he had drunk eight glasses of brandy, he was so intoxicated that he
could no longer suppress his fears and apprehensions. Among his hosts
was a married man and to him the victim turned for counsel and advice.
Since neither of them was sober, they chose, as the most secluded spot
in the whole room, two chairs right in the centre, immediately under
the chandelier. Consequently they were soon surrounded by an eagerly
listening crowd.
“Look here! You are a married man,” said the lecturer at the top of
his voice, so as not to be heard by the assembly, as he fondly
imagined. “You must give me a word of advice, just one, only one
little word of advice, for I am extremely sensitive to-night,
especially in regard to this particular point.”
“I will, brother,” shouted his friend, “just one word, as you say,”
and he put his arm round his shoulders that he might whisper to him;
then he continued, screaming loudly: “Every act consists of three
parts, my brother: _Progresses, culmen, regressus_. I will speak to
you of the first, the second is never mentioned. Well, the initiative,
so to speak, that is the man’s privilege--your part! You must take the
initiative, you must attack, do you understand?”
“But supposing the other party does not approve of the initiative?”
The friend stared at the novice, taken aback; then he rose and
contemptuously turned his back on him.
“Fool!” he muttered.
“Thank you!” was all the grateful pupil could reply.
Now he understood.
On the following day he was on fire with all the strong drink he had
consumed; he went and took a hot bath, for on the third day was to be
his wedding.
The wedding guests had departed; the servant had cleared the table;
they were alone.
Helena was comparatively calm, but he felt exceedingly nervous. The
period of their engagement had been enhanced by conversations on
serious subjects. They had never behaved liked ordinary, every-day
fiancés, had never embraced or kissed. Whenever he had attempted the
smallest familiarity, her cold looks had chilled his ardour. But he
loved her as a man loves a woman, with body and soul.
They fidgeted about the drawing-room and tried to make conversation.
But an obstinate silence again and again reasserted itself. The
candles in the chandelier had burnt low and the wax fell in greasy
drops on the carpet. The atmosphere was heavy with the smell of food
and the fumes of the wines which mingled with the voluptuous perfume
of carnations and heliotrope, exhaled by Helena’s bridal bouquet that
lay on a side-table.
At last he went up to her, held out his arms, and said in a voice
which he hoped sounded natural:
“And now you are my wife!”
“What do you mean?” was Helena’s brusque reply.
Completely taken aback, he allowed his arms to drop to his sides. But
he pulled himself together again, almost immediately, and said with a
self-conscious smile:
“I mean to say that we are husband and wife.”
Helena looked at him as if she thought that he had taken leave of his
senses.
“Explain your words!” she said.
That was just what he couldn’t do. Philosophy and ethics failed him;
he was faced by a cold and exceedingly unpleasant reality.
“It’s modesty,” he thought. “She’s quite right, but I must attack and
do my duty.”
“Have you misunderstood me?” asked Helena and her voice trembled.
“No, of course not, but, my dear child, h’m--we--h’m....”
“What language is that? Dear child? What do you take me for? What do
you mean? Albert, Albert!”--she rushed on without waiting for a reply,
which she didn’t want--“Be great, be noble, and learn to see in women
something more than sex. Do that, and you will be happy and great!”
Albert was beaten. Crushed with shame and furious with his false
friend who had counselled him wrongly, he threw himself on his knees
before her and stammered:
“Forgive me, Helena, you are nobler, purer, better than I; you are
made of finer fibre and you will lift me up when I threaten to perish
in coarse matter.”
“Arise and be strong, Albert,” said Helena, with the manner of a
prophetess. “Go in peace and show to the world that love and base
animal passion are two very different things. Good-night!”
Albert rose from his knees and stared irresolutely after his wife who
went into her room and shut the door behind her.
Full of the noblest and purest sentiments he also went into his room.
He took off his coat and lighted a cigar. His room was furnished like
a bachelor’s room: a bed-sofa, a writing table, some book shelves, a
washstand.
When he had undressed, he dipped a towel into his ewer and rubbed
himself all over. Then he lay down on his sofa and opened the evening
paper. He wanted to read while he smoked his cigar. He read an article
on Protection. His thoughts began to flow in a more normal channel,
and he considered his position.
Was he married or was he still a bachelor? He was a bachelor as
before, but there was a difference--he now had a female boarder who
paid nothing for her board. The thought was anything but pleasant, but
it was the truth. The cook kept house, the housemaid attended to the
rooms. Where did Helena come in? She was to develop her individuality!
Oh, rubbish! he thought, I am a fool! Supposing his friend had been
right? Supposing women always behaved in this silly way under these
circumstances? She could not very well come to him--he must go to her.
If he didn’t go, she would probably laugh at him to-morrow, or, worse
still, be offended. Women were indeed incomprehensible. He must make
the attempt.
He jumped up, put on his dressing-gown and went into the drawing-room.
With trembling knees he listened outside Helena’s door.
Not a sound. He took heart of grace, and approached a step or two.
Blue flashes of lightning darted before his eyes as he knocked.
No answer. He trembled violently and beads of perspiration stood on
his forehead.
He knocked again. And in a falsetto voice, proceeding from a parched
throat, he said:
“It’s only I.”
No answer. Overwhelmed with shame, he returned to his room, puzzled
and chilled.
She was in earnest, then.
He crept between the sheets and again took up the paper.
He hadn’t been reading long when he heard footsteps in the street which
gradually approached and then stopped. Soft music fell on his ear, deep,
strong voices set in:
“Integer vitae sclerisque purus....”
He was touched. How beautiful it was!
Purus! He felt lifted above matter. It was in accordance with the spirit
of the age then, this higher conception of marriage. The current of
ethics which penetrated the epoch was flowing through the youth of the
country....
“_Nec venenatis...._”
Supposing Helena had opened her door!
He gently beat time and felt himself as great and noble as Helena
desired him to be.
_“Fusce pharetra!”_
Should he open the window and thank the undergraduates in the name of
his wife?
He got out of bed.
A fourfold peal of laughter crashed against the windowpanes at the very
moment he lifted his hand to draw up the blind.
There could be no doubt, they were making fun of him!
Beside himself with anger he staggered back from the window and
knocked against the writing-table. He was a laughing-stock. A faint
hatred against the woman whom he had to thank for this humiliating
scene, began to stir within him, but his love acquitted her. He was
incensed against the jesters down below, and swore to bring them
before the authorities.
But again and again he reverted to his unpleasant position, furious
that he had allowed himself to be led by the nose. He paced his room
until dawn broke in the East. Then he threw himself on his bed and
fell asleep, in bitter grief over the dismal ending of his
wedding-day, which ought to have been the happiest day of his life.
On the following morning he met Helena at the breakfast table. She was
cold and self-possessed as usual. Albert, of course, did not mention
the serenade. Helena made great plans for the future and talked
volumes about the abolition of prostitution. Albert met her half-way
and promised to do all in his power to assist her. Humanity must
become chaste, for only the beasts were unchaste.
Breakfast over, he went to his lecture. The serenade had roused his
suspicions, and as he watched his audience, he fancied that they were
making signs to each other; his colleagues, too, seemed to congratulate
him in a way which offended him.
A big, stout colleague, who radiated vigour and _joie de vivre_, stopped
him in the corridor which led to the library, seized him by the collar
and said with a colossal grin on his broad face.
“Well?”
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” was the indignant reply with
which he tore himself away and rushed down stairs.
When he arrived home, his flat was crowded with his wife’s friends.
Women’s skirts brushed against his legs, and when he sat down in an
armchair, he seemed to sink out of sight into piles and piles of
women’s clothes.
“I’ve heard rumours of a serenade last night,” said the professor’s
wife.
Albert grew pale, but Helena took up the gauntlet.
“It was well meant, but they really might have been sober. This
excessive drinking among students is terrible.”
“What did they sing?” asked the professor’s wife.
“Oh! the usual songs: ‘My life a sea,’ and so on,” replied Helena.
Albert stared at her in amazement, but he couldn’t help admiring her.
The day went with gossip and discussions. Albert felt tired. Been
joyed spending a few hours, after the daily toil was over, in
pleasant conversation with women, but this was really too much. And
moreover, he had to agree to everything they said, for whenever he
attempted to express a contradictory opinion, they were down on him in
a minute.
Night fell; it was bedtime. Husband and wife wished one another good
night and retired to their separate rooms.
Again he was attacked by doubt and restlessness. He fancied that he
had seen a tender look on Helena’s face, and he wasn’t quite sure
whether she hadn’t squeezed his hand. He lit a cigar and unfolded his
paper. As soon as he began to read of every-day matters, he seemed to
see clearly.
“It’s sheer madness,” he said aloud, throwing the paper aside.
He slipped on his dressing-gown and went into the drawing-room.
Somebody was moving in Helena’s room.
He knocked.
“Is that you, Louise?” asked a voice from inside.
“No, it’s only I,” he whispered, hardly able to speak.
“What’s the matter? What do you want?”
“I want to speak to you, Helena,” he answered, hardly knowing what he
was saying.
The key turned in the lock. Albert could hardly trust his ears. The
door flew open. Helena stood on the threshold, still fully dressed.
“What is it you want?” she asked. Then she noticed that he was in his
dressing-gown and that his eyes shone strangely.
She stretched out her hand, pushed him away and slammed the door.
He heard a thud on the floor and almost simultaneously loud sobs.
Furious, but abashed, he returned to his room. She was in earnest,
then! But this was certainly anything but normal.
He lay awake all night, brooding, and on the following morning he
breakfasted alone.
When he came home for lunch, Helena received him with an expression of
pained resignation.
“Why do you treat me like that?” she asked.
He apologised, with as few words as possible. Then he repented his
curtness and climbed down.
Thus matters stood for six months. He was tossed between doubt, rage
and love, but his chain held.
His face grew pale and his eyes lost their lustre. His temper had
become uncertain; a sullen fury smouldered beneath his outward calm.
Helena found him changed, despotic, because he was beginning to oppose
her, and often left the meetings to seek amusement elsewhere.
One day he was asked to become a candidate for a professorial chair.
He refused, believing that he had no chance, but Helena gave him no
peace until he complied with the conditions. He was elected. He never
knew the reason why, but Helena did.
A short time after there was a by-election.
The new professor, who had never dreamed of taking an active interest
in public affairs, was nonplussed when he found himself nominated. His
surprise was even greater when he was elected. He intended to decline,
but Helena’s entreaties and her argument that life in a big city was
preferable to an existence in a small provincial town induced him to
accept the mandate.
They removed to Stockholm.
During these six months the newly-made professor and member of
Parliament had made himself acquainted with the new ideas which came
from England and purposed to recreate society and the old standards of
morality. At the same time he felt that the moment was not far off
when he would have to break with his “boarder.” He recovered his
strength and vigour in Stockholm, where fearless thinkers encouraged
him to profess openly the views which he had long held in secret.
Helena, on the other hand, scented a favourable opportunity in the
counter-current and threw herself into the arms of the Church Party.
This was too much for Albert and he rebelled. His love had grown cold;
he found compensation elsewhere. He didn’t consider himself unfaithful
to his wife for she had never claimed constancy in a relationship
which didn’t exist.
His friendly intercourse with the other sex aroused his manliness and
made him realise his degradation.
His growing estrangement did not escape Helena. Their home-life became
unpleasant and every moment threatened to bring a catastrophe.
The opening of Parliament was imminent. Helena became restless and
seemed to have changed her tactics. Her voice was more gentle and she
appeared anxious to please him. She looked after the servants and saw
that the meals were served punctually.
He grew suspicious and wondered, watched her movements and prepared
for coming events.
One morning, at breakfast, Helena looked embarrassed and self-conscious.
She played with her dinner napkin and cleared her throat several times.
Then she took her courage in both her hands and made a plunge.
“Albert,” she began, “I can count on you, can’t I? You will serve the
Cause to which I have devoted my life?”
“What cause is that?” he asked curtly, for now he had the upper hand.
“You will do something for the oppressed women, won’t you?”
“Where are the oppressed women?”
“What? Have you deserted our great cause? Are you leaving us in the
lurch?”
“What cause are you talking about?”
“The Women’s Cause!”
“I know nothing about it.”
“You know nothing about it? Oh, come! You must admit that the position
of the women of the lower classes is deplorable.”
“No, I can’t see that their position is any worse than the position of
the men. Deliver the men from their exploiters and the women too will
be free.”
“But the unfortunates who have to sell themselves, and the scoundrels
who--”
“The scoundrels who pay! Has ever a man taken payment for a pleasure
which both enjoy?”
“That is not the question! The question is whether it is just that the
law of the land should punish the one and let the other go scotfree.”
“There is no injustice in that. The one has degraded herself until she
has become a source of infection, and therefore the State treats her
as it treats a mad dog. Whenever you find a man, degraded to that
degree, well, put him under police control, too. Oh, you pure angels,
who despise men and look upon them as unclean beasts!...”
“Well, what is it? What do you want me to do?”
He noticed that she had taken a manuscript from the sideboard and held
it in her hand. Without waiting for a reply, he took it from her and
began to examine it. “A bill to be introduced into Parliament! I’m to
be the man of straw who introduces it! Is that moral? Strictly speaking,
is it honest?”
Helena rose from her chair, threw herself on the sofa and burst into
tears.
He, too, rose and went to her. He took her hand in his and felt her
pulse, afraid lest her attack might be serious. She seized his hand
convulsively, and pressed it against her bosom.
“Don’t leave me,” she sobbed, “don’t go. Stay, and let me keep faith
in you.”
For the first time in his life he saw her giving way to her emotions.
This delicate body, which he had loved and admired so much, could be
warmed into life! Red, warm blood flowed in those blue veins. Blood
which could distil tears. He gently stroked her brow.
“Oh!” she sighed, “why aren’t you always good to me like that? Why
hasn’t it always been so?”
“Well,” he answered, “why hasn’t it? Tell me, why not?”
Helena’s eyelids drooped. “Why not?” she breathed, softly.
She did not withdraw her hand and he felt a gentle warmth radiating
from her velvety skin; his love for her burst into fresh flames, but
this time he felt that there was hope.
At last she rose to her feet.
“Don’t despise me,” she said, “don’t despise me, dear.”
And she went into her room.
What was the matter with her? Albert wondered as he went up to town.
Was she passing through a crisis of some sort? Was she only just
beginning to realise that she was his wife?
He spent the whole day in town. In the evening he went to the theatre.
They played _Le monde où l’on s’ennuit_. As he sat and watched platonic
love, the union of souls, unmasked and ridiculed, he felt as if a veil
of close meshed lies were being drawn from his reason; he smiled as he
saw the head of the charming beast peeping from underneath the card-board
wings of the stage-angel; he almost shed tears of amusement at his long,
long self-deception; he laughed at his folly. What filth and corruption
lay behind this hypocritical morality, this insane desire for
emancipation from healthy, natural instincts. It was the ascetic
teaching of idealism and Christianity which had implanted this germ
into the nineteenth century.
He felt ashamed! How could he have allowed himself to be duped all this
time!
There was still light in Helena’s room as he passed her door on tip-toe
so as not to wake her. He heard her cough.
He went straight to bed, smoked his cigar and read his paper. He was
absorbed in an article on conscription, when all of a sudden Helena’s
door was flung open, and footsteps and screams from the drawing-room
fell on his ears. He jumped up and rushed out of his room, believing
that the house was on fire.
Helena was standing in the drawing-room in her nightgown.
She screamed when she saw her husband and ran to her room; on the
threshold she hesitated and turned her head.
“Forgive me, Albert,” she stammered, “it’s you. I didn’t know that you
were still up. I thought there were burglars in the house. Please,
forgive me.”
And she closed her door.
What did it all mean? Was she in love with him?
He went into his room and stood before the looking-glass. Could any
woman fall in love with him? He was plain. But one loves with one’s
soul and many a plain man had married a beautiful woman. It was true,
though, that in such cases the man had nearly always possessed wealth
and influence.--Was Helena realising that she had placed herself in a
false position? Or had she become aware of his intention to leave her
and was anxious to win him back?
When they met at the breakfast table on the following morning, Helena
was unusually gentle, and the professor noticed that she was wearing a
new morning-gown trimmed with lace, which suited her admirably.
As he was helping himself to sugar, his hand accidentally touched hers.
“I beg your pardon, dear,” she said with an expression on her face which
he had never seen before. She looked like a young girl.
They talked about indifferent things.
On the same day Parliament opened.
Helena’s yielding mood lasted and she grew more and more affectionate.
The period allowed for the introduction of new bills drew to a close.
One evening the professor came home from his club in an unusually gay
frame of mind. He went to bed with his paper and his cigar. After a
while he heard Helena’s door creak. Silence, lasting for a few minutes,
followed. Then there came a knock at his door.
“Who is there?” he shouted.
“It’s I, Albert, do dress and come into the drawing-room, I want to
speak to you.”
He dressed and went into the drawing-room.
Helena had lighted the chandelier and was sitting on the sofa, dressed
in her lace morning-gown.
“Do forgive me,” she said, “but I can’t sleep. My head feels so
strange. Come here and talk to me.”
“You are all unstrung, little girl,” said Albert, taking her hand in
his own. “You ought to take some wine.”
He went into the dining-room and returned with a decanter and two
glasses.
“Your health, darling,” he said.
Helena drank and her cheeks caught fire.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, putting his arm round her waist.
“I’m not happy,” she replied.
He was conscious that the words sounded dry and artificial, but his
passion was roused and he didn’t care.
“Do you know why you are unhappy?” he asked.
“No. I only know one thing, and that is that I love you.”
Albert caught her in his arms and kissed her face.
“Are you my wife, or aren’t you?” he whispered hoarsely.
“I am your wife,” breathed Helena, collapsing, as if every nerve in
her body had snapped.
“Altogether?” he whispered paralysing her with his kisses.
“Altogether,” she moaned, moving convulsively, like a sleeper
struggling with the horrors of a nightmare.
When Albert awoke, he felt refreshed, his head was clear and he was
fully conscious of what had happened in the night. He could think
vigorously and logically like a man after a deep and restful sleep.
The whole scene stood vividly before his mind. He saw the full
significance of it, unvarnished, undisguised, in the sober light of
the morning.
She had sold herself!
At three o’clock in the morning, intoxicated with love, blind to
everything, half insane, he had promised to introduce her bill.
And the price! She had given herself to him calmly, coldly, unmoved.
Who was the first woman who found out that she could sell her favour?
And who was the woman who discovered that man is a buyer? Whoever she
was, she was the founder of marriage and prostitution. And they say
that marriages are made in heaven!
He realised his degradation and hers. She wanted to triumph over her
friends, to be the first woman who had taken an active share in the
making of her country’s laws; for the sake of this triumph she had
sold herself.
Well, he would tear the mask from her face. He would show her what she
really was. He would tell her that prostitution could never be
abolished while women found an advantage in selling themselves.
With his mind firmly made up, he got out of bed and dressed.
He had to wait a little for her in the dining-room. He rehearsed the
scene which would follow and pulled himself together to meet her.
She came in calm, smiling, triumphant, but more beautiful than he had
ever seen her before. A sombre fire burnt in her eyes, and he, who had
expected that she would meet him with blushes and down-cast eyes, was
crushed. She was the triumphant seducer, and he the bashful victim.
The words he had meant to say refused to come. Disarmed and humble he
went to meet her and kissed her hand.
She talked as usual without the slightest indication that a new factor
had entered her life.
He went to the House, fuming, with her bill in his pocket, and only
the vision of the bliss in store for him, calmed his excited nerves.
But when, in the evening, he knocked quite boldly at her door, it
remained closed.
It remained closed for three weeks. He cringed before her like a dog,
obeyed every hint, fulfilled all her wishes--it was all in vain.
Then his indignation got the better of him and he overwhelmed her with
a flood of angry words. She answered him sharply. But when she
realised that she had gone too far, that his chain was wearing thin,
she gave herself to him.
And he wore his chain. He bit it, strained every nerve to break it,
but it held.
She soon learned how far she could go, and whenever he became restive,
she yielded.
He was seized with a fanatical longing to make her a mother. He
thought it might make a woman of her, bring out all that was good and
wholesome in her. But the future seemed to hold no promise on that
score.
Had ambition, the selfish passion of the individual, destroyed the
source of life? He wondered....
One morning she informed him that she was going away for a few days to
stay with her friends.