It was a May morning on an island off the English coast. He had gone
with her to the extreme end of a promontory where the cliff descends
sheer into the sea. He wished to ask her something privately but did
not dare to; therefore they stood there silently staring into the blue
emptiness, seeking an object where there was none.
They had stayed there six days without being able to marry because
through carelessness the notice of his divorce had not been published
till some months after he had obtained a decree. Accordingly it bore
so late a date that the time allowed for challenging it had not yet
elapsed. He had exchanged telegrams with the authorities; confusion and
misunderstanding caused further delay, and his fiancée's sister became
impatient.
"Do you trust me?" he asked her.
"Yes, I believe in your honesty, but you are an unlucky creature."
"And your sister?"
"What is she to believe? She does not know you. She only knows that
your assurances that the documents were valid, were incorrect."
"She is right, but it is not my fault. What does she mean to do?"
"She returns to-morrow, and I must go with her."
"So then we shall be parted before we are married, and I return to life
in hotels, restaurants, and night cafés."
"No, not that," and after a pause she added: "Let us jump into the
sea."
He put his arm round her: "Have you ever seen a destiny like mine?
Wherever I go, I bring unhappiness and destruction with me. Think! Your
parents!"
"Don't talk so! With patience we shall also get out of this."
"Yes, in order to fall into something else."
"Come! shall I blow at it?" And she blew the cloud away. There was an
outbreak of divine frivolity again and they raced home through the
fortifications and over the mines.
In the evening the decisive telegram came, and the wedding was fixed
for the next day. It took place at first at the registry office. While
the oaths were being taken the bride fell into hysterical laughter
which nearly rendered the whole ceremony abortive, since the registrar
did not know what to make of a scene which resembled one in a lunatic
asylum.
It was not a brilliant wedding-party which assembled in the evening
in the clergyman's house. Besides the bride's sister, four strangers
--pilots--were present as witnesses when they plighted their troth
"before God."
* * * * *
Fourteen days of May had passed. Both were sitting outside the
comfortable little house and watching how the migratory birds rested in
the garden before continuing their journey north-ward.
"So quiet?"
"How long?"
"Eight days more. But I had not thought that marriage was such a
splendid arrangement."
"Although they call me a woman-hater," he said, "I have always loved
woman, and although they call me a friend of immorality, I have always
held by marriage."
"Can you imagine yourself leading a lonely life after this?"
"No, the thought chokes me."
"Do you know I am so happy that I am afraid?"
"Yes, so am I. I feel as if someone were lying and spying on us. She is
called Nemesis, and follows not only guilty but also happy men."
"What are you most afraid of?"
"That we should part."
"But that depends on us, I suppose."
"Would that it did! But discord comes from without with the wind,
with the dew, with too long-continued sunshine, with the rain. Try to
explain which of us two was to blame for our last quarrel."
"Neither!"
"Neither of us two, then it was a third. Who is this third? In order
to give it a name people call it 'misunderstanding'; but both of our
understandings were completely clear, not disturbed at all."
"Don't frighten me."
"No, but be sure that the same event will happen again and that we
shall blame each other as on the last occasion."
"Shall we not go and write now?" she broke in.
"I cannot write."
"Nor can I; my editor is angry because he has had no article from me
for two months."
"And I have not had a single new idea for a whole year. What will be
the end of it?"
The fact was that they had neutralised each other, so that there was no
more reaction on either side. Their life together now consisted of a
comfortable silence. The need to be near each other was so great that
one could not leave the room without the other following. They tried to
shut themselves in their rooms in order to work, but after a short time
one would knock at the other's door.
"Do you know, all this is very fine, but I am becoming an idiot?" she
complained.
"You also?"
"I can neither read, think, nor write any more, and can hardly speak."
"It is too much happiness, and we must seek some society, or we shall
both become silly."
The fact was that they had both ceased to converse; they were
apparently so harmonious in all questions and predilections and
knew each other's opinions so well that there was no further need
to exchange thoughts. The same tastes, the same habits, the same
naughtinesses, the same superficial scepticism had brought them
together, and now they were welded into one like two pieces of the same
metal. Each had lost individuality and they were one. But the memory
of independence and one's own personality was still present, and a war
of liberation was impending. The sense of personal self-preservation
awoke, and when each wished to resume their own share, there was a
strife about the pieces.
"Why don't you write?" he asked.
"I have tried, but it is always you and about you."
"Whether it is I, or someone else, it all comes to the same thing."
"You mean I have no self?"
"You are too young to have a self."
He had better have left that unsaid, for by saying it, he woke her.
* * * * *
One morning there came a paper containing a notice to the effect that a
volume of his poems had appeared with a London publisher.
"Shall we go to London?" she suggested.
"Yes, gladly, though I don't believe these notices which I have read
so often. Anyhow, as a business journey, it can be made to pay its own
expenses."
The resolve was carried out. They saw the little island[1] disappear
with the same joy with which they had before seen it rise out of the
mist.
In Dover they had to stay one day at an hotel. As he returned from a
walk, he found his wife sealing up six packets, all of the same shape
and size.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"It is the account of your American journey, which I am sending to some
papers I know in Denmark."
"But you should not cut it up into sections; you know that it forms a
complete whole. Have you read it?"
"No, I have only glanced through it; but at any rate it will bring in
some money."
"No, it will not; for no one will print it piecemeal. Only in a single
volume would it have any value."
She paid no attention. "Come now," she said commandingly; "we will go
to the post."
She meant well, but was foolish; and although experience had taught him
what a dangerous adviser she was, he let her have her way, and followed.
On the stairs, he noticed that she limped, for she had bought too tight
boots with high heels, such as were then only worn by cocottes.
When they reached the street, she hurried on to the post, and he
followed. As he noticed how the symmetry of her little figure was
impaired by the many packages which she insisted on carrying, and how
she limped on the boot heel which she had trodden down, he was seized
with a sort of repulsion.
It was the first time that he viewed her from behind, and he thought
involuntarily of the wood-nymph of legend, who in front was a charming
fairy, but behind quite hollow.
The next moment he felt a remorseful horror at himself and his
thoughts. In this cruel heat the little woman was carrying the heavy
load, and had already written six long letters to editors all for his
sake. And she limped! But her brutal way of treating his work and
cutting a manuscript to pieces without having read it; treating a
literary work as a butcher does a carcass!...
Again he felt repulsion, and again remorse, mixed with that
indescribable pain which a man feels when he sees his beloved ugly,
badly dressed, pitiful, or ridiculous. People in the street looked
after her, especially when the wind blew out her thin serge mantle,
which resembled a morning coat; it swelled out like a balloon and
spoilt her fine figure. He hurried forward to take the packets from
her; but she only waved him off, and hastened on, cheerful and
undismayed.
When she came out of the post office, she wanted to go and buy larger
boots. He followed. Since the purchase of them would occupy half an
hour, she told him to wait outside. When at last she came out, she
walked quite comfortably for a time, but then discovered that the new
boots also were too tight.
"What do you think of a shoemaker like that?" she said.
"But _he_ did not make the boots too tight for you! There were larger
ones also."
That was a dangerous commencement of the conversation, and as they
sat down at a table in a café, the silence was uncomfortable. They
sat opposite each other and had to look one another in the eyes; they
sought to avoid doing so, but could not, and when they were obliged to
look at each other, they turned away.
"You would like now to be in Copenhagen with your friends," she said.
It was a good guess. But even if he could have transported himself
thither for a second, he would have wished himself back again at once.
Her nervousness increased, and her eyes began to sparkle, but since she
was intelligent, she understood that neither of them was to blame.
"Go for a walk," she said; "we must be away from each other for a
while, and then you will see it will be better."
He quite agreed with her, and they parted without any bitterness.
As he walked along by the side of the harbour, he felt his nerves
become settled and quiet. He became once more conscious of himself as
a separate and independent being; he no longer gave out emanations but
concentrated himself; he was once more an individual in his own skin.
How well he knew these symptoms, which signified nothing, but which
in spite of all attempts to explain them, persisted as a constant
phenomenon.
Meanwhile, since he felt a positive satisfaction in her absence, the
thought stole into his mind that perpetual freedom from her would
be attended by yet greater satisfaction, and as he approached the
steam-boat pier the thought passed through his mind like a flash of
lightning: "If I go off now, I shall be in Copenhagen in two days."
He sat down, ordered a glass of beer, lighted a cigar, and considered.
"If I go to London," he thought, "she will get the upper hand, because
she can speak the language. I shall be led about by her like a deaf
and dumb man and shall have to sit like an idiot among my literary
friends whom she will get under her thumb. A pleasant prospect! Being
patronised by her in the Danish newspapers was already sufficiently
humiliating. I incurred an obligation to her...."
But in the midst of his meditations he broke off, for he knew that no
character could stand such close and critical analysis. He knew also
that no one could endure being gazed at from behind and judged in
absence. Then a feeling of loneliness came over him and a consciousness
of being faithless and ungrateful. He was drawn back to her, stood up
and went quickly to the hotel. When he entered in an elevated mood
and not without sentimental feelings he was greeted by a laugh,
long-lasting and cheerful like the song of the grasshoppers. Dressed in
silk she lay there, coiled up like an Angora cat, eating sweetmeats,
and smelling of perfume.
Then they laughed both together, as though they had seen something
comic in the street, which had nothing to do with them.
* * * * *
Now they were in Pimlico, between Westminster and Chelsea. They had
paid one visit and that was all. Everyone was away, all the theatres
were shut, and a perfectly tropical heat prevailed. One's soul felt
as if it would gladly shake off its fleshly husk in order to seek for
coolness up in the air. From morning to evening one felt only half
alive.
The pressure of need had forced him unwillingly to set to work and
write. But as he had already utilised most of his experiences, he was
obliged to make use of some material which should, properly speaking,
not have been employed. However, he did violence to himself, overcame
his scruples, and began.
"Now I am writing," he told her triumphantly, "we are saved!"
His wife came and saw how he had filled the first sheet with letters.
After an hour she came again. He was lying on the sofa lamenting: "I
can do nothing! Let us then perish!"
She left the room without saying a word, and when she had shut the
door, he bolted it. Then he took out of his portmanteau a green linen
bag containing a quantity of sheets of paper covered with dates.
These had been often spoken of by his friends and nicknamed the "Last
Judgment." It was an historical work, in which, from a new and bold
point of view, he treated the history of the world as a branch of
natural science. He had planned it carefully, but perhaps it was
destined never to be printed and would certainly never bring in any
money.
After working for some time, he felt the usual restlessness which he
experienced in the absence of his second self, and went down to seek
her.
She sat reading a book which she made a lame attempt to hide, as he
entered. By her strange manner he saw that some fateful element had
entered into their common life.
"What are you reading?" he asked.
"Your last book," she answered in a peculiar tone.
"It has appeared then! Don't read it; you will poison yourself."
It was a ruthless description of his first marriage, written in
self-defence and as a last testament, for he had intended, after
completing it, to take his life. For years the manuscript had remained
sealed up in the care of a relative, and he had never intended to print
it. But in the last spring and under the pressure of necessity, after
he had been assailed most unjustly by gossips and in the newspapers, he
had sold the book to a publisher.
And now it had appeared and fallen into the hands of the very last
person who should have seen it. His first impulse was to snatch the
book from her, but he was restrained by the thought: "It has happened;
well, let it happen!" And with perfect calm, as though he had assisted
at his own inevitable execution, he left the room. At lunch, he noticed
the strange transformation which had taken place in his wife. Her face
wore a new expression; her looks searched his whole person, as though
she were comparing him with the man described in the book. He took for
granted that his sufferings there described would not arouse her pity,
for a woman always takes sides with her own sex. But what he could
not understand was that she seemed to recognise herself in certain
of her predecessor's characteristics. Perhaps her mind was occupied
by some still unsolved problems in the question which married people
instinctively avoid--the woman question. Certain it was, however, that
she had learnt what her husband's views were on the subject of her sex,
and they were so cynically expressed that they must give her mortal
offence.
She did not say a word, but he saw in her face that now all chance
of peace was gone and that this woman would never rest till she had
destroyed his marriage and compelled him to shorten his life. Against
this he could only oppose his motto: "Be ready for everything," and
resolve to bear everything as long as possible, and finally when
nothing else remained, to go his own way. Then she would devour herself
in solitude for want of food for her hate.
The next day she had hatched her egg, which proved to contain a
basilisk.
With an air which would fain have seemed innocent, but did not, she
told him, that since he could not work, they must think of retrenching.
"Very well," he answered.
First of all they had to content themselves with one room. This meant
that all possibility of being his own master, of withdrawing himself,
and of collecting himself was precluded. For the future he would be
confined with his tormentress in the same cage, have no more power
over his own thoughts and inclinations, and above all, not be' able to
work at the "Last Judgment."
"You know you cannot work!" she remarked.
When midday came, a plate with some cold bacon and bread was set before
him.
"You don't like soup," she said; "and hot food isn't nice in this heat."
Then she sat down to watch him.
"Won't you eat?" he asked.
"No, I am not hungry," she answered, and continued to watch him.
Then he stood up, took his hat, and prepared to go out.
"Are you going out?" she asked; "then I will go too, and we will keep
each other company."
He went forward with long strides and she followed him. In order to vex
her he chose the sunny side of the street by a long white wall, where
the heat was intense, and the reflected light blinded the eyes. Then he
dragged her out to Chelsea, where there was no house that could give
shade.
She followed like an evil spirit.
When they came to the river, he thought for a moment of pushing her
into the water, but did not. He went along the bank where lime-ships
unloaded, steam-cranes puffed out coal-smoke, and chains hindered their
walking. He hoped that she would fall and hurt herself, or be pushed
down by a workman, and wished that a coal-heaver would embrace and kiss
her--so boundless was his hate and hers.
It was in vain that he mounted over barrels and wheel-barrows and
threaded his way through heaps of lime. He thought of jumping into the
river and swimming to the other side, but was withheld by the thought
that she perhaps could swim also.
At last he made a wide circuit like an ox persecuted by a gadfly,
and went down to Westminster. There the back streets swarmed with
the strangest figures, like shapes seen in a nightmare. He entered
the abbey, as if to shake off a pest, but she followed, silent and
unweariable.
Finally he had to return home, and when he got there, he sat down on
one chair, and she seated herself opposite him.
Then he understood how a man can become a murderer, and determined to
fly, as soon as he had written for money.
The night came, and he hoped now to be able to collect his thoughts,
and be master of himself.
She pretended to be asleep, but he could tell by her breathing that
she did not really sleep.
"Are you awake?" she asked.
He was still unwise enough to answer "Yes." Now they lay there watching
which should first go to sleep. At last he did so.
In the middle of the night he awoke, listened, and heard by her
breathing that she was asleep.
Then his soul stretched itself, wrapped itself up in the darkness,
and enjoyed being able to think without being watched by those cold,
threatening eyes.
She had not, however, really gone to sleep, but in the darkness he
heard her voice as before: "Are you asleep?"
He felt the vampire which had fastened on to his soul and kept watch
even over his thoughts. Why did she spy on him except that she feared
the silent workings of his mind? She felt perhaps how he lay there, and
worked himself gradually out of the meshes of her net. He only needed
a few hours' quiet, but that he was not to have. So she denied herself
sleep in order to torment him. She would not allow herself the pleasure
of going to the city, or of visiting the libraries and museums, because
she did not wish to leave him alone. The next day he asked her whether
she wished to continue to translate his worlds, or whether he should
have recourse again to his old translators.'
"Shall I translate _you_?" she said contemptuously. "There are better
writers to be done."
"Why will you not rather translate me than your rubbishy authors?"
"Take care!" she hissed. "You over-value yourself and a terrible
awakening awaits you from the dream of your imagined greatness." She
said that in a tone as if she were supported by the public opinion
of all Europe. That made a certain impression on him, for an author,
even when recognised, often seems nothing to himself but is entirely
dependent on the opinion others cherish regarding his talents. Now
he felt the bond between them snap. She hated and despised his work,
which was his only means of support, and when she sought to rob him of
courage and confidence, she was the enemy. And in dealing with an enemy
there are only two methods--either to kill him, or not to fight him but
to fly. He determined on the latter.
He had still to wait a few days till the money came, and these days
were enough to develop his aversion. He had opportunities of witnessing
more cold, calculating malice, mischievous joy at successful thrusts,
all the feminine small-mindedness, meanness, and duplicity, but on a
larger scale. Since she knew that he could not get away for want of
money, she gave him to understand that he was her prisoner; but he was
not, however.
The room looked like a pigsty, and the meals were so prepared as to be
purposely repulsive. Dirt and disorder prevailed to such a degree that
he felt himself in hell. With longing he thought of his lonely attic
which had always been tidy, however careless he had been about expenses.
Two months had passed since their marriage. All smiles and even
conversation had ceased; love was changed into unreasoning hate, and he
began to find her ugly.
On the last day before his departure, he felt obliged to speak out
in order not to explode. "You were beautiful as long as I loved you;
perhaps my love made you so, not only in my opinion. Now I find you the
ugliest and meanest character which I have met in my life."
She answered: "I know that I have never been so malicious towards
anyone as towards you, without being able to give any reasons for it."
"I can, though," he said. "You hate me because I am a man, and your
husband."
He had packed his portmanteau and she was prepared for his departure.
When now the time of separation approached and she believed it would
be for ever, her hatred vanished, and behold! love was there again!
Her tenderness and care for him knew no bounds. They spoke of the
future as though they would soon meet again. She gave him good advice
in a motherly way, but resignedly, as if in face of an unalterable
destiny which demanded their temporary separation. As they drove to
the station in an open carriage, she kissed him repeatedly in broad
daylight in the main streets. The passers-by laughed, but when the
police began to look attentively at the caressing pair, he felt the
need of caution.
"Take care," he said, "in this country we might be imprisoned for
making love openly."
"What do I care for that?" she answered. "I love you so much."
He thought her again sublime in her all-defying tenderness, and they
planned to meet again in a week. His intention was to go to his
colleague Ilmarinen in the Island of Rügen. The latter would help him
to order his affairs; then he would rent a house and they would meet
again in a fortnight at latest.
"You see now, one cannot trust in the permanence of this hatred."
"No, one must trust love."
"It looks as if that had conquered."
Their parting at the station was heart-rending, and, as he sat alone in
the railway carriage, he felt the pain of longing for her. He did not
find the sense of freedom and happiness of which he had dreamt. All the
recollections of her malice seemed to have been obliterated.
[Footnote 1: Heligoland.]