I was not deceived in myself. The artificial being they had created
of me was strong enough to assert itself and to sacrifice the love
that lay in my heart’s depths—but not till the last moment. It was
only upon the very brink of my husband’s return, that, arousing
myself from the brief dream of happiness into which, secure in his
absence, I had weakly fallen, I could summon the energy to take the
draught of agony which, I believed, the hand of duty had prepared for
me.
But further delay was now impossible.
I had him come to me. My heart was like a cup overrunning; my
grief knew no expression. He was before me, at my feet. I cannot
describe—no one dares acknowledge what passes between lovers,
sundered by a social law; it is not possible to express that life
within life, the innermost, the last.
I have brought you to me, I said, because I can see you no longer—I
am dying.
My God, it seemed to me then as if my heart would break—as if I
should go mad!
A moan of agony came to his lips.
He looked up at me; the intelligence of his face was gone; his eyes
were dim; the despair that was in me changed his face to stone.
I looked on him immovably; I could say to him: We must part forever.
I could repeat again the phrases of social life: There can be no
honorable recognition of our love—its open avowal will bring disgrace
to my husband and odium upon my children.
And how did he reply to me? Shall I confess, even there, in that
hour of my strength, my utter weakness! I longed for a pleading word.
One look of tenderness, and I should have fallen at his feet a ruined
being, but ruined in the acknowledgment and utter abandon of my love.
Well he knew all this; but in that crisis he was true to himself, and
to me; and when he ceased speaking, I was again strong. My head, my
heart, every instinct of my being, approved his words, his looks, his
actions.
He had saved me. He, as I knew him in that hour, was my strength;
through him I conquered myself. I was strong in that final trial, as
a woman only can be strong—through the soul and heart of the man who
stands steadfast to himself and to her to the bitter end.
He said: Even in this hour, when every hope and joy of life have
sunk away into eternal despair beneath your words, I can be true to
my sense of right; I believe life requires no sacrifice; I believe
self-sacrifice wrongs not only her who, blindly, in its belief as
right, accepts it, but those the more for whom it is accepted. If,
with your sense of duty, you were to sever the relation which binds
you to them, it could bring you no happiness; its severance, as you
feel, would bring at last misery to both, for your happiness is mine.
There is no rule, no duty in life, but the pursuit of happiness. Mine
can alone be purchased now at the cost of your own, and that is mine.
We must part, then, forever!
The utter despair of these words can never leave my heart.
* * * * *
There were many things he said in this last interview which I recall,
but it matters not now should be repeated. Our lives express them
more clearly than words. He spoke of the false relation which he had
gradually been led to assume, and into the continuance of which our
passion had held him day by day.
I knew well, he said, it should long ago have been terminated; but
I knew not then, as now, the controlling power that has kept me by
you until this hour. I believed, first, that I might love you, and
that you might remain forever unconscious of my love. And so I lived
till this was impossible. And then my life became one eternal delay
of hope, enduring all to this last measure of despair. It could not
be otherwise. I believed from day to day that you would see clearly,
as I saw, the right, and so it might at last end. It is over now! My
life is over. My lot is hopeless, endless misery. I accept it for
your sake—for the memory of our love.
Then my life, my very soul, met his in one long kiss of agony, and we
parted, as I believed, forever.
* * * * *