PRIDE
(_Fragments from Penelope's Diary_)
_Paris, Three Months Later._
It is three months since I wrote this diary, three lonely months since I
said good-bye to Christopher, or rather wrote good-bye, for I should
never have had the courage to leave him, if I had tried to give him my
reasons--face to face. I have never seen him or heard from him since
that terrible night at Dr. Leroy's when the evil cloud was lifted from
my soul and I knew and remembered--_everything!_
I have never heard from Seraphine. They do not even know where I am,
they must not know--that is part of my plan, but it is frightfully hard.
I pray for strength to be reconciled to my life of loneliness and to
find comfort in good works; but the strength has not come to me. Every
day I think of Christopher and the separation from him grows harder and
harder. Life is not worth living.
* * * * *
I am perfectly sane and normal, just as I was before my hallucinations.
No more voices, or fears, or wicked dreams. Sometimes I wish I could
dream of Christopher; but I never do, I never dream of anything. I
suppose I should be grateful for that and glad that my cure is so
complete. Oh, dear!
* * * * *
I wear myself out at the dispensary for poor French children and try my
best to smile and be cheerful and to interest myself in their pitiful
needs and sorrows; but my heart is not in this work and my smiles are
forced. Many nights I cry myself to sleep.
And yet I did right. I go over it all in my mind and I see that I did
right. There was nothing else for me to do. I had to decide for both of
us, and I decided. I thought of those dreadful things that I did,
and--meant to do--those things that neither Christopher nor I can
possibly forget ... how could Christopher ever have confidence in me as
his wife? How could we ever be happy together with those memories
between us?
* * * * *
I try to remember the exact words that I wrote to my lover that morning
when I went away. I hope I did not make him suffer too much. But of
course he suffered--he must have. I told him we could not see each other
any more, or write to each other, or--anything. I knew I would have been
too weak to resist the call of my love and he would have been too fine,
too chivalrous, to let me go. He would have said: "You are cured now,
dear" (which I really am) "and there is no reason why we should not be
married--" which is true, except that he would always have had the fear,
deep down in his heart, that I might relapse into what I had been. How
could a high-minded man like Chris bear the thought that the woman he
loved, the woman who was to be the mother of his children, had acted
like a wanton? He could not bear it. It is evident that I did right.
_And yet--_
* * * * *
I often wonder what another woman would have done in my place. She loves
a man as I loved Christopher--as I love him still. She is proud, she has
always been admired, she cannot bear the thought of being pitied. And
suddenly she learns that she has disgraced herself, she has violated the
sacred traditions of modesty that restrain all women. She has acted like
an abandoned woman towards the man she worships. God! It is true she has
done this without knowing it, without being responsible for it, but she
has done it, and that ineffaceable memory will always shame her, if she
becomes his wife. Day after day she will read it in his eyes, in his
reticencies, in his efforts to be cheerful--she will know that he
remembers--_what she was!_
NO! She could not bear it, no woman with any pride could bear it.
Pride!
What is pride? Is it a good thing or a bad thing? Would I be a finer
woman if I could endure this humiliation and gracefully accept
forgiveness? I suppose some women would take it all simply, like a
grateful patient cured of an illness. Alas! that is not my nature.
* * * * *
How little we know ourselves! We all wear masks of one kind or another
that hide our true personalities even from ourselves. How will a woman
act in sudden peril? In a moral crisis? In the face of shattering
disgrace? Let the most beautiful wife and mother realize that some
painful chapter in her life is to be opened to the world--what price
will she not pay to avert this scandal?
Julian had a friend who on a certain night stood before a locked door
with an officer of the law. His wife was on the other side of that
door--with a companion in dishonor. The husband was armed. He was
absolutely within his rights. They broke down the door. _And then_--
Not one of those tragic three could have told in advance what would
happen when that door crashed in. As a matter of fact the woman alone
was calm--coldly calm.
"Yes," she said, "I am guilty. Now shoot! Why don't you shoot? You are
afraid to shoot!"
Which was true.
The husband was afraid; and the lover was more afraid; it was the erring
wife who cut the best figure. But who could have foreseen this
dénouement?
* * * * *
After all I only did those abominable things because I was ill--when I
was not myself; whereas now I am well, and the evil has passed from me.
Besides, I only showed that wicked side of my nature to Christopher,
through my love; it is inconceivable that I could ever have acted that
way with another man. Christopher knows that. He knows there is no
possible doubt about that. How much difference does this knowledge make
to him--I wonder.
* * * * *
I am going to leave Paris. I am too unhappy here. It seems there is a
great need for nurses at Lourdes--that strange miracle place where
pilgrims go to be healed--and I have volunteered for service. If the
sick are really cured by miracles I don't see why they need nurses; but
never mind that. It will give me a change and I may see some unfortunate
men and women who are worse off than I am. Oh, if God would only work a
miracle so that I can have Christopher and make him happy! But that can
never be. Why not? Why do I say that after what has happened to me? Was
it not a miracle that saved me from those hideous evils? Then why not
other miracles?
* * * * *
_At Lourdes. Two Weeks Later._
Speaking of miracles, I am living among them. I am working in the
_Bureau de Constatations_ where the _miraculés_--those who are supposed
to have been miraculously healed--are questioned and examined by
doctors, Catholics, Protestants, Agnostics, Atheists, who come from all
over the world to investigate these cures from the standpoint of a
religion or pure science. What sights I have seen! Men and women of all
ages and walks of life testifying that the waters of the sacred grotto
have freed them from this or that malady, from tumors, lameness,
deafness, blindness, tuberculosis, nervous trouble and numerous other
afflictions. By thousands and tens of thousands these unfortunates crowd
here from the four corners of the earth, an endless procession of
believers, and every year sees scores of the incurable cured, instantly
cured--even the sceptical admit this, although they interpret the facts
differently. Some say it is auto-suggestion, others speak of mass
hypnotism, others regard it as a scientific phenomenon not yet
understood like the operation of the X-rays. And many wise men are
satisfied with the simple explanation that it is the work of God,
manifested today for those who have faith exactly as in Bible times.
* * * * *
I was stabbed with poignant memories this afternoon when a tall
black-bearded peasant told the doctors that his father, who accompanied
him, and who had been insane, a violent neurasthenic, shut up in an
asylum for four years, had been restored by the blessed waters to
perfect health and had shown no abnormality of body or mind for eight
years. These statements were verified by scientists and doctors.
Eight years! If I really believe in the permanent recovery of this poor
man, as the doctors do, why am I doubtful about my own permanent
recovery? The answer is that I am not doubtful for myself, but for
Christopher. He might reason like this, he might say to himself--he is
so loyal that he would die rather than say it to me: "I know Penelope
has been restored to her normal condition of mind, but that normal
condition includes a strong inherited and developed tendency
towards--certain things,"--my cheeks burn with shame as I write this.
"How do I know that this tendency in her, even if she remains herself,
will not make trouble again--for both of us?"
How could Christopher be sure about this?
_He could not be sure!_
So I did right to leave him.