The autumn brought what the spring had promised, but not fulfilled.
They lived in a good boarding-house, high up certainly, but with a view
over the sea. Each of them kept up a slight intercourse with former
friends so that they were not always _tête-à-tête_. The sun shone,
money came in, and life was easy. This lasted for two unforgettable
months without a cloud. There was boundless confidence on both sides,
without a trace of jealousy. On one occasion, when she had tried
mischievously to arouse his, he had said to her: "Don't play with
madness! Be sure that with such play you only arouse my abhorrence and
my hatred at the same time, when you introduce into my mental pictures
of you the image of another man."
But she herself was jealous, even of his male friends, and drove
Ilmarinen away. There were ladies at the table d'hôte, and each time
that he addressed one of them, she became so indisposed that she had
to get up and go. There was no occasion to mistrust his faithfulness
to her, but her imperiousness was so boundless, that she could not
endure his imparting his thoughts to another, man or woman. When she
conducted some business transactions for him with publishers she
exceeded her authority and acted rather as his guardian than as his
helper. He had to warn her: "Remember what I said! If you misuse the
power I have given you, I will overthrow you like a tyrant." He did not
doubt her goodwill but her want of insight and exaggerated ideas of
his capacities caused him inconvenience, and even loss of money. When
he took away from her the authority to act for him, she behaved like a
naughty child, brought everything into confusion and threw it away as
worthless. Accordingly, the way was prepared for the inevitable result.
One Sunday morning they had a disagreement on an important subject,
and at last he had shut the door between their two rooms. Then he went
out. On his return, he found a letter from his wife saying she had
gone to a family which they knew in the country, and would be back in
the evening. In order to let her feel what solitude is like he made
an engagement for the evening with some friends. The evening came. He
went out, but about ten o'clock, thinking it cruel to remain longer, he
returned home. When he tried to open his door, he found it shut from
within.
"Aha!" he thought. "This is her plan to make me listen to a
curtain-lecture in her room." He rang for the servant. "Is my wife at
home?"
"No, she came home at nine, but went out again, in order to meet you,
sir."
"Very well, open the door of my wife's room." That was done, but the
door of his room remained locked, as he had locked it himself in the
morning. Then he made his decision, closed the outer door of the flat,
and took possession of his wife's room. After an hour she came and
knocked. Her husband answered through the closed door: "You can take my
room; I hope you can open it."
When she found she could not she began to form suspicions and thought
he had shut himself in with someone. She naturally would not endure
the scandal but sent for the police, on the pretext that a thief had
been there, and perhaps was still in the room. The police came; the
Norwegian dressed himself and admitted them, and they broke open the
door between the two rooms. At the same time the door leading to the
corridor was opened. A servantmaid said she thought she had heard steps
inside the room. Before the open window stood a chair so placed as
though someone had stood on it in order to climb on the roof. A thief
then (or a woman) had clambered on the roof. The police went on it
with lanterns, and some of the inmates of the boarding-house followed.
A shadow moved by a chimney. A cry rose: "There he is!" The police
declared that they could not climb the steep slate roof, and advised
them to send for the fire brigade. "But that costs fifty crowns,"
objected the Norwegian. His wife signed a requisition for it, but her
husband tore it in two. Meanwhile a crowd had collected in the street;
the neighbouring roofs were also full of spectators. A cry was raised:
"There he is!" They had seized a fellow who had joined the searchers
with the good intention of catching the thief. A maid recollected
that in the afternoon a traveller had arrived and was sleeping in a
neighbouring attic from which he could have easily got into the room.
The police made their way into the attic, searched through his papers
and found nothing. All the attics were ransacked without result, and at
midnight the police departed.
Then the young wife wished to begin with a whole series of
explanations, but her husband was tired of the whole nonsense and could
explain nothing. Therefore, since nothing more was to be done, he
carried his wife into her room and shut the door between them for the
second time that day!
This demoniacal adventure was never cleared up. The Norwegian did
not believe there had been a thief, for nothing was missing from the
rooms; he thought that his young wife, who had seen many plays, had
stuck something in the lock, and that then devils had continued the
performance of the comedy. He did not try to elicit what his wife
thought, for then he would have been entangled in a web of necessary
lies. He therefore made a stroke of erasure through the whole affair.
The next morning they were again good friends, but not quite so good as
before.
How disunion between a married pair arises has not yet been explained.
They love one another, only flourish in each other's society, have not
different opinions, and suffer when they are separated; their whole
united self-interest enjoins them to keep the peace, because it is they
especially who suffer when it is not kept. Nevertheless, a little cloud
arises, one knows not whence; all merits are transformed into faults,
beauty becomes ugliness and they confront each other like two hissing
snakes; they wish each other miles away, although they know that if
they are separated for a moment there begins the pain of longing, which
is greater than any other pain in life.
Here physiology and psychology are non-plussed. Swedenborg in his
"Conjugal Love" is the only one who has even approached the solution of
the problem, and he has seen that for that purpose higher factors must
be taken into consideration than come into the mental purview of most
people.
This is why a married pair who love each other are obliged again and
again to wonder why they hate one another, i.e. why they flee one
another although they seek one another. Married people who are slightly
acquainted with Ganot's "Physics" may note the resemblance of this
phenomenon to that of the electricised elder-pith balls, but this
will not make them either wiser or happier. Love indeed presents all
the symptoms of lunacy, hallucination, or seeing beauty where none
exists; profoundest melancholy, varying with extreme hilarity without
any transition stage; unreasonable hate; distortions of each other's
real opinions (so-called "misunderstandings"); persecution mania, when
one believes the other is setting spies and laying snares; sometimes
indeed attempts on each other's life, especially with poison. All
this has reasons which lie below the surface. The question arises,
whether through a married pair's living together, the evil thoughts
of one, while still unripened, are not quite clearly apprehended and
interpreted by the other, as though they had already entered into
consciousness, with the express purpose of being carried into action.
Nothing annoys a man more than to have his secret thoughts read, and
that only a married pair can do to each other. They cannot conceal
their dark secrets; one anticipates the other's intentions, and
therefore they easily form the idea that they spy on each other, as
indeed they actually do. Therefore they fear no one's look so much
as each other's, and are so defenceless against one another. Each is
accompanied by a judge who condemns the evil desire while yet in the
germ, although no one is answerable for his thoughts to the civic law.
Accordingly, in marrying, one enters into a relation which stands a
grade higher than ordinary life, makes severer demands, more exacting
claims, and operates with more finely developed spiritual resources.
Therefore the Christian Church made marriage a sacrament, and regarded
it rather as a purgatory than a pleasure. Swedenborg in his explanation
of it, also inclines this way.
A married pair are ostensibly one, but cannot be really so. As a
punishment they are condemned to feel thorns when they wish to gather
roses. According to the proverb: "Omnia vincit amor" the power of love
is so boundless, that if it were allowed uncontrolled sway, the order
of the universe would be endangered. It is a crime to be happy, and
therefore happiness must be chastised.
Our frivolous friends must have felt something of this, for when they
had had a tiff, they reconciled themselves without explanations and
without alleging reasons, as though it was not they who were to blame
for the discord but a third unknown person who had brought about all
the confusion.
They did so on this occasion also, but the peace did not last long.
Some days afterwards an indisputable fact was apparent, which in
ordinary marriages is accepted with mixed feelings, but in this one met
with decided disapproval. The wife was beside herself: "Now you have
ruined my career; I shall sink down to the level of a nurse and how
shall we support ourselves?"
There awoke in her a personal grudge against her husband which
degenerated into hatred. She was an example of the "independent" woman
who protests against the supposed injustice of Nature in assigning all
the discomfort to her. She forgets that this brief period of pain is
followed by an extreme and long-lasting joy which is quite unknown to
men.
Here reasonable considerations were naturally of no avail, and when
there were no more smiles, the situation became serious. The scenes
between them assumed a tragic character, and just at this crisis an
action was brought against him for his last-published book, which was
confiscated at the same time. Autumn passed, and one felt that the
sun had gone. The cheerful top-floor room changed into a never-tidied
sick-room--became narrow.
Her hatred increased continually; she could not go into society, nor
to theatres, and hardly on the street. What most annoyed her was the
fact that the doctor who had been summoned to declare that she had a
dangerous disease, hitherto unknown, only smiled, saying that all the
symptoms were normal, and ordered soda-water. Instead of an intelligent
friend, the Norwegian found a malicious, spoilt, unreasonable child
at his side, and longed to be out of all this wretchedness. All
conversation ceased, and they only carried on communications by
writing. But there is a kind of malice bordering on the disgraceful
and infamous, which is hard to define but easy to recognise. That is
the original sin in human nature, the positive wish to injure without
cause, and without being justified in taking vengeance or exacting
retribution. This kind of malice is hardly forgivable.
One day he received a scrap of paper on which something was written
which prevented him going to her room again. Then came her ultimatum;
she resolved to go to her relations the next day.
"I wish you a happy journey," he answered. In the dusk of the early
morning a white form stood by his bedside stretching out its arms
pleadingly for forgiveness. He did not move but let it stand there.
Then she fell to the ground, and he let her lie, like an overthrown
statue.
Whence the soft-hearted man, who was always ready to forgive, derived
this firmness, this inhuman hardness, he could not understand, but it
seemed to him to be imposed on him from without like a duty, or a fiery
ordeal which he must go through. He went to sleep again. Then he awoke
and dressed. He entered the empty room and was conscious of the void.
Everything was irrevocably at an end!
A severe agitation was needed to bring his ego uppermost, and he
resolved to drain a draught which was unsurpassed for bitterness. He
went back to his native land, from which he had been banished.
When he got on the steamer for Christiania, he wrote a farewell letter
to the captain, went on deck with his revolver, and thought of finding
his grave in the Kattegat. Why did he not carry out this intention? Let
him say who can! At last he found himself in a small provincial hotel.
But why had it to be precisely the one in which Lais's friends and
relations lived and dominated the social circle in which he must move?
He could only regard that as a mean stroke on the part of Destiny, for
on this occasion he was not to blame at all.
Meanwhile he sat as on an ant-heap in an alien and hostile environment.
For three days long he asked himself: "What have I got to do here?" And
he answered: "What indeed have you to do anywhere?" So he remained.
For three days he asked himself: "What have you to do in life?" and
questioned of the where, whence and whither. As an answer, the revolver
lay on the table.
Hamburg, London, and Rügen began to shine like pleasant memories in
comparison with this place of exile. It was so dreadful that he was
astonished at the inventiveness of Destiny in devising new tortures
which ever increased in severity. His room in the hotel was a suicide's
room, i.e. a combination of discomfort and uncanniness. He was again
haunted by the old idea he used to have: "I shall not get alive out
of this room; here I must end my days." His capacity for hoping was
exhausted. He seemed to be dropping downwards towards the empty void
which began to close round him like the last darkness.
On the fourth day he received a letter from his sister-in-law in which
she told him that his little wife was going on well. At the same time
she proposed that he and his wife should spend the winter in a little
town in Alster, so that her relations could now and then visit his
wife who, in her present condition, needed help and advice.
It was, then, not at an end! And these pains of death had been endured
in vain; he had not needed them in order to be taught to miss his wife.
It was not over yet, and he began to live again.
As a proof that he had completely come to the end of himself it may
be mentioned that the papers in those days contained a notice of his
death. He wrote to contradict this in a vein of gloomy irony. He was
tormented for three days more by having to run about to collect the
journey money.
When the train at last stopped at the little station, he saw first of
all his wife's pale face. It looked certainly somewhat exhausted by
suffering, but beamed at the same time with some of that glorifying
radiance which motherhood bestows. When her eyes discovered him, her
face lit up.
"She loves me," he said to himself. And he began to live again
literally not figuratively.
"Are you well?" he asked almost shyly.
"Yes I am," she whispered, burying like a child her face in his great
cloak and kissing the edge of it.
"What are you doing? What are you doing?"
And she hid her face in his mantle in order not to show the emotion, of
which she was always ashamed.
They had engaged two very inferior rooms; one was dark and the other
uncomfortable, looking out on a factory. His wife worked in the kitchen
and resigned herself to her fate, for her maternal feelings were
aroused, though not yet completely. He suffered when he saw her toiling
the whole day at the kitchen-range and in the scullery, and sometimes
felt a twinge of conscience.
When he wished to help her to carry something heavy, she refused to be
helped, for she insisted strongly that he should not be seen engaged
in any feminine occupation, nor would she allow him to wait on her
or to do her any small service. All storms were over now; a quiet
stillness prevailed; the days passed one after the other in unvaried
monotony. They lived alone together and had no social intercourse nor
distractions.
But poverty came. The trial about his book had frightened the
publishers and theatres. But the worst of all was that he could not
write.
And what he could write, he did not wish to, for the plot of the story
affected a family to whom he owed a debt of gratitude. Now when he
would soon have two families to provide for, he trembled before the
future with its increased duties, for a growing dislike to exercise his
calling as an author had finally culminated in disgust.
What an occupation--to flay his fellow-creatures and offer their skins
for sale. Like a hunter who, when pressed hard by hunger, cuts off
his dog's tail, eats the flesh, and gives the bone--its own bone--to
the dog. What an occupation to spy out people's secrets, expose the
birth-marks of his best friend, dissect his wife like a rabbit for
vivisection, and act like a Croat, cutting down, violating, burning,
and selling. Fie!
In despair he sat down and wrote from his notes a survey of the most
important epochs of the world's history. He hoped, or in his need
imagined that he might in this way strike out a new path for himself as
an historian, which had been the dream of his youth, before he became
an author.
His wife knew what he was writing and that it would bring in no money,
but controlled herself; perhaps his ardent conviction had persuaded
her that there was something in it. She did not complain, but on the
contrary cheered him up and offered to translate the work into English.
A month passed, quiet, peaceful but melancholy. They felt that they
were not enough for each other in this absolute loneliness. They
lamented it but sought for no society. He, with wider experience than
hers, hoped that the child on its arrival would be satisfying company
for them both.
Meanwhile poverty approached nearer. None of his plays were performed
or sold, and not one of the hopes of spring had been realised. His
children by his first marriage clamoured for money, and food began
to be scarce in the house. Then came deliverance in the form of an
invitation to spend the winter with his wife's grandparents.
One evening in December they alighted at a little station in Jutland,
and drove through woods and wild heath. Everything was new and strange.
In this house he was now to live as a grandchild, just as during the
past summer in her father's house he had been for eight days a child.
They reached the ferry in the twilight. The drifting of the ice had
begun, but the water had also sunk so low that a sand-bank lay in the
middle of the stream, and there a new boat waited for them. From thence
a large, white, three-storied house was visible; it looked unfriendly,
almost weird, with its projecting wings and high, illuminated windows.
They reached the land and found themselves immediately in the ghostly
castle. They were conducted up whitewashed stairs over which hung
dark oil-paintings in black frames. Then he found himself in a warm,
well-lighted room, among her relatives, of whom he only knew his
mother-in-law.
With his incredible pliability, he immediately adapted himself to
his position, and behaved like the young relation who under all
circumstances must show reverence to his elders.
Here in the house his right of self-determination ceased; he must
conform to other people's views, wills, and habits. In order to spare
himself unpleasantness, he had resolved beforehand to have no more
likes and dislikes of his own, but to accept all that was offered to
him, however strange or repulsive it might appear.
The old grandfather was a notary and barrister who had retired with
considerable wealth, and only managed his estate as far as was
necessary for domestic purposes and for his own amusement. Most of his
property consisted of hunting-ground and was in that state of neglect
which a townsman finds picturesque. He and his wife were both over
seventy, and seemed only to be waiting for their end with the cheerful
resignation of good-natured, orthodox Catholics who are free from care.
They had already built for themselves a mausoleum in the garden where
their bodies were to repose, and they were accustomed to show it as
other people show a summer-house. It was a little whitewashed chapel,
with flowers planted round it, which they used to tend as though they
already stood there in memory of them.
In the house there was a superfluity of good things. After having
been half-starved in Alster here they found it difficult to avoid
gluttony, without vexing their host. Pheasants, hare, venison were
regular standing dishes which at last became a weariness. "This is our
punishment," he said, "because we complained of the manna; now we are
stuffed with quails like the murmuring Israelites so that it comes out
at our throats."
A stillness like that of old age supervened; there was no need of
care or anxiety in this house where there were as many servants as
members of the family. It was easy to live with the old people, who had
outgrown special interests, views and passions, and the young pair,
who had their own rooms apart, only needed to appear at meal-times.
The young wife was now altogether a mother, talked of and with the
unborn child as though she knew it well; she was mild and womanly,
humble and even thankful towards her husband, whose affections remained
unaltered though her shape was disfigured and her beauty faded.
"How beautiful life is!" she said.
"Yes it is; but how long will it last?"
"Hush!"
"I will be silent! But you know that happiness is punished."
No one asked what he was working at; on the contrary all that he heard
was: "You should do nothing but take a thorough rest after your wild
rushing about."
Accordingly he sent for some books which had been given him some years
previously by a rich man and which he had been obliged to send back
home. Then he began a series of systematic investigations, studied
and made notes. He felt a new life and fresh interests awaken; and
when he now found his former hypothesis and calculations verified by
synthesis and analysis he became certain that he was working by a sure
method, and in the right way. This gave him such confidence that he
felt justified in pursuing his investigations, but because he could
not explain their significance to the uninitiated, his position became
somewhat insecure. People had to take him on good faith; they did that
so long as peace prevailed, but at the first sign of antipathy he would
be helplessly exposed to the ridicule or contemptuous pity of the
bystanders.
The grandfather was a cultivated man, and therefore curious to know
what was going on in the young pair's rooms. When he inquired, he
received evasive answers, but since he had been a magistrate and
barrister, he required definiteness. When he heard what the Norwegian's
investigations were concerned with, he confuted them with the authority
of the text books. In order to put an end to fruitless strife, his
young relative let him believe he was right. But the old man tried
to provoke him into contradiction, assumed a superior air and became
intrusive. He was allowed to be so for the present.
"Nothing for nothing!" thought the Norwegian. His wife thanked him for
his yieldingness and admired his self-control. But discord was fated to
come, and it came.
The lawsuit in Copenhagen about his book extended its operations here
also, and one day a court officer came to summon him to appear as
defendant in the court of the nearest town. Since he had from the
beginning challenged the jurisdiction of the Copenhagen court, because
as a Norwegian writer he was not responsible to a Danish court, on
account of a translation; and since he regarded the whole proceedings
as illegal, which indeed they were, he refused to appear. The old man
on the other hand insisted that he should do so, especially, perhaps,
because he did not like to see gendarmes coming to his house.
To put an end to the matter, the Norwegian really resolved one morning
to go and present his challenge personally in court.
He therefore went at eight o'clock and followed the beautiful walk
along the river. But about half-way he met the postman and received,
by paying cash on its delivery, a long-expected book. This book was
extremely expensive, and since he had no money, he had been obliged
to devise a plan in order to secure it. After thinking about it for
a month, he remembered that he had some valuables stowed away in a
box in an attic in Norway. He therefore wrote to a friend and asked
him to sell the things for a price equivalent to the purchase of the
expensive book, to change the money into notes and to send them in
an unregistered letter so that no one might know of it. He did this
because he felt he was stealing from his wife and family, but it had to
be done, as he wished to solve an important problem. As he now held the
long-desired means for doing so in his hand, he felt a lightning flash
in his soul, and turned home without thinking.
"Now, I will finish the business," he said to himself; "the gendarmes
can come afterwards."
As he entered the courtyard the old man stood there, cutting up a deer
which he had shot. The Norwegian sought to slip past him unperceived,
but did not succeed.
"Have you already been to the judge?" asked the old man sceptically.
"No," answered the Norwegian curtly, and hurried through the
house-door. He ran up the stairs to his room and bolted the door. Then
he sat down to study. After half an hour he said to himself: "Is the
greatest problem of modern times solved?" There was a knock at the
door, and then another hard and decided. He was obliged to open it in
order to get quiet.
"Why don't you go to the judge?" asked the old man.
"That's nothing to do with you," he answered and slammed the door to
with a sound like a shot.
But now there was no more peace for him! He felt that a crisis had come
in his destiny, and he heard voices below. His hand trembled, he felt
as though paralysed and closed the book which contained what he sought.
At the same moment he lost confidence and dared not face what seemed a
contradictory proof of his theory.
After some minutes his mother-in-law came. She was not angry, but found
it unpleasant to have to tell him that he and his wife must leave the
house at once, before dinner. They could have her little one-storied
cottage at the bottom of the garden and have their meals sent from the
house. His little wife appeared and danced with joy at the thought that
they would have a little house of their own, especially with a garden
and park round it.
The change took place, and now in this cottage began the two happiest
months in the life of the married pair. Their cottage of grey stone,
with little iron-barred windows framed in sandstone, was quite idyllic.
It was built in convent style and covered with vine-creepers. The walls
of the rooms were painted white, without any hangings, and the low
ceilings were supported by thick beams black with age.
He had a little room constructed like a real monk's cell, narrow and
long with a single small window at the end. The walls were so thick
that flower-pots could stand outside in front of the window, as well as
inside on the window-ledge. The furniture was old-fashioned and suited
its surroundings. Here he arranged his library, and never had he felt
so comfortable before.
But now they had to prepare for the coming of the child. Husband and
wife painted the window-sills and doors. Roses and clematis were
planted before the cottage. The garden was dug up and sown. In order to
fill up the blank spaces of the great white walls, he painted pictures
on them. When all was ready they sat down and admired the work of their
hands. "It is splendid," they said; "and now we can receive the child.
Think how pleased it will be, to see so many pictures the first day!"
They waited and hoped; during the long spring evenings they only
talked of him or her, guessed which it would be, discussed what name
it should have, and speculated on its future. His wife's thoughts for
the most part were occupied in wondering whether it would be fair and
resemble his boy, whom she loved. She and her family were especially
fond of fair people, whether because they resembled light, while the
dusky-complexioned reminded one of darkness, would be difficult to
say. They believed everything good of fair people and spoke ill of the
Jews, although the little wife's grandmother on the paternal side was a
Jewess; among her maternal relations who sprang from Schleswig-Holstein
peasantry the word "Jew" was used as a term of reproach. The
Norwegian's father-in-law was an anti-Semite but when he joked at the
paradox involved in this, his wife said: "You must not joke at it; we
will do that ourselves."
At last one day in May as the sun rose, the coming of the unknown
traveller was heralded, and after twelve terrible hours it proved to be
a girl who at any rate was not dark-haired.
This ought to have completed the idyll, but it seemed, on the contrary,
to put an end to it. The little one did not seem to thrive in this vale
of tears, but cried day and night. Nurses were engaged and nurses were
dismissed. Five women filled the house and each had different views as
to the rearing of the child. The father went about like a criminal and
was always in the way. His wife thought that he did not love the child
and this vexed her so much as to make her suffer. At the same time she
herself was completely transformed into a mother to the exclusion of
everything else. She had the child in her own bed, and could spend the
greater part of the night sitting on a chair absorbed in contemplation
of its beauty as it slept. Her husband had also to come sometimes and
join in her admiration, but he thought the mother most beautiful in
those moments when she forgot herself and gazed ecstatically at her
child with a happy smile.
But a storm approached from without. The people of the neighbourhood
were superstitious, and the child's continual crying had given rise to
gossip. They began to ask whether it had been baptised.
According to law the child should be baptised in the father's religion,
but since both he and the mother were indifferent in the matter, the
baptism was postponed as something of no importance, especially as
there was no Catholic priest in the neighbourhood.
The child's crying was really not normal, and as the popular opinion of
the neighbourhood began to find expression, the grandmother came and
asked them to have it baptised. "People are murmuring," she said; "and
they have already threatened to stone your cottage."
The young unbelievers did not credit this, but smiled. The murmurings,
however, increased; it was alleged that a peasant woman had seen the
devil in the garden, and that the foreign gentleman was an atheist.
There was some foundation for this report, for people who met the two
heretics on the roads turned away. At last there came an ultimatum
from the old man. "The child must receive Catholic baptism within
twenty-four hours or the family will be deported across the Belt."
The Norwegian answered: "We Protestants are very tolerant in our
belief, but if it is made a financial matter, we can be as fanatical as
some Catholics." The position was serious, for the young pair had not
a penny for travelling expenses. His letter was answered with a simple
"Then go!"
The Norwegian replied: "To be a martyr for a faith which one does not
possess is somewhat fantastic, and I did not expect that we should play
the Thirty Years War over again down here. But look out! The Norwegian
will come and take his daughter off with his baggage, for he is a
Norwegian subject."
The grandees in the large house began to take a milder tone, but
consulted and devised a stratagem. The child was announced to be ill
and became worse every day. At last the grandmother came with her
retinue and told the father that the child could live no longer, but
he did not believe it. On his return from a long walk in the woods
the same day he was met by his wife with the news that the child had
received discretionary baptism at the hands of the midwife in the
presence of the doctor.
"Into which faith has the child been baptised?" asked the father.
"The Protestant, of course."
"But I don't see how a Catholic midwife can give Protestant baptism."
But as he saw that his wife was privy to the plot, he said no more. The
next day the child was well, and there was no more talk of expelling
the family. The grandees had conquered. Jesuits!
The child, which had been expected to unite the pair more closely to
each other, seemed to have come to separate them. The mother thought
the father cold towards the little one. "You don't love your child,"
she said.
"Yes I do, but as a father," he replied. "You should love her as a
mother. That is the difference."
The fact was that he feared to attach himself too closely to the newly
born, for he felt that a separation from the mother was in the air, and
to be tied to her by means of the child he felt to be a fetter.
She on her side did not know exactly how she wished to have it. If he
loved the child, it might happen that he would take it from her when he
went away; if he did not love it, he would simply go by himself. For
that he would go she felt sure. He had had a dramatic success at Paris
in the spring, and another play of his was announced for the autumn. He
therefore wished to go there, and so did she, but the child hindered
her movements, and if he went alone to Paris, she felt she would
never see him again. Many letters with French postmarks came for him
now, and these roused her curiosity, for he burnt them at once. This
last circumstance, which was quite contrary to his habit, aroused her
suspicion and hatred.
"You are preparing for a journey?" she said one evening.
"Yes, naturally," he answered. "I cannot live in this uncertainty; I
might be put out on the high road at any time."
"You think of deserting us?"
"I must leave you in order to do my business in Paris. A business
journey is not desertion."
"Yes, then you can go," she said, betraying herself.
"I shall go as soon as I get the money for which I am waiting."
Now the Fury in her reappeared. First of all he had to move up into an
attic, and although she and the child had the use of two rooms, she
deliberately spoilt the remaining third room which was the dining-room
and contained specially good furniture. She tore down the curtains,
took away the pictures, choked up the room with child's clothes and
milk bottles with the sole purpose of showing him who was master in
the house. The rooms looked now as though demons had dwelt in them;
crockery, kitchen utensils, and children's clothes were strewn on the
beds and sofas.
She dished up bad meals and the food was often burnt. One day she set
before him a plate of bones which the dogs seemed to have gnawed, and
a water bottle. This last was an expression of the greatest contempt,
for the cellars were full of beer, and no servant ever engaged himself
without stipulating that he should have beer at meals. Accordingly he
was reckoned beneath the men and maidservants. But he kept patient and
silent, for he knew that the journey money would arrive. This, however,
did not prevent his disgust rising to an equal height with her hatred.
He lived now in dirt, destitution, and wretchedness; heard nothing
but scolding and shrieking between his wife and the nurse, his wife
and the maidservant, his wife and her mother, while the child cried
continually. He had an attack of fever and inflammation of the throat,
and lay on his bed in the attic. She did not believe that he was ill
and let him lie there. On the third day he sent for the doctor, for
he could not even drink water. Then his Fury appeared in the doorway.
"Have you sent for the doctor?" she asked. "Do you know what that
costs?"
"Anyhow it will be cheaper than a funeral, and it may be diphtheria,
which is dangerous for the child."
"Do you think of the child?"
"Yes, a little."
If she could now have dropped him into the sea, she would have done it.
But she treated him as though he had the plague. The child, her child,
was in danger!
"I have experienced much," he said in a whisper, "but never have I seen
such intense malice in anyone." And he wept, perhaps for the first time
in twenty years; wept over her unworthiness, and perhaps also over his
fate and his humiliation. When he regarded his position objectively
it seemed monstrous that he, a distinguished man in his own line,
should, without fault of his own, lead such a wretched life that even
the maidservant pitied him. Since he had entered his relative's house,
his behaviour; had been unimpeachable. He did not even drink, if only
for the reason that there was nothing to drink. Since his arrival, his
plays had met with success, but instead of making him more respected,
as success generally does in the case of ordinary mortals, it only
tended to deepen hatred and studied contempt. The fact that he had
accepted hospitality from very rich relatives was not bound to weigh
heavily on his mind, for he was now legal heir to half the property.
But as hate now raged, he was told what his expenses were, and mention
was made of payment.
Again the idea he had formerly had recurred to him, that there was
something more than natural in all this, and that an unseen hand was
controlling his destiny. The inexplicable non-arrival of the journey
money seemed especially designed to prolong his sufferings. When other
letters, which he looked for, did not come, he began to suspect that
his wife had a finger in the matter. He began to watch the mail-bag
which the postman brought, and to write to the post office; naturally,
the only result was further ignominy.
Without having any definite belief, he found himself in a kind of
religious crisis. He felt how he sank in this environment where
everything hinged on the material and only the animal side of things
was prominent--food and excrement, nurses regarded as milch cows, cooks
and decaying vegetables; then endless discussions and the display of
physical necessities which are usually concealed. At the same time
excessively heavy rain had flooded a corridor and two rooms; the water
could not be drained off but stagnated and stank. The garden went to
ruin as no one looked after it.
Then he longed that he could get far away, somewhere where there was
light and purity, peace, love, and reconciliation. He dreamed again
his old dream of a convent within whose walls he might be sheltered
from the world's temptations and filth, where he might forget and be
forgotten. But he lacked faith and the capacity for obedience.
Literature at that period had been long haunted by this idea of a
convent. In Berlin the suggestion had been made to found a convent
without a creed for the "intellectuals." These at a time when
industrial and economical questions took the first place, were
uncomfortable in the dense atmosphere of a materialism which they
themselves had been seduced into preaching. He now wrote to a rich
friend of his in Paris regarding the founding of such a convent; drew
up a plan for the building, laid down rules, and went into details
regarding the coenobitic life and tasks of the convent brothers. This
was in August, 1894. The object proposed was the education of man to
superman through asceticism, meditation, and the practice of science,
literature, and art. Religion was not mentioned, for one did not know
what the religion of the future would be, or whether it would possess
one at all.
His wife noticed that he was becoming separated from her, but
she believed that he was thinking of Paris with its vanities and
distractions, its theatres and cafés, gallant adventures and thirst
for gold. His possible plans excited her fear and envy. As regards
his historical studies, her supercilious smiling had ceased after he
had received words of encouragement from a great German and a famous
French authority, and naturally had been obliged to show their letters
in order to protect himself. Since she could no longer criticise his
ideas she carried the strife on to another ground and began to plague
him with insidious questions as to how much he earned by his historical
studies.
When his wife was angry she went to the old people and narrated all the
small and great secrets which a married pair have between themselves;
she also repeated what he in moments of irritation had said about them.
She was sorry afterwards, but then it was too late. The spirit of
discord was aroused, and the storm could no longer be allayed.
When he happened to have money and offered to contribute towards
domestic expenses, they were annoyed at his want of tact in wishing to
pay rich relatives for inviting him; when he had no money then they
uttered jeremiads over the dearness of everything and sent him the
doctor's bill. In a word, nothing could be done with such uncontrolled
and incorrigible people.
He often thought of going on foot and seeking some fellow-countrymen
with whose help he might proceed farther. But every time he made the
attempt he turned back, as though he had been enchanted and spellbound,
to the little stream where the cottage stood. He had spent some happy
days there, and the memory of these held him fast. Moreover, he was
thankful for the past and felt love to the child, though he dared not
show it, for then the little one would have become a lime-twig to
fetter his wings.
One day he had taken a longer walk than usual among the picturesque
flooded meadows where the deer sported; the pheasants shot out of the
bushes like rockets, their feathers shining with a metallic gleam; the
storks fished in the marsh and the loriots piped in the poplars. Here
he felt well, for it was a lonely landscape where no one ventured to
build a house for fear of the great floods.
For three-quarters of a year he had come here alone every morning. He
did not even let his wife accompany him, for he wished to have this
landscape for himself, to see it exclusively with his eyes, and to hear
no one else's voice there. If he ever saw this horizon again, he did
not wish to be reminded of anyone else.
Here, accordingly, he was accustomed to find himself again himself and
no one else. Here he obtained his great thoughts and here he held his
devotions. The incomprehensible events of the last weeks and his deep
suffering had caused him to change the word "destiny" for "Providence,"
meaning thereby that a conscious personal Being guided his course. In
order to have a name, he now called himself a Providentialist--in other
words he believed in God without being able to define more distinctly
what he meant by that belief.
To-day he felt a pang of melancholy shoot through him as though he
were saying farewell to these meadows and thickets. Something was
impending which he foreboded and feared.
On coming home, he found the house empty; his wife and child were gone.
When he at last discovered the maidservant and asked where his wife
was, she answered impertinently: "She has gone away."
"Where?"
"To Odense."
He did not know whether he believed it or not. But he found a great
charm in the silence and emptiness. He breathed unpoisoned air, enjoyed
the solitude, and went to his work with the imperturbable calm of a
Buddha. His travelling-bag was already packed, and the journey money
might come any day.
The afternoon passed. As he looked out of the window, he noticed an
unusual stillness round the great house; none of the family were to be
seen. But a maidservant was going to and fro between the cottage and
the house as though she were giving information. Once she asked if he
wished for anything. "I wish for nothing," he answered. And that was
the truth, for his last wish to get out of all this misery had been
fulfilled without his having taken a step towards it. He ate his supper
alone and enjoyed it; then remained sitting at the table and smoked.
His mind accepted this fortunate equipoise of the scales, ready to sink
on whichever side it pleased. He guarded himself from forming any wish,
fearing lest his wish might be crossed.
But he expected something. "If I know women rightly," he said to
himself, "she will not be able to sleep to-night without sending a
messenger to see whether the victim is suffering according to her
calculations."
And sure enough his mother-in-law came. "Good evening," she said; "are
you sitting here alone, my son?"
With the stoicism of an Indian before the fire which is to roast him,
he answered: "Yes, I am sitting alone."
"And what are you thinking of doing now?"
"Of going, naturally."
"You seem to take this matter very quietly."
"Why not?"
"Maria intends to seek for a separation."
"I can imagine it."
"Then you don't love her."
"You wish that I should love her in order that I may suffer more."
"Can you suffer--you?"
"You would be glad if I could."
"When are you thinking of going?"
"When I get the journey money."
"You have said that so often."
"You don't want to put me out on the high road to-night?"
"Grandmother is much excited."
"Then she should read her evening prayers attentively."
"One doesn't get far with you."
"No, why should I allow it?"
"Good night." Then she went.
He slept well and deeply as if after an event which he had long
expected.
The next morning he woke up with the distinct idea: "She has not gone;
she is keeping somewhere in the neighbourhood."
When he went out, he saw the maid getting into the ferry-boat with some
of the child's things.
"Ha, ha," then he understood. She was waiting on the other side of the
stream. The maid came back soon, after he had watched her manoeuvres on
the other side through his opera-glass. "If I only keep quiet now," he
thought, "the imperialists are routed."
His mother-in-law came and looked uneasy but yielding. "Well, now you
are alone my son and will never see her any more."
"Is she then so far away?"
"Yes."
He laughed and looked over the water.
"Well," said the old woman, "since you know it, go after her."
"No, I won't do that."
"But she won't come first."
"First or last, it is all the same to me."
The boat went to and fro with messages the whole day.
In the afternoon his mother-in-law came again. "You must take the first
step," she said. "Maria is desperate and will be ill if you don't write
to her and ask her to come again."
"How do you know that I want to have her again? A wife who remains a
night out of her house has forfeited her conjugal rights and injured
her husband's honour."
This was an expected parry, and his mother-in-law beat a sudden
retreat. She crossed over in the ferry-boat and remained there till
evening.
He was sitting in his room and writing when his wife entered with an
air as though she were sorry for his trouble and came in response to
his pressing call. He could have laid her prostrate but did not do so,
being magnanimous towards the conquered. When he had his wife and child
back in the house he found it just as good as when they were away,
perhaps even a little better.
In the evening the journey money came. His position was now altered,
and he had the keys to the dungeon in his hand. At the same moment his
wife saw the matter from another point of view. "Do you know," she
said, "this life is killing me; I have not read a single book since the
child came, and I have not written an article for a year. I will go
with you to Paris."
"Let me go in front," he said, "and spy out the land."
"Then I shall never get away."
He persuaded her to remain, without having formed any distinct purpose
of leaving her; he only longed to feel himself free for a time at any
rate.
But she was now ready to leave her child, "the most important person
of all," as she called it, in order to come out into the world and
play a part there. She knew well that he was not going to seek an
uncertain fortune but to reap the fruits of a success which he had
already gained. The ambitious and independent woman again came into
view, perhaps also the envious rival, for she had moments in which
she regarded herself as an author, superior to him. That was when her
friends in a letter had called her a "genius"; this letter she left
lying about that it might be read.
Fortunately it was not possible for her to travel just now, because her
parents held her back; she had to content herself with the fact that
he, who might be considered as expelled, was leaving her. She became
mild, emotional, and sensitive, so that the parting was really painful.
So he went out into the world again. As the steamer in the beautiful
autumn evening worked its way up the river, he saw again the cottage,
whose windows were lit up. All the evil and ugliness he had seen there
was now obliterated; he hardly felt a fleeting joy at having escaped
this prison in which he had suffered so terribly. Only feelings of
gratitude and melancholy possessed him. For a moment the bond which
united him to wife and child drew him so strongly that he wanted
to throw himself into the water. But the steamer paddles made some
powerful forward strokes, the bond stretched itself, stretched itself,
and broke!
* * * * *
"That was an infernal story," exclaimed the postmaster when the reading
was over. "What can one say about it, except what you yourself have
said in it? But do you think, generally speaking, that marriage will
continue to exist?"
"Although I regard wife, child and home as desirable objects," answered
the doctor, "I do not think lifelong marriages will be long possible"
for in our days the individual--man or woman--is too egotistic and
desirous of independence. You see yourself the direction which social
evolution is taking. We hear of nothing but discontent and divorce.
I grant that conjugal life demands consideration and yieldingness,
but to live suppressing one's innermost wishes in an atmosphere of
contradiction and contrariety, can only end in producing Furies. You
have been married?"
The question came somewhat suddenly and the answer was only given with
hesitation: "Yes, I have been married but am not a widower."
"Divorced then?"
"Yes! and you?"
"Divorced."
"If anyone asked us why, neither you nor I could give a reason."
"A reason--no. I only know that if we had continued to live together,
I should have ended as a homicide, and she as a murderess. Isn't that
enough?"
"Quite enough."
And they took their supper.