In seven years Ingeborg had six children. She completely realised during
that period the Psalmist's ideal of a reward for a good man and was
altogether the fruitful vine about the walls of his house. She was
uninterruptedly fruitful. She rambled richly. She saw herself, at first
with an astonished chagrin and afterwards with resignation, swarming up
to the eaves of her little home, pauseless, gapless, luxuriantly
threatening choke the very chimneys. At the beginning she deplored this
uninterrupted abundance, for she could not but see that beneath it the
family roof grew a little rotten and sometimes, though she made feeble
efforts to keep it out, a rather dismal rain of discomfort soaked in and
dimmed the brightness of things. Good servants would not come to such a
teeming household. The children that were there suffered because of the
children that were soon going to be there. It was a pity, she thought,
that when one produced a new child one could not simultaneously produce
a new mother for it, so that it should be as well looked after as one's
first child had been. She could mend their stockings, because that could
be done lying on a sofa, but she was never sure about anything else that
concerned them. And there were so many things, such endless vital things
to be seen to if babies were to flourish. And when the first ones grew
bigger and she might have begun those intimate expeditions and
communions with them she used to plan, she found that, too, was
impossible, for she was so deeply engaged in providing them with more
brothers and sisters that she was unable to move.
The days between her first and second child were the best. She was still
strong enough to tub Robertlet every night and prepare his food, and
keep a watchful eye on him most of the time; also, he was only one, and
easy to deal with. And he was so exact and punctual in his ways that he
seemed like a clock you wound up at regular intervals and knew would
then go on by itself; and his clothes, naturally, were all new and
needed little mending; and she still had Ilse, who did not marry till a
year later; and she had persuaded herself, for one must needs persuade
oneself of something, that after this next baby there would be a pause.
This persuasion, and the few admonishments Edward Ingram had thrown at
her that afternoon, helped her extraordinarily. So easily could she be
stirred to courage and enthusiasm that she was able to forget most of
her fears and discomforts in the new business of training her mind to
triumph over her body, and she got through a surprising quantity of
mixed reading that winter and spring; and when at last in the following
May her hour had come, she marched off almost recklessly with her two
plaits already hanging down her back and her head held high and her eyes
wide and shining to the fatal bedroom where Death she supposed, but
refused to care, sat waiting to see if he could not get her this time,
so filled was she with the spirit she had been cultivating for six
months of proud determination not to be beaten.
She was, however, beaten.
It was the absence of pauses that beat her. She came to be, as the
German phrase put it, in a continual condition of being blest. She came
to be also continually more bloodless. Gradually sinking away more and
more from energy as one child after the other sapped her up, she left
off reading, dropping the more difficult things first. The _Hibbert
Journal_ went almost at once. Soon the _Times_ was looked at languidly
and not opened. The _National Review_ gave her an earache. Presently she
was too far gone even for the _Spectator_. The _Clarion_ lasted longest,
but a growing distaste for its tone caused it finally to be abandoned.
For she was becoming definitely religious; she was ceasing to criticise
or to ask Why? She would sit for hours contemplating the beauty of
acquiescence. It gave her a boneless satisfaction. The more anæmic she
grew the easier religion seemed to be. It was much the least difficult
thing to be passive, to yield, not to think, not to decide, never to
want explanations. And everybody praised her. How nice that was!
Baroness Glambeck approved, Frau Dosch approved loudly. The elder Frau
Dremmel came out each year twice and silently approved of a mother whose
offspring was so strikingly like herself; while as for Kökensee, it
regarded her with the respect due to a person becoming proverbial. It is
true Robert seemed to love her rather less than more, in spite of her
obviously deserving to be loved more than ever now that she was at one
with him about Providence; yet it was hardly fair to say that, either,
for nobody could be kinder than he was when he was not busy. He was busy
from morning to night. How nice that was, she thought, her hands folded;
she had always thought it nice to be busy.
Of her six children Robertlet flourished, and so did the sister who came
after him. The next two died, one doing it boldly of mumps, a thing that
had never been achieved before and greatly interested the doctor, who
predicted a memorable future for him if he had been going to have one,
and the other, more explicably, by falling out of the punt when his very
existence depended on his keeping in it. Then they took to being born
dead; two of them in succession did this; and it was after the second
had done it that Ingeborg reached her lowest ebb of vitality and could
hardly be got to say a sentence that did not include heaven.
When she had been up and dressed two months and still lay about on sofas
being religious, Herr Dremmel, who was patient but slowly becoming
conscious that there was an atmosphere of _chapelle ardente_ about his
parlour on his coming into it with the innocent briskness of a good man
to his supper, thought perhaps the Meuk doctor, who by now was a
familiar feature in his life, had better come over and advise; and so it
was that Ingeborg went to Zoppot, that bracing and beautiful seaside
resort near Danzig, leaving her home for the first time since her
marriage, going indeed with as much unwillingness as so will-less a
person could possess, but sent off regardless of her moist opposition by
the doctor, who would not even allow her to take Robertlet and Ditti
with her.
She went in the care of the nurse who had helped her after Robertlet's
birth, and she was to stay there all June and all July, and all August
and September as well if necessary.
"But what will they do without me?" she kept on feebly asking. "And my
duties--how can I leave everything?"
Tears poured down her face at her departure. She gave keepsakes to both
the servants. She sent for the sexton, with whom she had latterly grown
friendly, and tried to speak but could not. She folded the impassive
Robertlet and Ditti to her heart so many times that they were stirred to
something almost approaching activity and resistance.
"Your prayers--you won't forget what Mummy taught you?" she wept, as
though she were taking leave of them for ever.
"Dear Robert," she sobbed, clinging to him with her cheek against his on
the platform at Meuk where he saw her off, "do forgive me if I've been a
bad wife to you. I _have_ tried. You won't forget--will you--ever--that
I _did_ try?"
The nurse gave her a spoonful of Brand's Meat Jelly. The journey was a
journey of jelly combating grief. All the way each relapse into woe was
instantly interrupted by jelly; and it was not till the evening, when
they reached the little pension on the sands which was to be their home
for two months, and Ingeborg going to the open window gave a quick cry
as the full freshness and saltness and heaving glancing beauty burst
upon her, that the nurse threw the rest of the tin away and put her
trust altogether in the sea.
Herr Dremmel returned to his wifeless home in a meditative frame of
mind. As he jolted along in the same carriage, only grown more shaky, in
which he had brought his bride back seven years before, he indulged,
first, in a brief wonder at the ups and downs of women; from this he
passed to a consideration of the superior reliability of chemicals; from
this, again, he proceeded to reflect that, nevertheless, a man's life
should be decorated at the edges, and that the most satisfactory
decoration was a wife and family. Ingeborg, in spite of her ups and
downs, had been a good wife to him, and he did not regret having
attached her to his edges, but then he also had done his part and been a
good husband to her. Few marriages, he thought, could have been so
harmonious and successful as theirs. He loved her as an honest man
should love his wife--at judicious intervals. Always he had affection
for her, and liked being with her when she was feeling well. Her
money--every wife should have a little--had helped him much, indeed had
made most of the successes that had rewarded his labours possible, and
she had given him a child a year, which was, he was aware, the maximum
output and rendered him civically satisfactory. That these children
should, four of them, not have succeeded in staying alive, and that the
two who had should bear so striking a resemblance to his mother, a
person he knew for unintelligent, were misfortunes, but one did not
dwell on misfortunes; one turned one's back on them and went away and
worked. The central fact of life, its core of splendour, he said to
himself as, arrived at home, he hung up his hat in the passage and
prepared to plunge with renewed appetite into his laboratory, was work;
but, he added as he passed the open door of the sitting-room, and was
reminded by its untidiness of domesticities, since one had to withdraw
occasionally from the heat of that great middle light and refresh
oneself in something cooler, one needed a place of relaxation where the
interest was more attenuated, a ring of relative tepidity round the
bright centre of one's life, and this ring was excellently supplied by
the object commonly called the family circle. The harder he worked, the
more hotly he pursued knowledge, the more urgent was a man's need for
intervals of tepidity. One sought out one's little wife and rested one's
brain; one took one's son on one's knee; one pulled, perhaps, the plait
of one's daughter.
Life for Herr Dremmel was both great and simple. During the seven years
of his marriage it had become continually more so. There were times he
could remember previous to that event when he had lost sight of this
truth in a confused hankering, periods during which he had hankered
persistently, moments that astonished him afterwards to call to mind
when, the lilacs being out in the garden and the young corn of the
fields asprout in the warm spring sun, his laboratory, that place of
hopes and visions, had incredibly appeared to him to be mere bones.
Marriage had banished these distortions of perception, and he had lived
seven years in the full magnificent consciousness of the greatness and
simplicity of life. He was armoured by his singleness of purpose. He
never came out of his armour and was petty. Not once, while Ingeborg in
a distant corner of the house was fearing that she had hurt him, or
offended him, or had made him think she did not love him, had he been
hurt or offended or thinking anything of the sort. He was absorbed in
great things, great interests, great values. There was no room in his
thoughts for meditations on minor concerns. The days were not wide
enough for the bigness they had to hold, and it never would have
occurred to him to devote any portion of their already limited space to
inquiring if he had been hurt. His interested eyes, carefully examining
and comparing and criticising phenomena, had no time for introspection.
As the years passed and successes followed upon his patience, his
absorption and subjugation by his work became increasingly profound; for
a man has but a handful of years, and cannot during that brief span live
too inquisitively. Herr Dremmel was wringing more out of Nature, who
only asks to be forced to tell, each year. He was accumulating
experiences and knowledge of an interest and value so great that
everything else was trivial beside them. The passing day was forgotten
in the interest of the day that was to come. The future was what his
brain was perpetually concerned with, and an eye ranging with growing
keenness over a growingly splendid and detailed vision cannot observe,
it would be an interruption, a waste to observe, the fluctuations in the
moods of, for instance, a family or a parish.
Wives, children, and parishes are adornments, obligations, and means of
livelihood. They are what a man has as well, but only as well. Herr
Dremmel during these years had trained his parish to be unobtrusive in
return for his own unobtrusiveness, and in spite of occasional
restiveness on the part of Baron Glambeck, who continued from time to
time, on the ground that the parish was becoming heathen and displaying
the smug contentment characteristic of that condition, to endeavour to
persuade the authorities to remove him somewhere else, was more firmly
established than ever in the heart of a flock that only wanted to be
left alone; and as for his wife and children, he regarded them
benevolently as the necessary foundation of his existence, the airy
cellars that kept the fabric above sweet and dry. Like cellars, one had
to have them, and one was glad when they were good, but one did not live
in them. As a wise man who wished to do fine work before being overtaken
by the incapacitations of death, he had contrived his life so that it
should contain enough love to make him able to forget love. It is not,
he had come to know very well since his marriage, by doing without but
by having that one can clear one's mind of wanting; and it is only the
cleared mind that can achieve anything at all in the great work of
helping the world to move more quickly on its journey towards the light.
For some weeks after Ingeborg's departure he was immensely unaware of
her absence. It was June, that crowded month for him who has
experimental fields; and small discomforts at home, such as ill-served,
unpunctual meals and rooms growing steadily less dusted, at no time
attracted his notice. He would come out of his laboratory after a good
morning's work in much the same spirit with which the bridegroom issuing
from his chamber, a person details cannot touch, is filled, and would
eat contentedly any food he found lying about and be off to his fields
almost before Robertlet and Ditti had done struggling with their bibs
and saying their preliminary grace.
The children, however, took no base advantage of this being left to
themselves. Robertlet did not turn on Ditti and seize her dinner because
she was a girl; Ditti did not conceal more than her share of pudding in
her pocket for comfort during the empty afternoon hours. They sat in
silence working through the meal, using their knives to eat with instead
of their forks, for knives rather than forks were in their blood, and
unmoved by the way in which bits they had carefully stalked round and
round their plates ended by tumbling over the edge on to the tablecloth.
They were patient children, and when that happened they made no comment,
but dropping their knives also on the tablecloth picked up the bits in
their fingers and ate them. At the end Ditti said the closing grace as
her mother had taught her, Robertlet having officiated at the opening
one, and they both stood behind their chairs with their eyes shut while
she expressed gratitude in German to the dear Saviour who had had the
friendliness to be their guest on that occasion, and having reached the
Amen, in which Robertlet joined, they did not fall upon each other and
fight, as other unshepherded children filled with meat and pudding might
have done, but left the room in a sober file and went to the kitchen and
requested the servant Rosa, who was the one who would have been their
nurse if they had had one, to accompany them to their bedroom and see
that they cleaned their teeth.
They spent the afternoons in not being naughty.
Herr Dremmel, accordingly, because of this health and sobriety in his
children and his own indifference to his comfort, had no domestic
worries such as engulf other men whose wives are away to disturb him,
and it was not till July was drawing to a close and a long drought
forced leisure upon him that Ingeborg's image began to obtrude itself
through the chinks of his work.
At first he thought of her as a mother, as somebody heavy, continually
recovering from or preparing for illness; but presently he began to
think of her as a wife, as his wife, as his proper complement and
relaxation from all this toil shut up in a dull laboratory. She seemed
to grow brighter and lighter thought of like that, and by the time he
received a letter asking if she might stay away another fortnight to
complete what was being a thorough cure she was so brightly in his mind
that he felt extremely disappointed.
He wrote giving the permission she asked, and made the discovery that
his house looked empty and that a fortnight was long. He paced the
garden in the hot evenings, smoking beneath the lime-trees where he and
she at the beginning used so gaily to breakfast, and forgot how slow of
movement and mind she had been for several years, how little he had
really seen of her, how more and more his attitude towards her had been
one of patience; and when he went in to his supper, which he suddenly
did not like and criticised, what he found himself looking for was not
the figure he had been used to find lying silent on the sofa, but the
quick, light, flitting thing that laughed and pulled his ears, the
Ingeborg of the beginning, his little sheep.
On the day she came home, although it was the very height of harvesting
and the first samples of the year's grain lay on his table waiting to be
examined, he gave up the afternoon to driving in to Meuk to meet her,
and waited on the platform with an impatient expectancy he had not felt
for years.
"It is not good for man to live alone," were his first words as he
embraced her largely in the door of the railway carriage, while the
porter, in a fever to get out the hand luggage and run and attend to
other passengers, had to wait till he had done. "Little sheep, how could
you stay away so long from the old shepherd?"
She was looking very well, he thought--sunburnt and with many new
freckles, rounder, quite young, a sweet little wife for a long solitary
husband to have coming home to him.
He lifted her proudly into the carriage and drove through Meuk with his
arm round her, waving the other one at the doctor who rallied past them
in his own high shaky vehicle and shouting, "Cured!"
The doctor, however, seemed surprised at seeing Ingeborg, and did not
smile back but looked inscrutably at them both.
She asked about the welfare of the children, and whether their ears had
been properly washed.
"Ears?" exclaimed Herr Dremmel. "And what, pray, have the ears of others
to do with a reunited wedded couple?"
She hoped, a little hurriedly, that Rosa and the cook had been good to
him.
"Rosa and the cook?" he cried. "What talk is this of Rosa and the cook?
If you are not silent with your domesticities I will kiss you here and
now in the middle of the open highroad."
She said she had never really thanked him for letting her go to Zoppot
and be there so long.
"Too long, Little One," he interrupted, drawing her closer. "Almost had
I forgotten what a dear little wife I possess."
"But I'm going to make up for it all now," she said, "and work harder
than I've ever done in my life."
"At making the good Robert happy," he said, pinching her ear.
"And doing things for the children. Dreadful to think of them all this
time without me. Were they good?"
"Good as fishes."
"Robert--fishes?"
"They are well, Little One, and happy. That is enough about the
children. Tell me rather about you, how you filled up your days."
"I walked, I sailed, I bathed, I lay in the sun, and I made
resolutions."
"Excellent. I shall await the result with interest."
"I hope you'll like them. I know they'll be very good for the children."
She had so earnest a face that he pulled it round by the chin and peered
at it. Seen close she was always prettiest, full of delicacy and charm
of soft fair skin, and after examining her a moment with a pleased smile
he stooped down and did, after all, kiss her.
She flushed and resisted.
"What?" he said, amused. "The little wife growing virginal again?"
"You've made my hat crooked," she said, putting up her hands to
straighten it. "Robert, how are the fields?"
"I will not talk about the fields. I will talk about you."
"Oh, Robert. You know," she added nervously, "I'm not _really_ well yet.
I've still got to go on taking tiresome things--that tonic, you know.
The doctor there said I'm still anæmic--"
"We will feed her on portions of the strongest ox."
"So you mustn't mind, if I--if I--"
"I mind nothing if only I once more have my little wife at home," said
Herr Dremmel; and when he helped her down on to the parsonage steps,
where stood Robertlet and Ditti in a stiff and proper row waiting
motionless till their mother should have got near enough for them to
present her with the nosegays they were holding, he kissed her again,
and again pinched her ear, and praised God aloud that his widowerhood
was over.
They had tea, a meal that had long before been substituted for the
heavier refreshment of coffee, in a parlour filled with flowers by Rosa
and the cook, the very cake, baked for the occasion, being strewn with
them. Herr Dremmel lounged on the sofa behind the table looking placidly
content, with one arm round his wife, while Robertlet and Ditti, awed by
the splendours of the decorations for their mother's home-coming and
their own best clothes and spotless bibs, sat opposite, being more
completely good than ever. From their side of the table they stared
unflinchingly at the two people on the sofa--at their comfortably
reclining, pleased-looking father, whom they knew so differently as a
being always hurriedly going somewhere else, at their mother sitting up
very straight, with her veil pushed up over her nose, pouring out tea
and smiling at them and keeping on giving them more jam and more milk
and more cake even after, aware from their sensations that overflowing
could not be far off, they had informed her by anxious repetitions of
the word _satt_, which she did not seem to hear, that they were already
in a dangerous condition. And they wondered dimly why, when she poured
out the tea, her hand shook and made it spill.
"I will now," said Herr Dremmel when the meal was finished, getting up
and brushing crumbs out of the many folds that were characteristic of
his clothes, "retire for a space into my laboratory."
He looked at Ingeborg and smiled. "Picture it," he said. "The only
solace I have now had for two months and a half has been in the bony
arms of my laboratory. I grow weary of them. It is well to have one's
little wife home again. A man, to do his work, needs his life complete,
equipped in each of its directions. His laboratory seems bony to him if
he has not also a wife; his wife would seem not bony enough if he had
not also a laboratory. Bony and boneless, bony and boneless--it is the
swing of the pendulum of the wise man's life." And he bent over her and
lifted her face up again by putting his finger under her chin. "Is it
not so, Little One?" he asked, smiling.
"I--suppose so," said Ingeborg.
"Suppose so!"
He laughed, and pulled an escaping tendril of her hair, and went away in
great contentment and immersed himself very happily in the saucers of
new grain waiting to be weighed and counted.
It was a fine August afternoon, and his windows were open, for there was
no wind to blow his papers about, and he was pleased when he presently
became aware out of the corner of an eye withdrawn an instant from its
work that his wife had come out on to the path below and was walking up
and down it in the way she used to before the acuter period of the sofa
and the interest in life beyond the grave had set in.
He liked to see her there. There was a grass bank sloping up from the
path to beneath his windows, and by standing on tip-toe on the top of
this and stretching up an arm as far as it would go one was just able to
tap against the glass. He remembered how she used to do this when first
they were married, on very fine days, to try to lure him out from his
duties into dalliance with her among the lilacs. It amused him to find
himself almost inclined to hope she would do it now, for it was long
since there had been dalliance and he felt this was an occasion, this
restoration to normality, on which some slight trifling in a garden
would not be inappropriate.
But Ingeborg, though she loitered there nearly half an hour, did not
even look up. She wandered up and down in the cool shade the house threw
across the path in the afternoon, her hat off, apparently merely
enjoying the beauty of a summer day bending towards its evening, and
presently he forgot her in the vivid interest of what he was doing; so
that it was the surprised expression of some one who has forgotten and
is trying to recall that he looked at her when, after a knock at the
door which he had not heard, he saw her come in and stand at the corner
of his table waiting till he had done counting--a process he conducted
aloud--to the end of the row of grains he was engaged upon.
His thoughts were still chiefly with them as he looked up at her when he
had done and had written down the result, but there was room in them
also for a slight wonder that she should be there. She had not
penetrated into his laboratory for years. She had been tamed, after a
period of recurring insurrections, into respect for its sanctity. But he
did not mind being interrupted on this occasion; on the contrary, as
soon as he had fully returned to consciousness he was pleased. There was
a large warmth pervading Herr Dremmel that afternoon which made him
inclined not to mind anything. "Well, Little One?" he said.
Immediately she began to deliver what sounded like a speech. He gazed at
her in astonishment. She appeared to be in a condition of extreme
excitement; she was addressing him rapidly in a trembling voice; she was
much flushed, and was holding on to the edge of the table. It was so
sudden and so headlong that it was like nothing so much as the gushing
forth of the long corked-up contents of an over-full bottle, and he
gazed at her in an astonishment that did not for some time permit him to
gather the drift of what she was saying.
When he did she had already got to the word Ruins.
"Ruins?" repeated Herr Dremmel.
"Ruins, ruins. It _must_ stop--it _can't_ go on. Oh, I saw it so clearly
the last part of the time in Zoppot. I suppose it was the sea wind blew
me clear. Our existence, Robert, our decently happy existence in a
decently happy home with properly cared-for children--"
"But," interrupted Herr Dremmel, raising his hand, "one moment--what is
it that must stop?"
"Oh, don't you see all that will be in ruins about us--but in _ruins_,
Robert--all our happy life--if I go on in this--in this wild career
of--of unbridled motherhood?"
Herr Dremmel stared. "Unbridled--?" he began; then he repeated, so deep
was his astonishment, "Wild career of--Ingeborg, did you say unbridled
motherhood?"
"Yes," said Ingeborg, pressing her hands together, evidently
extraordinarily agitated. "I learned that by heart at Zoppot, on purpose
to say to you. I knew if I didn't directly I got into this room I'd
forget everything I meant to say. I know it sounds ridiculous, the way I
say it--"
"Unbridled motherhood?" repeated Herr Dremmel. "But--are you not a
pastor's wife?"
"Oh, yes, yes--I know, I know. I know there's Duty and Providence, but
there's me, too--there is me, too. And, Robert, won't you see? We shall
be happy again if I'm well, we shall be two real people instead of just
one person and a bit of one--you and a battered thing on a sofa--"
"Ingeborg, you call a wife and a mother engaged in carrying out her
obligations a battered thing on a sofa?"
"Yes," said Ingeborg, hurrying on to the principal sentence of those she
had prepared at Zoppot and learned by heart, desperately clutching at it
before Robert's questions had undermined her courage and befogged the
issues. "Yes, and I've come to the conclusion after ripe
meditation--after ripe yes--the production of the--of the--yes, of the
already extinct"--(dead seemed an unkind word, almost rude) "is
wasteful, and that--and that--....Oh, Robert," she cried, flinging out
her hands and letting go all the rest of the things she had learned to
say, "don't you think this persistent parenthood might end now?"
He stared at her in utter amazement.
"It--it _disagrees_ with me," she said, tears in her voice and in her
anxious, appealing eyes.
"Am I to under--"
"Anyhow _I_ can't go on," she cried, twisting her fingers about in an
agony. "There's so little of me to go on _with_. I'm getting stupider
every day. I've got no brains left. I've got no anything. Why, I can
hardly get together enough courage to tell you this. Oh, Robert," she
appealed, "it isn't as though it made you _really_ happier--you don't
really _particularly_ notice the children when they're there--it isn't
as though it made anybody _really_ happier--and--and--I'm dreadfully
sorry, but I've done."
And she dropped on to the floor beside him and put her cheek against his
sleeve and tried to make up by kissing it and clinging to it for her
subversion of that strange tremendous combination of Duty and Providence
that so bestrode her life. "If only you wouldn't _mind_--" she kept on
saying.
But Herr Dremmel, for the first time since he had known her, was deeply
offended, deeply hurt. She had pierced his armour at the one vulnerable
spot. His manhood was outraged; his kindness, his patience, his
affection were forgotten and spurned. He looked down at the head against
his arm with a face in which wounded pride, wrath, shockedness at so
great a defiance of duty, and the amazed aggrievement of him whose gifts
and blessings are not wanted, struggled together. Then, as she still
went on clinging and incoherently suggesting that he should not mind, he
rose up, took her by the hand, helped her to her feet, and led her to
the door; and there, after facing her a moment in silence with it opened
in his hand while she stood blinking up at him with appealing eyes, he
said dreadfully: "Evidently you do not and never have loved me."