XIII

The things I related to you in the preceding chapter are necessary for

the comprehension of my subsequent life. But they are the issues of an

entire lifetime, and in the years previous to my marriage, when I lived

with my mother and her protégée, I was only at the beginning and knew

yet very little of all this. I did not speak of it either, and in all

my later life I mentioned it to only one person.

As my plan of entering the priesthood had come to naught, we were all

three glad to leave the sultry city of Rome. We went to Como, occupying

our villa at the lake. It was an old house with wainscotings of yellow

stucco and a sad air of ruined stateliness, of a splendor that even in

its prime had pretended to more than it really was. It was quite

different than my memory had pictured it. Much humbler, smaller - a

weak and feeble reflection of the solid marble splendor of antique and

renaissance which it affected to imitate. But this very decay now

spread over it an involuntary charm. For the garden with its cypresses,

mimosas, magnolias and roses had grown all the more beautiful in its

neglected wilderness, and we inhabited only a few rooms of the great

still house, making ourselves at home in the nooks and corners as

though we were caretakers instead of owners. And directly in front of

the garden was the lake, with its smooth extent of deep blue, with

satin or moiré sheen according as it was touched by the gentle breeze,

- and behind were the mountains with thousands of primulas, the purple

erica, and the pink and white Christmas rose. The brooklet was still

there - and the old pillared portico, where the stone showed from under

the crumbling stucco and the roses had pushed their way through the

stone paving and entwined the columns.

Into this abode I withdrew, gathering books about me, and by study and

a quiet, temperate life endeavored to attain by myself the consecration

which I could not find in Rome. Lucia with her maid continued to live

with us, and I saw her and my mother at the meals, but aside from that

not often.

They were rigorous, tranquil, secluded years, which may probably be

reckoned among the good years of my life. I quietly went my own way and

studied, following only the guidings of my inner thirst for knowledge.

But the women waited, waited, and I did not see it, or did not heed it.

Bernard Shaw, the Benjamin and the enfant terrible among my brethren,

tries his best to show the world that it is the woman who wins the man

and not the reverse - and surely there is more truth in this than the

common herd suspects. But if one were to believe him, one should

imagine that the woman thereby considers only selfish ends and

primarily cares for, desires and accepts the man, because she finds him

useful to the interest of her deep-seated instincts, of the desired

good and beautiful child. But after all this is not true, and the woman

in her quiet, unnoticed, luring and combining activities does not want

to take only, but to give as well, above all to give, and usually she

values the husband higher than the father.

Lucia was a very gentle woman, yet of firm character. She had the large

firm build and the regular, massive features of Titian's women, but her

eyes were softer, and showed less of that daringly exuberant spirit.

She was also characteristically Latin and un-Germanic in her feelings

and sentiments. Without criticism she subjected herself to the

spiritual teachings of the group to which she belonged. The

conventional was an unalterable mental reality to her, tradition

possessed for her all the power of the living and the sublime. Thus the

conception of "honor" with all its personal and social facets was to

her as fixed, clear, clean-cut and immutable as a diamond. That it

might be variable, that some ages had called honorable what was now

considered dishonorable, and vice versa, on that she never reflected

and she did not seek for the lasting kernel of the changing idea.

Through this she possessed a serenity and peace of mind which, in my

perplexities, often seemed very enviable to me. She had no tendencies

which she despised, but also no ideals which, as I, she must constantly

curtail at life's behest. That a young bachelor like myself sometimes

allowed himself dissipations, was a fact which she passed over with a

light French step. And she bore allusions to it so undisturbed that it

often impressed me painfully. She did not seem to feel the

Englishwoman's need of upholding the illusion of prematrimonial purity

in both husband and wife, and though I recognized that she had a

perfect right to this way of thinking, yet it annoyed me and I

preferred Emmy's ingenuous or assumed blindness.

But I also realized that Lucia's indulgence would be turned into an

equally rigid condemnation as soon as conventional bounds were

overstepped. What a young man did before his marriage had in Latin

countries never yet jeopardized his honor. But her honor as a wife, the

honor of the home, the honor of a family name - these were for her

circumscribed realities, which might be menaced by certain actions, and

which if need be she would sacrifice her life to defend.

She had been reared in luxury, and on reaching her majority had a large

fortune at her disposal. But she never seemed to give it a thought, and

lived in my mother's house with the utmost simplicity. That my mother

cared just as little about it I dare not say, and for me this was

another reason for maintaining my stubborn resistance. It impressed me

most disagreeably to hear my mother forever talking of the

miserableness and worthlessness of the earthly life, and of the

blessedness hereafter as the only thing deserving of our attention, and

at the same time observe how with unconscious motherly matchmaking and

secret strategy she sought to arrange a rich marriage for her son. I

therefore resisted her silent machinations as much as was possible

without endangering the household peace.

It profited me nothing, however. I was bound to lose this game because

I did not have my mind on it. The two women were determined to win it,

not with conscious deliberate intent, but as women want a thing with

all the obstinate strength of their mind, without ever saying a word

about it or admitting it to themselves. And I was absorbed in chemistry

and physics, in physiology and biology, my whole mind was engrossed in

the great endeavor to decipher something of the mysterious writ of the

phenomena of life and Nature, and in some degree to penetrate the dark

recesses of my own nature.

Thus the conflict was unequal - and though it lasted for years I

finally found myself conquered as by surprise. I felt that it was no

longer possible for me to draw back, and moreover that I was alone

responsible. There is no finer diplomacy than the unconscious diplomacy

of women. I had been conquered and withal wholly maintained in the

illusion that I myself was the acting, the attacking and the conquering

party. But all this, mark it well, with the most devoted and unselfish

love.

Actually in love, as with Emmy Tenders, I never was with Lucia del

Bono: and this, despite my amorous nature, her great charm and our many

years' companionship. I admired her for her beauty and for what

everyone must call her stainless character. But she lacked for me just

that certain mysterious, impenetrable something that in Emmy excited me

to so mad a passion. I loved Lucia for the same reason that everyone

must love her, because she really was a very lovable creature. But this

rational sentiment, that to many would seem a more solid basis for a

happy union than most paroxysms of love, never rose to the height of a

passion mightier than all reason. And I believed, as do many sensible

and staid people, and as my mother also believed, that I could make

this well-considered affection suffice for making her happy, and for

giving direction and balance to my own life. I lived in the very common

conceit that I had my own nature entirely in my power and thus, from

out the headquarters of my self-consciousness, could freely dispose of

it, always following the counsels of a reasonable deliberation.

That I should make Lucia happy by marrying her seemed beyond doubt.

That I should ever feel for another woman what I had felt for Emmy, I

could not believe. Then how could I do better than to devote my life to

an excellent woman, to whom I thus accorded what she seemed to desire

and who as my wife would surely never disappoint me? True, to save her

from humiliation, I should have to feign a love which I never expected

to feel. But I no longer faced mankind with the naive brotherly

uprightness, and I saw no wrong in acting such a part with such good

intention. I also considered myself perfectly capable of it, and again

swore to myself an oath - no less sincerely meant and also no less

fragile - that I would be a faithful and exemplary husband to her, and

would at all times make my own happiness subservient to hers.

Now every human person is, according to the primitive meaning of this

word, also a mask, and there is no person living, be he ever so simply

sincere, so wholly uncomplicated, but has wrought for himself such a

mask, has assumed such a rôle, according to his ideals of human worth,

of fitness and breeding. And if he means it honestly, he tries to live

himself into the part so that he can believe himself to be what he

pretends. Thus, following his own or others' form ideals, he moulds and

fashions himself into a personality which will be the more respected

the more pronounced, decided, and unchangeable it manifests itself. But

would he assume a mask, enact a part far removed from his own form

ideals and unattainable to the plasticity of his true nature, he fails

miserably, is called a scoundrel and a knave and is indeed a wretch.

Thus the part I played toward Lucia was not one entirely foreign to my

nature. I simply tried my best to efface the boundaries between, and

merge the emotional degrees of affection and love. This was not

difficult and I honestly hoped that my true nature would some time

really fill the assumed form: that thus I would become for Lucia the

true lover and devoted husband she expected to find in me. I also

related to her the history of my heart and my past, in so far as was

essential to a just estimation; and she accepted it all reverently, as

a pleasing and honoring mark of confidence, and saw no difficulty

whatsoever. She followed the suggestion of her own desire, that

everything would be as she wished it, with the same complacence with

which she had trusted in my mother's wisdom, and she continued to

hearken to the voice of the herd.

The wild, sultry sirocco had suddenly melted the snowy caps of the

mountains to about half their former extent, the mimosas bloomed

profusely, their luxuriant yellow masses standing out vividly against

the deep blue ether, and up on the mountains everywhere beamed the

hepatica with its myriad sweet flower-stare of faint and tender blue -

when Lucia and I were to wed in the white marble cathedral of Como. I

had acceded to her wish that all the ceremonies should be duly

observed. More and more I had learned to divide my life, as the only

means of keeping the peace with mankind and with myself. I realized

that what in brother Michael had seemed to me despicable hypocrisy was

nothing more than the brutal acceptance and shocking confirmation of a

sad necessity, to which every deeply thinking person must submit. Was

not Socrates far too wise a man to believe that if there really existed

a god of medicine, Asklepias by name, he would please this personage by

beheading and burning a cock? Yet he ordered this to be done in

acknowledgment of the speedy effect of the poison that killed him; this

at a moment when a sensible man does not usually jest or act. This poor

cock of Socrates has often come to my mind; also on the day when I left

my books and microscopes, my sprouting seeds and growing salamander

larvae to array myself for the wedding ceremony. Even the very wisest

man is obliged to offer to the gods of his time.

It was a lovely day and a brilliant scene. Lucia's distinguished family

had arrived in full force and glittering pageant. Not only the violet

but the crimson clergy were represented. The street populace of Como

were lined up from the landing place of our boats to the cathedral as

at the arrival of royalty. The street urchins ran before us, and there

was even cheering as though this event signified an additional joy on

earth. The church was fragrant with masses of roses and radiant with -

hundreds of candles, and returning our gondolas formed a long

multi-colored line on the lake, with draperies trailing through the

water, and songs and music, as though we were still in the good days of

the Borgias.

Lucia was serene and beaming with quiet happiness, like a blue hepatica

blossom, a little bashful, but responding archly and merrily, and her

fine clear eyes dimmed by only the slightest suspicion of a tear. She

saw nothing ahead of us but bliss, a welcome happiness, a regular

God-pleasing life. For me it was not hard to sustain my part in this

beautiful scene. It was not so much a rôle or a comedy that I enacted,

as perhaps a lovely dream.

When the sun sank I sat on the terrace meditating and contemplating the

colors of the darkly shimmering well-nigh blackish green foliage of the

magnolias, the snow of the mountains opposite, glittering golden in the

evening light, above it the luminous, pale greenish blue sky, and below

the purplish violet mountain slopes and the soft steel blue lake. The

colors merged and became one with the fragrance of the lemon blossoms

surrounding me, marking this as one of the unforgettable representative

moments, to which we look back repeatedly on our journey of life as the

skipper looks back to a buoy or lighthouse passed.

I thought of my dream-world and compared the sharp brilliant

impressions of the night with those of the day, asking myself when I

was most truly and really myself, and which of the two worlds was the

more real - and why?