everything else. Perhaps I shall get whooping-cough next? It would be
much the best plan if one could have every childish complaint at once
and have done with it. It is boring in this magnificent carbolic-scented
clinic; but the nursing is good, and it is said to be healthy to be
bored. I always fancied the much spoken about self-sacrifice nurses to be
an old wives’ tale.
In the room next mine, there is the most passionate little monster of a
boy nine months old, and no one would believe it, but all the nurses are
willing to give up their sorely needed night’s rest for his sake. I, for
my part, wish he was in a hot place.
And then they actually ask me if I wouldn’t like to have him “in my bed
for a little.” Heaven protect me and my well-conditioned intellect!
Oh! I pity the poor women who have several little children at the
same time! I’d like to know how many mothers really feel for their
children—_because_ it is their children.
Richard will get it with that wonder of a child. He boasts about his
teeth, but he says nothing about the pain getting those teeth has cost
him.
* * * * *
Yesterday I had a visit from a convalescent, who went round paying visits
to the patients who were still lying in bed. I shall make friends with
her. She amuses me. How well I understood that there can be a certain
charm in studying bacteria and bacilli—small causes, huge results.
Frankly, I thought at first that she had been in a reformatory. There
was something about her that gave the impression that she must have been
under restraint. I was quite prepared that she would confess to having
committed some crime. But no, that wasn’t it.
She had only been in all innocence a nun for twenty-two years. Twenty-two
years a nun! Think of it! There were the years, too, that she was pupil
and novice, making altogether twenty-six years behind the walls of a
convent, subjected to the convent discipline and the weary convent habit.
And now she has broken loose, like a prisoner who makes a rope of his
bedclothes to escape over walls to freedom.
She had compelled—how, she did not disclose—the Church to set her at
liberty, and now was beginning to live her own life for the first time.
The life which she left at sixteen she has now taken up again at the age
of forty-two. She looks like a person of sixty.
I could not forbear putting the indiscreet question, why she had broken
away? And she replied, what was evidently the truth, that when she
noticed she was beginning to grow old, a doubt arose within her as to
whether the life in the world outside was not richer than the life
behind the convent walls. She has given all her large fortune to the
Church, and now lives on a scanty allowance grudgingly doled out to her
by one of the sisters.
But she is happy as a queen in two little rooms, where she is her own
mistress, able to eat and drink when she wants to, and as much as she
likes. And she can serve her God unbidden by the ding-dong of the chapel
bell—for she has not abjured her faith.
The one desire of her heart now is to find a man who’ll marry her. Her
modesty is certainly touching. She doesn’t mind who he is, or what he
looks like, if only she may be granted the wonderful happiness of having
a husband. I lied my utmost to comfort her.
And if she can’t get a husband, she intends to adopt a child.
A really sick, starving, miserable child. I said tamely, that if I
cherished—as God forbid that I should—such a fad, I would, at all events,
seek out a healthy, pretty, and well-nourished infant. Whereupon she
answered, “I don’t want a child to live for my sake; I want to live for
the sake of a child.” She is a fine, but rather queer creature. And she
has promised to come and see me every day.
* * * * *
Sister Ethel has bet me a palm—she has obviously an empty tub in her
room—that if once I had the little boy next door with me for an hour, I
should take him to my heart.
I would rather give her the palm straight off, and have nothing to do
with the little boy; but still, if it gives her any pleasure, well, I’ll
have him this afternoon, but directly the hour is over, clean sheets.
* * * * *
To my eternal shame I am bound to confess that I have lost the palm. It
may be that all the nun’s sentimental gabble has affected my brain! I,
who abhor the scent of little children, and shudder to touch them.
He lay perfectly still and squinted up at me, sucking a finger. It was
the little finger. I really shouldn’t mind losing another palm, but my
pride, God be praised, prevents my giving expression to the wish.
* * * * *
He doesn’t cry when he is with me. Nobody can understand it. In the night
when he was crying, I, foolish old person, rose from my bed of measles,
and went to look in on him. I thought the nurse had gone away. It was
rather a painful situation.
DEAR PROFESSOR ROTHE,[1]
Your letter was such a shock to me that I could not answer it at once....
That is why I sent you the brief telegram in reply, the words of which I
am sorry I must repeat, “I know nothing about the matter.” Lili has never
spoken of it to me, or made the least allusion which could cause me to
suspect such a thing. I may truthfully say that I never heard her mention
the name of Director Schlegel. My first idea was that Lili had gone out
of her mind, and I was surprised that you, a medical man, should not have
come to the same conclusion.
But, after thinking it over for the last two days, I have changed my
opinion. I think I am beginning to understand what has happened, and I
beg you to hold me alone responsible for what I am going to say.... I
am only making suppositions. Lili has not broken her marriage vows. Any
suspicion of such a thing is out of the question, her nature was too
upright, too loyal.... If she appeared to you and the world happy in her
married life, it was because she really was so. I entreat you to believe
this.
Lili, who never told even a conventional lie, who watched over her
children like an old-fashioned mother, careful of what they read and
what plays they saw—how could she carry on an intrigue unknown to you
and them? Perfectly impossible, my dear Professor. I don’t say that she
didn’t speak the words you heard, but that you must have put a wrong
interpretation on them.
Not once, but thousands of times, Lili has talked about you to me. She
loved and honoured you. You were her ideal man, husband, and father.
She used literally to become eloquent on the subject of your
operations.... She studied Latin in order that she might understand your
scientific books, while, in spite of her natural repulsion from the sight
of such things, she attended your anatomy classes and demonstrations.
When Lili said, “I love Schlegel and have loved him for years,” her words
did not mean, “And all that time my love for you was extinct.”
No, Lili cared for Schlegel, and for you, too.... Probably you are saying
to yourself, “A woman must love one man or the other.”
With some show of reason you will argue, “In leaving my house, at any
rate, she proved that Schlegel alone claimed her affection.”
Nevertheless I maintain that you are wrong.
Lili showed every sign of a sane, well-balanced nature. Well, her famous
serenity and calmness deceived us all. Behind this serene exterior was
the most feminine of all feminine qualities—the fanciful imagination of
the visionary. Do you or I know anything about her first girlish dreams?
Have you, in spite of your happy life together, ever really understood
her innermost soul? Forgive me, but I do not think you have.
When a man possesses a woman as completely as you possessed Lili, he
thinks himself quite safe. You never doubted for a moment that, having
you, she could wish for anything else.
You are not only a clever and capable man, you are kind, and an
entertaining companion; in short, you have many excellent qualities which
Lili exalted to the skies. But your nature is not very poetical; you are,
in fact, rather prosaic, and only believe what you see.
Contrast this with Lili’s immense forbearance. You remember how we used
to laugh when she defended some criminal who was beyond all defence or
apology. Something intense and far-seeing came into her expression,
and her heart, prompted such a line of argument which reason could not
support. She stood all alone in her sympathy, facing cold and incredulous
people.
Then recollect the pleasure it gave her to discuss religious and
philosophical questions.
She was not “religious” in the common acceptation of the word. But she
liked to get at the bottom of things, and to use her imagination. We
others were indifferent or frankly bored.
And Lili was so gentle she gave way to us.
Recall, too, her passion for flowers. She felt a physical pang to see cut
flowers with their stalks out of water. Once I saw her buy up a flower
girl’s whole stock, because the poor things wanted water. You and your
children have no love of flowers. As a doctor, you are inclined to think
it unhealthy to have plants in your rooms; consequently there were none
and Lili never grumbled.
Lili did not care for modern music. César Franck wearied her, and Wagner
gave her a headache. An old-fashioned harpsichord would be her favourite
instrument, whereas at home her daughters thundered out Rubinstein and
Wagner upon a concert grand, and you, dear Professor, when in a good
humour, strode about the house whistling horribly out of tune.
Finally, Lili liked quiet, musical speech, and she was surrounded by
people who talked at the top of their voices.
... She was happy because she willed to be happy. She had made up
her mind that she was the luckiest woman in existence ... happy in
everything, and she was deeply grateful to you. But in the depths of her
heart—so deep down that it never rose to the surface even as a dream—lay
that secret trouble which has caused the present mischief.
I know nothing of her relations to Schlegel, but I think I may venture to
say that they were chiefly limited to intercourse of the soul; ... and so
were fatal. Have you ever noticed the _timbre_ of Schlegel’s voice? He
spoke slowly and so softly; I can quite believe it attracted your wife in
the beginning; and that afterwards gradually, and almost imperceptibly,
she gravitated towards him.
The man is now at death’s door, and can never explain what passed between
them—even admitting that there was anything wrong. As far as I know,
Schlegel was infatuated with a totally different woman. Had he been
really in love with Lili, would he have been content with a few words and
an occasional pressure of her hand?
Why, then, has Lili left you, and why does she refuse to give you an
explanation? Why does she allow you to draw the worst conclusions?
I will tell you. Lili is in love with two men at the same time. Their
different personalities and natures satisfy both sides of her character.
If Schlegel had not fallen from his horse and broken his back, thereby
losing all his faculties, Lili would have remained with you and continued
to be a model wife and mother.
In the same way, had you been the victim of the accident, she would have
forgotten all about Schlegel, and would have lived for you alone.
... Lili had not the strength to fight the first sharp anguish. The
shock bewildered her, and the love of her imagination seemed to her at
the moment the true one. She felt she was betraying you, Schlegel, and
herself; and since self-sacrifice had become the law of her life, she was
prepared to renounce everything as a proof of her love.
You, Professor Rothe, have acted very foolishly. You have done just what
any average conventional man would have done. Your hurt vanity silenced
the voice of your heart.
You had the choice of thinking two things: either Lili was mad, or she
was responsible for her actions. You were convinced that she was sane,
and playing you false in cold blood....
You write that you have only taken your two elder daughters into your
confidence. How could you have found it in your heart to do this...?
Lili knew you better than I supposed. She knew that behind your apparent
kindness there lurked a cold, self-satisfied nature. She understood that
she would be accounted a stranger and a sinner in your house the moment
you discovered in her a thought or sentiment that was not subordinate to
your will.
You have let her go, believing that she had been playing a pretty part
behind your back, and that I was her confidante, and perhaps also the
instigator of her wicked deeds.
Lili has taken refuge with her children’s old nurse.
How significant! Lili, who had so many friends, knows by a subtler
instinct that none of them would befriend her in her misfortune. If you,
Professor Rothe, were a generous-hearted man, you would explain to the
chief doctor at the Infirmary Lili’s great desire to stay near Schlegel
until the end comes.
She loves you, and it would fill her with grateful joy.... If Lili had
your consent to be near Schlegel she would certainly not refuse to come
back to her wifely duties as soon as he was dead. At first she might not
be able to conceal her grief, and then it would be your task to help her
to regain her peace of mind.... Schlegel was a man, but had he been a
portrait or a character in a novel, Lili would have fallen in love with
him just the same, because her love was purely of the imagination.
You must do what you please. But one thing I wish you to understand....
If you are not going to act in the matter I shall act. I confess openly
that I am a selfish woman, but I am very fond of Lili, and if you abandon
her in this cruel and senseless way I shall have her to live with me
here, and shall do my best to console her for the loss of an ungrateful
husband, and a pack of stupid, undemonstrative children.
One of Lili’s tears is worth more than all your masculine ebulitions of
wrath.
One word more before I finish. Lili, so far as I can remember, is a
year older than I am. Could you not, woman’s specialist as you are,
have found some excuse for her in this fact? Had Lili been fifty-eight
or thirty-five, all this would never have happened. I do not care for
strangers to look into my personal affairs, and although you are my
cousin’s husband, you are practically a stranger to me. Nevertheless,
I may remind you that women at our time of life pass through critical
moments, as I know by daily experiences. A week or two ago it might have
been impossible to write a letter such as this. I should probably have
reeled off pages of incoherent abuse.
Show Lili that your love was not selfishness pure and simple.
With kind regards.
Sincerely yours,
ELSIE LINDTNER.
[1] Extracts from an earlier letter of Elsie Lindtner’s to Professor
Rothe, in “The Dangerous Age,” are given here again, as they throw light
on the episode which follows.
DEAR PROFESSOR ROTHE,
Lili has closed her eyes never to open them again. It will scarcely be a
great blow to you and yours after what has passed; much more will it be a
relief. For her, indeed, it was so.
I feel it my duty to Lili, not to you, to write this letter. You may
make what use you please of it. It was I who procured Lili the sleeping
draught, for which she had such a burning desire. With my hand in hers
I sat beside her till she was cold, and I do not repent that I had the
courage to commit what you, as a physician, will call a crime.
A few days before she fell asleep Lili entrusted a packet of letters to
my care. I read them in the night, and now lay them in the coffin under
her head. These letters were not to be read by the unauthorised, and you
have become in relation to Lili one of the unauthorised.
You have called hers a harlot-nature—not in a moment of excitement,
but because, after weighty consideration, you arrived at a conclusion
to which the word was appropriate. It is not in my power to give you
the satisfaction which you deserve, but I wish that the hour may come
in which you will see what a desperate wrong you and your abominable
children have done Lili.
Harlot-nature, indeed! You can say that of Lili to whom you were married
for twenty years—Lili, the purest of beings!
You say, “She married me, she bore me children, she professed to love
me, and all the time she had a lover behind my back. So she was of a
harlot-nature!”
Professor Rothe, permit me to accompany you into your most private
consulting room, the room in which you examine the most modest of your
lady patients. Let me have it out with you, and inquire into your secret
motives. It is possible that your modesty will be shocked, but you shall
hear what I have to say on Lili’s behalf, and on those words, “Judge not
that ye be not judged.”
When you married her your choice was made according to the dictates of
your heart, and fell on a very young girl who lived on the blue heights
of idealism. She was your wife, your friend, the mother of your children,
the good angel of your home. And would you dare add that she was your
love also? Yes. You think that because she loved you, and you loved her,
and because you took her in your arms as your wife, that she was, of
course your love....
But I tell you Lili was never your love, and that she never had a lover.
And the whole time you have known it perfectly well. Answer me, if you
like, “There are thousands and thousands of women who, like Lili, are
without feeling in this respect ... still she loved another, and so
deceived me.”
Is a rose less red and fragrant, because there are thousands of other red
sweet-smelling roses?
But Lili’s nature was so pure, so refined, that this deficiency as you
would call it, did not exist for her. She knew what it meant, for she
was not ignorant. She understood in others what she did not recognise
in herself. She lived for you, her children, and her household, her own
beautiful world, so essential was it for her to shed light and spread joy
around her.
From this arose that wonderful harmony of her being, making of the
non-waking of what was dormant within her, neither a trial nor a
renunciation. If Lili had been blind she would have had the same happy
nature, and would have learned the beauty of joyousness through the eyes
of every seeing soul.
There never arose within her, as in the case of so many poor women, a
conscious renunciation of the fire of the senses.
How infinitely she must have loved and reverenced you, to have been
able to tolerate without complaint, without abhorrence and a sense of
renunciation, the position of being your wife for so many years.
Schlegel was not her lover, though she loved him, and she was more
intimate with him than I thought at first ... and, listen, she loved him
with unlimited abandon, because he did not possess a husband’s rights to
lord it over her, and did not assume them. This _she_ was unconscious of.
But there existed a ... a difference between her feelings for you and for
him. He personified all that she had dreamed in her childish years of
“Love,” and continued to personify it till her last hour.
Once she loved you thus, too, and would have gone on loving you in the
same way if you had not desecrated her without awakening the woman
within her.
Lili was the Sleeping Beauty who slumbered eternally. No knight ever
roused her from her sleep. But you, the man to whom she presented her
life’s happiness, called her harlot-natured!
Her last days were given up to a despairing desire for death and pardon
for the sin which she had never committed.
The Lili who came over here was so changed that I hardly knew her. My
first thought as she touched me and uttered my name was, “Who is to blame
for this?” It was not only a broken-hearted woman, but a detested and
ill-treated human creature who flew from the pursuit of her persecutors
to die, deserted, in a foreign land.
The Lili I once knew used to come into a room as the sunshine penetrates
a wood, like joy itself. Every one could see through her radiant
exterior right into the floor of her pure, white soul.
But the Lili who came over here trembled in every limb and dared not meet
the eyes of anybody. Schlegel lies in his grave. When he lived I regarded
him as indifferently as I should any stranger. Now my thoughts go out to
him full of thankfulness.
And Lili came home to you and ate the bread of humiliation for four long
years in your house, while people admired you because you had pardoned
her so magnanimously. Your abominable children looked down on their
mother and behaved to her as to one not responsible for her actions.
Dancing went on in your house, Professor Rothe, and Lili sat upstairs
alone in her room. Betrothal festivities were celebrated by your family,
while the mistress of the house was said to be ill, so that her pale,
grief-stricken face should not cast a shadow on the festive scene.
I did the little I could, all that was in my power to win back the old,
dear Lili, but it was too late. One cannot say that her mind was under a
cloud, but she brooded day and night over a problem which she could not
solve. Mostly she sat looking down on her hands, which were never still.
Sometimes she talked of the children. She had once overheard Edmée say
to one of the maids, it would be much better if mother were sent to an
institution. Those words she could never forget.
Professor Rothe! Time after time unhappy women have come to you to be
consoled, and helped by your explaining to them that the dangerous years
of transition may affect the brain of even the steadiest and most normal
of women.
You could treat others with consideration and give them shrewd and kind
advice. But for Lili’s dangerous period you did not concern yourself. You
allowed fate to shatter her beautiful existence. You never stretched out
a hand to protect her. For Lili’s sake I cannot help hoping that there is
a resurrection after death, a place “where nothing is dishonoured, where
all is love.” To such a place Lili belongs. I have chosen a grave for
her, looking south, where flowers will flourish, and have done it in my
name.
To-morrow, I shall send you the necessary business details—a death
certificate referring to heart disease—even if I have to write it myself.
I have opened the window. The river is as blue as it used to be at home
in light nights. Here it is the moon that makes it blue. If only I had
the power I would lay Lili in a boat and let her drift out to sea.
ELSIE LINDTNER.
LETTERS FROM LILI ROTHE TO THE MAN SHE LOVED
I have accumulated so many letters from you. To-day another has come—a
letter from you to me!
Thus I know that you still think of me. And it does me good to know it. I
go about thinking of you always and always, and it makes me happy. I want
nothing different and nothing else but to be allowed to love you.
The letter ... in my hand, in my possession ... you, who understand what
it is to love, will know how it is when one loves. Every trifling thing
becomes a heaven and an earth.
The letter in my hand ... that means holding minutes of your time.
Time is life. So I possess a bit of your life. For you the minutes
have vanished, like raindrops sunk in the ground; for me they have
imperishable qualities; they are like seeds that send up shoots and more
shoots, to be nourished by the sun and moisture of my love.
And what was there in the letter? I am not ashamed to answer, only word
after word, like footprint after footprint on a muddy path. The written
sheets contain hardly more than the blank ones. But I did not expect that
they would, how could I expect it?