the reflection was a wrong done to a woman who was but newly
married--and that woman my own wife! My thought was: What effect will
the story have upon Barbara? Will it show her in an impressive and
personal way the awful depths of degradation to which drink can bring
its victims, and will it be a warning to her?
"Have you read it?" she asked.
"Yes," I answered. "It is a terrible story; it teaches a terrible
lesson."
"I have heard so," she said, "and I was quite anxious to read it
myself. It opens brightly."
"Wait till you come to the end," I thought.
She went on with the reading, and was so engrossed in the development
of the sordid, wretched tragedy that she paid but little attention to
the scenery through which we were passing. I did not interrupt her.
"Let it sink into her soul," I thought. "God grant that it may appall
and terrify her!"
In the afternoon the book was finished. But she was loth to lay it
aside. She read the last few pages, and referred to others which
presumably had produced an impression upon her. Then she put the book
down. I looked at her inquiringly.
"You are right," she said. "It does indeed teach a terrible lesson."
I did not pursue the subject. If the effect I hoped for had not been
produced no words of mine would bring it about.
A fellow passenger engaged me in conversation, and we stood upon the
landing stage awhile. When I returned to the carriage I detected that
Barbara had been tippling; the signs were unmistakable. Later in the
day she made reference to the story and expressed sympathy for the
victims of the awful vice.
"Is that your only feeling respecting the story?" I asked.
"What other feeling can I have?" she replied, sorrowfully. "It was
born in them. Poor Gervaise! Poor Coupeau! I don't know which I pity
most."
"And the terrible lesson, Barbara?"
"Everything in moderation," she said, and after a little pause, added,
"Besides, it isn't true; it isn't possible. Novel writers are
compelled to draw upon their imaginations, and they invent unheard-of
things--as you will do, I suppose with your stories. Make them hot and
strong, John, and you will stand a greater chance of success. People
like to have their blood curdled. If I had the talent to write a novel
I should stick at nothing. Look at----," she mentioned the name of a
living English author whose stories were wonderfully successful--"he
deals in nothing but blood; in every novel he writes he kills hundreds
and hundreds of people, and slashes them up dreadfully. His pages
absolutely reek with gore. Now, you can't convince me that he is
describing real life; he is describing things that never occurred,
that never could have occurred. It is just the same with this story
that I have been reading. Very clever, of course, and very horrible,
but absolutely untrue."
That was her verdict, and I knew it was useless to argue with her.
We arrived at Geneva between eight and nine o'clock. In accordance
with Barbara's wish, we took the omnibus of the Hotel de la Paix,
where Maxwell was to meet us. She was disappointed that he was not at
the station; we looked out for him, but we did not see him.
It happened that the lady and gentleman of whom I have spoken took the
same omnibus and were seated when we entered. They drew into a corner
of the omnibus, and the gentleman shifted his place so that he sat
between his companion and Barbara. He seemed to be desirous that the
ladies should not sit next to each other.
A disappointment awaited Barbara at the hotel. Maxwell was not there.
When I gave my name to the proprietor and was speaking about the rooms
we were to occupy, he said, "There is a letter for madame," and handed
it to her. It was from Maxwell. She read it with a frown.
"It is a shame--a shame!" she cried.
"What does he say?" I asked.
"He will not be here till the end of the week," she replied,
fretfully. "He may not be here at all."
"I am sorry," I said.
"You are not," she retorted, fiercely. "You are glad."
And certainly it was she who spoke the truth.
We went up in the lift to look at our rooms, and then I came down
again to order dinner. Returning to inform Barbara that it would be
ready in twenty minutes, I found the door locked.
"Let me alone," Barbara cried from within. "I don't want any dinner.
You can have it without me. It won't spoil your appetite."
I turned to go downstairs and met Annette.
"Is my wife unwell?" I asked.
"Madame is disturbed that her brother has not arrived," the woman
answered. "She does not require me any longer to-night. I am to get
something to eat and go to bed. Good-night, monsieur."
"Good-night, Annette."
She had spoken sulkily, as though vexed at not being allowed to wait
upon her mistress.
I had my dinner alone, and afterwards strolled along the banks of the
beautiful lake, smoking a cigar. There was no moon, but the sky was
bright with stars. I was in no hurry, knowing that when Barbara was in
one of her passionate fits it was best to give her plenty of time to
get over it. My presence irritated her, and I did not care to be the
butt of her unreasonable anger.