I
They had gone off, taken the almost matter-of-course flight. An outcry
rang through their social circle; people pressed their hands to the
region of their heart, shuddered, lamented, condemned, according as
each had figured to him or herself the terrible tragedy which had been
played; two hearts had been torn asunder, two families raged against
each other; there was a lonely husband and a deserted child; a desolate
home, a career destroyed, entangled affairs which could not be put
straight, and broken friendships. Two men were sitting in a restaurant
and discussing the affair.
"But why did they run away? I think it disgusting!"
"On the contrary! I consider that ordinary decency requires that they
should leave the field to the irreproachable husband; then at any rate
they need not meet in the streets. Besides, it is more honest to be
divorced than to form an illicit tie."
"But why could they not keep their faith and vows? We for our part
hold out for life through grief and joy."
"Yes, and how does it look afterwards? Like an old bird's-nest in
autumn! Other times, other manners."
"But it is terrible in any case."
"Not least for the runaways. Now it will be the turn of the man who
took all the consequences on himself. He will be paid out."
"And so will she."
* * * * *
The story was as follows. The now divorced married pair had met three
years before in a watering-place, and passed through all the stages
of being in love in the normal way. They discovered, as usual, that
they had been born for the special purpose of meeting each other
and wandering through life hand in hand. In order to be worthy of
her he gave up all doubtful habits and refined his language and his
morals. She seemed to him an angel sent by God to open his eyes and to
point him upwards. He overcame the usual difficulties regarding the
publishing of the banns, convinced that those very difficulties were
placed in his way in order to give him an opportunity of showing his
courage and energy.
They read the scandalous anonymous letters which generally follow
engagements together, and put them in the fire. She wept, it is true,
over the wickedness of men, but he said the purpose of it was to test
their faith in each other.
The period of their betrothal was one long intoxication. He declared
that he did not need to drink any more, for her presence made him
literally drunk. Once in a way they felt the weirdness of the solitude
which surrounded them, for their friends had given them up, considering
themselves superfluous.
"Why do people avoid us?" she asked one evening as they walked outside
the town.
"Because," he answered, "men run away when they see happiness."
They did not notice that they themselves avoided intercourse with
others, as they actually did. He, especially, showed a real dread of
meeting his old bachelor friends, for they seemed to him like enemies,
and he saw their sceptical grimaces, which were only too easy to
interpret.
"See! there he is caught! To think of the old rascal letting himself be
hoodwinked!" etc. For the young bachelors were of the opinion then, as
now, that love was a piece of trickery which sooner or later must be
unmasked.
But the conversation of the betrothed pair kept them above the
banalities of everyday life, and they lived, as people say rightly,
above the earth. But they began to feel afraid of the solitude which
surrounded them and drove them together. They tried to go among other
people, partly from the need of showing their happiness, and partly to
quiet themselves. But when after the theatre they entered a restaurant,
and she arranged her hair at the glass in the hall, he felt as though
she was adorning herself for strangers. And when they sat down at the
table, he became instantaneously silent, for her face assumed a new
expression which was strange to him. Her glances seemed to parry the
looks of strangers. They both became silent, and his face wore an
anxious expression. It was a dismal supper, and they soon left.
When they came out she asked, somewhat out of humour at being
disappointed of a pleasure, "Are you vexed with me?"
"No, my dear, I cannot be vexed with you. But I bleed inwardly when I
see young fellows desecrate you with their looks." So their visits to
the restaurant ceased.
The weeks before the marriage were spent in arranging their future
dwelling. They had discussed carpets and curtains, had interviewed
workmen and shopmen, and in so doing had descended from their ideal
heights. Now they wanted to go out to get rid of these prosaic
impressions. So they went, but with that ominous silence when the heads
of a pair feel empty and someone seems to walk between them. He tried
to rally himself and put her in good spirits but unsuccessfully.
"I hang too heavily upon you," she said, and let go of his arm. He did
not answer, for he really felt some relief. That annoyed her and she
drew nearer the wall. The conversation was at an end, and they soon
found themselves before her door.
"Good night," she said curtly.
"Good night," he replied with equal curtness, and they parted obviously
to their mutual relief. This time there was no kiss in the passage and
he did not wait outside the glass door to watch her slender figure move
gracefully up the first flight of stairs.
He went down the street with an elastic gait and drawing a deep
breath of relief. He felt released from something oppressive, which
nevertheless had been charming for three months. Pulling himself
together, he mentally picked up the dropped threads of a past which now
seemed strong and sincere. He hurried on, his ego exulted, and both his
arms, as they swung, felt like wings.
That the affair was over he felt no doubt, but he saw no reason for
it, and with wide-awake consciousness confronted a fact which he
unhesitatingly accepted. When he came near his door he met an old
friend whom, without further ado, he took by the arm, and invited to
share his simple supper and to talk. His friend looked astonished, but
followed him up the stairs.
They ate and drank, smoked and chatted till midnight, discussing every
variety of topic, old reminiscences and affairs of State, the Reichstag
and political economy. There was not a word regarding his betrothal and
marriage, or even an allusion to them. It was a very enjoyable evening
and he seemed to have gone back three months in his life. He noticed
that his voice assumed a more manly tone, that he spoke his thoughts
straight out as they came, without having to take the trouble to round
off the corners of strong words to emphasise some expressions, and
soften down others in order not to give offence. He felt as though he
had found himself again, thrown off a strait-jacket, and laid aside a
mask. He accompanied his friend downstairs to open the house-door.
"Well, you will be married in eight days," said the latter with the
usual sceptical grimace. It was as though he had pressed a button and
the door slammed to in answer.
When he came to his room, he felt seized with disgust; he took the
things off the table, cleared up, swept the room, and then became
conscious of what he had lost, and how low he had sunk.
He felt he had been unfaithful to his betrothed, because he had given
his soul to another, even though that other was a man. He had lost
something better than that which he thought he had gained. What he had
found again was merely his old selfish, inconsiderate, comfortable,
everyday ego, with its coarseness and uncleanness, which his friend
liked because it suited his own.
And now it was all over, and the link broken for ever! The great
solitude would resume its sway, the ugly bachelor life begin again.
It did not occur to him to sit down and write a letter, for he felt
it would be useless. Therefore he tried to weary himself in order to
obtain sleep, soaked his whole head in cold water, and so went to
bed. The little ceremony of winding up his watch made, to-night, a
peculiar impression on him. Everything had to be renewed at night, even
time itself. Perhaps her love only needed a night's rest in order to
recommence.
When he awoke the following morning, the sun shone into the room. An
indescribable feeling of quietness had taken possession of him, and he
felt that life was good as it was, yes, better to-day than usual, for
his soul felt at home again after a long excursion. He dressed himself
and went to his office, opened his letters, read the newspaper, and
felt quite calm all the time. But this unnatural calm began at last to
make him uneasy. He felt an increasing nervousness and a feverishness
over his whole body. The vacuum began to be filled again with her soul;
the electric band had been stretched, and the stream cut off, but it
was still there; there had only been a break in the current, and now
all the recollections rushed upon him, all their beautiful and great
experiences, all the elevated feelings and great thoughts which they
had amassed together, all the dream-world in which they had lived, so
unlike the present world of prose where they now found themselves.
With a feeling of despair he betook himself to his correspondence
in order to conceal his emotions, and began to answer letters with
calmness, order, and clearness. Offers were accepted on certain
conditions, and declined on definite grounds. He went into questions of
coffee and sugar, exchange prices and accounts with unusual clearness
and decision.
A clerk brought him a letter, which he saw at once was from her.
"The messenger waits for an answer," he said.
Without looking up from his desk, the merchant had at once decided and
replied: "He needn't wait."
In that moment he had said to himself: "Explanations, reproaches,
accusations--how can I answer such things?"
And the letter lay unopened while his business correspondence went on
with stormy celerity.
* * * * *
When his fiancée had parted from him on the previous evening her first
emotion had been anger--anger to think that he, the merchant, had
dared to despise her. She herself belonged to an official's family
and had dreamt of playing a rôle in society. His warm and faithful
affection had made her gradually forget this. Since he was never weary
of telling her what an ennobling influence she exercised on his life,
and since she herself perceived how he became refined and beautiful
under her hand, she felt herself to be a higher being. His steady
veneration kindled her self-esteem and she grew and blossomed in the
sunshine which his love spread around her. When that was suddenly
extinguished, it grew cold and dark around her; she felt herself
dwindle down to her original insignificance, shrivel and disappear.
This discovery that she had been the victim of an error and that
his love was the cause of her new life and the enlargement of her
personality, aroused her hatred against the man who had given her
such clear proof that her existence depended on him and on his love.
Now that he was no longer her lover, he became the tradesman whom she
despised.
"A fellow who sells coffee and sugar!" she said to herself, as she fell
asleep, "I could change him for a better one."
But when she awoke after a good night's sleep, she felt alarmed at the
disgrace of being given up. A broken engagement, after two offers,
would always cast a shadow over her life and make it difficult to
procure another fiancé.
In a spiteful mood she sat down to write the letter, in which in a
lofty, insulting tone she demanded an explanation, and at the same time
asked him to come and see her.
When the messenger returned with the news that there was no answer she
fell in a rage, and prepared to go out. She intended to find him in his
office, where she had never yet been, and before the eyes of his clerks
throw his ring on the ground to show how deeply she despised him. So
she went.
She stood outside the door and knocked. But since no one opened or
answered she entered and stood in the hall. Through the glass pane of
the inner door she saw her betrothed bending over the large ledger,
his face intent and serious. She had never seen him at work before.
And when at work every man, even the most insignificant, is imposing.
Sacred work, which makes a man what he is, invested his appearance with
the dignity of concentrated strength, and she was seized with a feeling
of respect for him which she could not throw off.
Just then he was inspecting in the ledger the entries of the expenses
of furnishing their house.
They had absorbed his savings during the ten years he had been in
business, and though not petty-minded, he thought with sorrow and
bitterness, how they were all thrown away. He sighed and looked up
in order not to see the tell-tale figures. Then, all of a sudden, he
noticed behind the glass pane of the door, like a crayon drawing in a
frame, a pale face and two large eyes full of an expression of pain
and sympathy. He rose and stood reverently, mute in his great, virile
grief, interrogative and trembling. Then he saw in her looks how the
lost love had returned, and with that all was said.
When after a while they were walking past Skeppsholm, bright with their
recovered happiness, he asked: "What happened to us yesterday?" (He
said "us" for he did not wish to raise the question whose fault it
was.)
"I don't know; I cannot explain it; but it was the most terrible
experience I have had. We will never do it again!"
"No! we will never do it again. And now, Ebba, it is for our whole
lives, you and I!"
She pressed his arm, fully convinced that after this fiery trial,
nothing in the world could separate them, so far as it depended on
themselves.