pass more quickly? The maid had gone to bed; the grandfather’s clock
ticked and ticked. But it was only ten o’clock when she put away her
crochet work. She fidgeted, moved the furniture about and felt a little
unstrung.
So that was what being married meant! One was torn from one’s early
surroundings, and shut up in three solitary rooms to wait until one’s
husband came home, half intoxicated.--Nonsense! he loved her, and he
was out on business. She was a fool to forget that. But _did_ he love
her still? Hadn’t he refused a day or two ago to hold a skein of wool
for her?--a thing he loved to do before they were married. Didn’t he
look rather annoyed yesterday when she met him before lunch? And--after
all--if he had to attend a business meeting to-night, there was no
necessity for him to be present at the banquet.
It was half-past ten when her musing had reached this point. She was
surprised that she hadn’t thought of these things before. She relapsed
into her dark mood and the dismal thoughts again passed through her
mind, one by one. But now reinforcements had arrived. He never talked
to her now! He never sang to her, never opened the piano! He had told
her a lie when he had said that he couldn’t do without his afternoon
nap, for he was reading French novels all the time.
He had told her a lie!
It was only half-past eleven. The silence was oppressive. She opened
the window and looked out into the street. Two men were standing down
below, bargaining with two women. That was men’s way! If he should
ever do anything like that! She should drown herself if he did.
She shut the window and lighted the chandelier in the bedroom. “One
ought to be able to see what one is about,” he had once said to her on
a certain occasion.--Everything was still so bright and new! The green
coverlet looked like a mown lawn, and the little pillows reminded her
of two white kittens curled up on the grass. The polish of her
dressing-table reflected the light: the mirror had as yet none of
those ugly stains which are made by the splashing of water. The silver
on the back of her hair-brush, her powder-box, her tooth-brush, all
shone and sparkled. Her bedroom slippers were still so new and pretty
that it was impossible to picture them down-at-heel. Everything looked
new, and yet everything seemed to have lost some of its freshness. She
knew all his songs, all his drawing-room pieces, all his words, all
his thoughts. She knew before-hand what he would say when he sat down
to lunch, what he would talk about when they were alone in the
evening.
She was sick of it all. Had she been in love with him? Oh, yes!
Certainly! But was this all then? Was she realising all the dreams of
her girlhood? Were things to go on like this until she died? Yes!
But--but--but--surely they would have children! though there was no
sign of it as yet. Then she would no longer be alone! Then he might go
out as often as he liked, for she would always have somebody to talk
to, to play with. Perhaps it was a baby which she wanted to make her
happy. Perhaps matrimony really meant something more than being a
man’s legitimate mistress. That must be it! But then, he would have to
love her, and he didn’t do that. And she began to cry.
When her husband came home at one o’clock, he was quite sober. But he
was almost angry with her when he found her still up.
“Why didn’t you go to bed?” were the words with which he greeted her.
“How can I go to sleep when I am waiting for you?”
“A fine look out for me! Am I never to go out then? I believe you have
been crying, too?”
“Yes, I have, and how can I help it if you--don’t--love--me--any--more?”
“Do you mean to say I don’t love you because I had to go out on
business?”
“A banquet isn’t business!”
“Good God! Am I not to be allowed to go out? How can women be so
obtrusive?”
“Obtrusive? Yes, I noticed that yesterday, when I met you. I’ll never
meet you again.”
“But, darling, I was with my chief--”
“Huhuhu!”
She burst into tears, her body moved convulsively.
He had to call the maid and ask her to fetch the hot-water bottle.
He, too, was weeping. Scalding tears! He wept over himself, his hardness
of heart, his wickedness, his illusions over everything.
Surely his love for her wasn’t an illusion? He did love her! Didn’t
he? And she said she loved him, too, as he was kneeling before her
prostrate figure, kissing her eyes. Yes, they loved one another! It
was merely a dark cloud which had passed, now. Ugly thoughts, born of
solitude and loneliness. She would never, never again stay alone. They
fell asleep in each other’s arms, her face dimpled with smiles.
But she did not go to meet him on the following day. He asked no
questions at lunch. He talked a lot, but more for the sake of talking
than to amuse her; it seemed as if he were talking to himself.
In the evening he entertained her with long descriptions of the life
at Castle Sjöstaholm; he mimicked the young ladies talking to the
Baron, and told her the names of the Count’s horses. And on the
following day he mentioned his dissertation.
One afternoon he came home very tired. She was sitting in the
drawing-room, waiting for him. Her ball of cotton had fallen on the
floor. In passing, his foot got entangled in the cotton; at his next
step he pulled her crochet work out of her hand and dragged it along;
then he lost his temper and kicked it aside.
She exclaimed at his rudeness.
He retorted that he had no time to bother about her rubbish, and
advised her to spend her time more profitably. He had to think of his
dissertation, if he was to have a career at all. And she ought to
consider the question of how to limit their household expenses.
Things had gone far indeed!
On the next day the young wife, her eyes swollen with weeping, was
knitting socks for her husband. He told her he could buy them cheaper
ready-made. She burst into tears. What was she to do? The maid did all
the work of the house, there was not enough work in the kitchen for
two. She always dusted the rooms. Did he want her to send the maid
away?
“No, no!”
“What did he want, then?”
He didn’t know himself, but he was sure that something was wrong. Their
expenses were too high. That was all. They couldn’t go on living at their
present rate, and then--somehow he could never find time to work at his
dissertation.
Tears, kisses, and a grand reconciliation! But now he started staying
away from home in the evening several times a week. Business! A man
must show himself! If he stays at home, he will be overlooked and
forgotten!
A year had passed; there were no signs of the arrival of a baby. “How
like a little liaison I once had in the old days,” he thought; “there
is only one difference: this one is duller and costs more.” There was
no more conversation, now; they merely talked of household matters.
“She has no brain,” he thought. “I am listening to myself when I am
talking to her, and the apparent depths of her eyes is a delusion, due
to the size of her pupils--the unusual size of her pupils.--”
He talked openly about his former love for her as of something that
was over and done with. And yet, whenever he did so, he felt a pain
in his heart, an irritating, cruel pain, a remorseless pain that could
never die.
“Everything on earth withers and dies,” he mused, “why should her
favourite song alone be an exception to this? When one has heard it
three hundred and sixty-five times, it becomes stale; it can’t be
helped. But is my wife right when she says that our love, also, has
died? No, and yet--perhaps she is. Our marriage is no better than a
vulgar liaison, for we have no child.”
One day he made up his mind to talk the matter over with a married
friend, for were they not both members of the “Order of the Married”?
“How long have you been married?”
“Six years.”
“And does matrimony bore you?”
“At first it did; but when the children came, matters improved.”
“Was that so? It’s strange that we have no child.”
“Not your fault, old man! Tell your wife to go and see a doctor about
it.”
He had an intimate conversation with her and she went.
Six weeks after what a change!
What a bustle and commotion in the house! The drawing-room table was
littered with baby-clothes which were quickly hidden if anybody entered
unexpectedly, and reappeared as quickly if it was only he who had come
in. A name had to be thought of. It would surely be a boy. The midwife
had to be interviewed, medical books had to be bought, and a cradle
and a baby’s outfit.
The baby arrived and it really was a boy! And when he saw the “little
monkey that smelled of butter” clasped to her bosom, which until then
had but been his plaything, he reverently discovered the mother in his
little wife; and “when he saw the big pupils looking at the baby so
intently that they seemed to be looking into the future”, he realised
that there were depths in her eyes after all; depths more profound
than he could fathom for all his drama and religion. And now all his
old love, his dear old love, burst into fresh flames, and there was
something new added to it, which he had dimly divined, but never
realised.
How beautiful she was when she busied herself about the house again!
And how intelligent in all matters concerning the baby!
As for him, he felt a man. Instead of talking of the Baron’s horses
and the Count’s cricket matches, he now talked, too much almost, of
his son.
And when occasionally he was obliged to be out of an evening, he always
longed for his own fireside; not because his wife sat there waiting for
him, like an evil conscience, but because he knew that she was not alone.
And when he came home, both mother and child were asleep. He was almost
jealous of the baby, for there had been a certain charm in the thought
that while he was out, somebody was sitting alone at home, eagerly
awaiting his return.
Now he was allowed his afternoon nap. And as soon as he had gone back
to town, the piano was opened and the favourite song of the _Rose in
the Wood_ was sung, for it was quite new to Harold, and had regained
all its freshness for poor little Laura who hadn’t heard it for so many
days.
She had no time now for crochet work, but there were plenty of
antimacassars in the house. He, on his part, could not spare the time
for his dissertation.
“Harold shall write it,” said the father, for he knew now that his
life would not be over when he came to die.
Many an evening they sat together, as before, and gossiped, but now
both took a share in the conversation, for now she understood what
they were talking about.
She confessed that she was a silly girl who knew nothing about religion
and the drama; but she said that she had always told him so, and that he
had refused to believe it.
But now he believed it less than ever.
They sang the old favourite song, and Harold crowed, they danced to the
tune and rocked the baby’s cradle to it, and the song always retained
its freshness and charm.
FRICTIONS
His eyes had been opened. He realised the perversity of the world, but
he lacked the power to penetrate the darkness and discover the cause
of this perversity; therefore he gave himself up to despair, a
disillusioned man. Then he fell in love with a girl who married
somebody else. He complained of her conduct to his friends, male and
female, but they only laughed at him. For a little while longer he trod
his solitary path alone and misunderstood. He belonged to “society,”
and joined in its pursuits, because it distracted him; but at the bottom
of his heart he had nothing but contempt for its amusements, which he
took no pains to conceal.
One evening he was present at a ball. He danced with a young woman of
unusual beauty and animation. When the band ceased playing, he remained
standing by her side. He knew he ought to talk to her but he did not
know what to say. After a while the girl broke the silence.
“You are fond of dancing, Baron?” she said with a cold, smile.
“Oh no! not at all,” he answered. “Are you?”
“I can’t imagine anything more foolish,” she replied.
He had met his man, or rather his woman.
“Why do you dance, then?” he asked.
“For the same reason that you do.”
“Can you read my mind?”
“Easily enough; if two people think alike, the other always knows.”
“H’m! You’re a strange woman! Do you believe in love?”
“No!”
“Nor do I! You and I ought to get married.”
“I’m beginning to think so myself.”
“Would you marry me?”
“Why not? At any rate, we shouldn’t fight.”
“Horrible idea! But how can you be so sure?”
“Because we think alike.”
“Yes, but that might become monotonous. We should have nothing to talk
about, because the one would always know what the other is thinking.”
“True; but wouldn’t it be even more monotonous if we remained
unmarried and misunderstood?”
“You are right! Would you like to think it over?”
“Yes, until the cotillon.”
“No longer?”
“Why any longer?”
He took her back to the drawing-room and left her there, drank several
glasses of champagne and watched her during supper. She allowed two
young members of the Diplomatic Corps to wait on her, but made fun of
them all the time and treated them as if they were footmen.
As soon as the cotillon began, he went to her and offered her a bouquet.
“Do you accept me?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied.
And so they were engaged.
It’s a splendid match, said the world. They are made for one another.
They are equals as far as social position and money are concerned.
They hold the same blasé views of life. By blasé the world meant that
they cared very little for dances, theatres, bazaars, and other noble
sports without which life is not really worth living.
They were like carefully wiped twin slates, exactly alike; but utterly
unable to surmise whether or not life would write the same legend on
both. They never asked one another during the tender moments of their
engagement: Do you love me? They knew quite well that it was impossible,
because they did not believe in love. They talked little, but they
understood one another perfectly.
And they married.
He was always attentive, always polite, and they were good friends.
When the baby was born, it had but one effect on their relationship;
they had something to talk about now.
But by-and-by the husband began to reveal a certain energy. He had a
sense of duty, and moreover, he was sick of being idle. He had a
private income, but was in no way connected with politics or the
Government. Now he looked round for some occupation which would fill
the void in his life. He had heard the first morning call of the
awakening spirits and felt it his duty to do his share of the great
work of research into the causes of human misery. He read much, made a
careful study of politics and eventually wrote an article and sent it
to a paper. The consequence was that he was elected a member of the
Board of Education. This necessitated hard reading in future, for all
questions were to be threshed out thoroughly.
The Baroness lay on the sofa and read Chateaubriand and Musset. She
had no faith in the improvement of humanity, and this stirring up of
the dust and mould which the centuries had deposited on human
institutions irritated her. Yet she noticed that she did not keep pace
with her husband. They were like two horses at a race. They had been
weighed before the start and been found to be of the same weight; they
had promised to keep side by side during the run; everything was
calculated to make them finish the race and leave the course at the
same time. But already the husband had gained by the length of a neck.
Unless she hurried up, she was bound to be left behind.
And the latter really happened. In the following year he was made
controller of the budget. He was away for two months. His absence made
the Baroness realise that she loved him; a fact which was brought home
to her by her fear of losing him.
When he returned home, she was all eagerness; but his mind was filled
with the things he had seen and heard abroad. He realised that they
had come to the parting of the ways, but he would have liked to delay
it, prevent it, if possible. He showed her in great living pictures
the functioning of the colossal gigantic machinery of the State, he
tried to explain to her the working of the wheels, the multifarious
transmissions, regulators and detents, unreliable pendulums and
untrustworthy safety valves.
She was interested at first, but after a while her interest waned.
Conscious of her mental inferiority, her insignificance, she devoted
herself entirely to her baby, anxious to demonstrate to her husband
that she yet had a value as a model mother. But her husband did not
appreciate this value. He had married her for the sake of companionship,
and he found in her an excellent nurse for his child. But how could it
be helped now? Who could have foreseen such a thing?
The house was always full of members of Parliament, and politics was
the subject of conversation at dinner. The hostess merely took care
that no fault could be found with the cooking. The Baron never omitted
to have one or two men amongst his guests who could talk to his wife
about music and the drama, but the Baroness wanted to discuss nothing
but the nursery and the bringing up of children. After dessert, as
soon as the health of the hostess was drunk, there was a general
stampede to the smoking-room where the political discussions were
continued. The Baroness left her guests and went to the nursery with a
feeling of bitterness in her heart; she realised that her husband had
so far outdistanced her that she could never again hope to come up
with him.
He worked much at home in the evening; frequently he was busy at his
writing-table until the small hours of the morning, but always behind
locked doors. When he noticed afterwards, as he sometimes did, that
his wife went about with red eyes, he felt a pain in his heart; but
they had nothing to say to each other.
Occasionally however, at those times when his work palled, when he
realised that his inner life was growing poorer and poorer, he felt a
void within him, a longing for warmth, for something intimate, something
he had dreamed of long ago, in the early days of his youth. But every
feeling of that sort he suppressed at once as unfaithfulness to his wife,
for he had a very high conception of the duty of a husband.
To bring a little more variety into her daily life, he suggested one
day that she should invite a cousin of whom she had often spoken, but
whom he had never seen, to spend the winter with them in town.
This had always been a great wish of the Baroness’s, but now that the
realisation of it was within her power, she changed her mind. She did
not want her in the least now. Her husband pressed her for reasons,
but she could not give him any. It roused his curiosity and finally
she confessed that she was afraid of her cousin; afraid that she might
win his heart, that he might fall in love with her.
“She must be a queer girl, we really must have her here!”
The Baroness wept and warned, but the Baron laughed and the cousin
arrived.
One afternoon the Baron came home, tired as usual; he had forgotten
all about the cousin and his curiosity in regard to her. They sat down
to dinner. The Baron asked the cousin if she was fond of the theatre.
She replied that she was not. She preferred reality to make-believe.
At home she had founded a school for black sheep and a society for the
care of discharged prisoners. Indeed! The Baron was much interested in
the administration of prisons. The cousin was able to give him a good
deal of information, and during the rest of the dinner the conversation
was exclusively about prisons. Eventually the cousin promised to treat
the whole question in a paper which the Baron was going to read and work
up.
What the Baroness had foreseen, happened. The Baron contracted a
spiritual marriage with the cousin, and his wife was left out in the
cold. But the cousin was also beautiful, and when she leaned over the
Baron at his writing-desk, and he felt her soft arm on his shoulder
and her warm breath against his cheek, he could not suppress a
sensation of supreme well-being. Needless to say, their conversation
was not always of prisons. They also discussed love. She believed in
the love of the souls, and she stated as plainly as she could, that
marriage without love was prostitution. The Baron had not taken much
interest in the development of modern ideas on love, and found that
her views on the subject were rather hard, but after all she was
probably quite right.
But the cousin possessed other qualities, too, invaluable qualifications
for a true spiritual marriage. She had no objection to tobacco smoke for
instance, in fact, she was very fond of a cigarette herself. There was no
reason, therefore, why she should not go into the smoking-room with the
men after dinner and talk about politics. And then she was charming.
Tortured by little twinges of conscience, the Baron would every now
and then disappear from the smoking-room, go into the nursery, kiss
his wife and child, and ask her how she was getting on? The Baroness
was grateful, but she was not happy. After these little journeys the
Baron always returned to his friends in the best of tempers; one might
have thought that he had faithfully performed a sacred duty. At other
times it irritated and distressed him that his wife did not join the
party in the smoking-room, too, as _his_ wife; this thought was a
burden which weighed quite heavily on him.
The cousin did not go home in the spring, but accompanied the couple
to a watering-place. There she organised little performances for the
benefit of the poor, in which she and the Baron played the parts of
the lovers. This had the inevitable result that the fire burst into
flames. But the flames were only spiritual flames; mutual interests,
like views, and, perhaps, similar dispositions.
The Baroness had ample time to consider her position. The day arrived
when she told her husband that since everything was over between them,
the only decent thing to do was to part. But that was more than he had
bargained for; he was miserable; the cousin had better return to her
parents, and he would prove to his wife that he was a man of honour.
The cousin left. A correspondence between her and the Baron began. He
made the Baroness read every letter, however much she hated doing it.
After a while, however, he gave in and read the letters without showing
them to his wife.
Finally the cousin returned. Then matters came to a crisis. The Baron
discovered that he could not live without her.
What were they to do? Separate? It would be death. Go on as at present?
Impossible! Annul the marriage which the Baron had come to look upon as
legal prostitution and marry his beloved? However painful it might be,
it was the only honest course to take.
But that was against the wishes of the cousin. She did not want it said
of her that she had stolen another woman’s husband. And then the scandal!
the scandal!
“But it was dishonest not to tell his wife everything; it was dishonest
to allow things to go on; one could never tell how the matter would end.”
“What did he mean? How could it end?”
“Nobody could tell!”
“Oh! How dared he! What did he think of her?”
“That she was a woman!”
And he fell on his knees and worshipped her; he said that he did not
care if the administration of prisons and the school for black sheep
went to the devil; he did not know what manner of woman she was; he
only knew that he loved her.
She replied that she had nothing but contempt for him, and went helter
skelter to Paris. He followed at her heels. At Hamburg he wrote a
letter to his wife in which he said that they had made a mistake and
that it was immoral not to rectify it. He asked her to divorce him.
And she divorced him.
A year after these events the Baron and the cousin were married. They
had a child. But that was a fact which did not interfere with their
happiness. On the contrary! What a wealth of new ideas germinated in
their minds in their voluntary exile! How strong were the winds which
blew here!