X
He had been told everything, and she called herself guilty, for he had wept. He had wept scalding tears! Was it simplicity or artfulness on his part? Doubtless both. Love and delusion are inseparable, and it is difficult to know ourselves as we really are.
But he was not angry with us, and did not insist on separating us, on condition that we should respect his good name.
“He is more noble and generous than we are,” she said in her letter, “and he still loves both of us.”
What a milksop! He consented to receive in his house a man who had kissed his wife; he believed us to be sexless, able to live side by side, like brother and sister.
It was an insult to my manhood; henceforth he had ceased to exist for me.
I stayed at home, a prey to the bitterest disappointment. I had tasted the apple, and it had been snatched from me. My imperious love had repented; she was suffering from remorse; she overwhelmed me with reproaches—she, the temptress! A fiendish idea flashed through my mind. Had I been too reserved? Did she want to break with me because I had been too timid? Since the thought of the crime from which I shrank had not seemed to disturb her, her passion must be stronger than mine.... But come back to me once more, my love, and I will teach you better.
At ten o’clock I received a letter from the Baron, in which he said that his wife was seriously ill.
My reply was a request to be left in peace. “I have been long enough the cause of unpleasantness between you; forget me, as I will forget you.”
Towards noon a second letter arrived:
“Let us once more revive our old friendship. I have always respected you, and, in spite of your error, I am convinced that you have behaved like a man of honour. Let us bury the past. Come back to me as a brother, and the matter will be forgotten.”
The pathetic simplicity, the perfect confidence of the man touched me; in my reply I mentioned my misgivings, and begged him not to play with fire, but leave me in future unmolested.
At three o’clock in the afternoon I received a last communication: the Baroness was dying; the doctor had just left her; she had asked for me. The Baron entreated me not to refuse her request, and I went. Poor me!
I entered. The room smelt of chloroform. The Baron received me with great agitation and tears in his eyes.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, with the calmness of a doctor.
“I don’t know. But she has been at death’s door.”
“And the doctor, what did he say?”
“He shook his head and said it was not a case for him.”
“Has he given her a prescription?”
“No.”
He took me into the dining-room, which had been transformed into a sick-room. She was lying on a couch, stiff, haggard; her hair was falling over her shoulders, her eyes glowed like red-hot coals. She moved her hand, and her husband put it into mine. Then he returned into the drawing-room and left us by ourselves. My heart remained unmoved; I did not trust my eyes; the unusual spectacle roused my suspicions.
“Do you know that I nearly died?”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t feel sorry?”
“Oh yes!”
“You are not moved, you have no look of sympathy, no look of commiseration.”
“You have your husband!”
“Hasn’t he himself brought us together?”
“What are you suffering from?”
“I’m very ill. I shall have to consult a specialist.”
“Oh!”
“I’m afraid! It’s terrible! If you knew how I have suffered!... Put your hand on my head... it does me good.... Now smile at me... your smile fills me with new life!...”
“The Baron—-”
“You are going? You are leaving me?”
“What can I do for you?”
She began to cry.
“You surely can’t want me to play the lover here, close to your child, your husband?”
“You are a monster! A man without a heart! A——”
“Good-bye, Baroness!”
I went. The Baron accompanied me through the drawing-room, but, quick though he was, he could not prevent me from catching sight of a woman’s skirt disappearing through one of the other doors.
This awakened the suspicion in me that the whole had been a farce.
The Baron closed the door behind me with a bang which echoed through the staircase, and gave me the impression that I had been kicked out.
I felt sure that I had not been mistaken. I had assisted at the dénoûment of a sentimental play with a double plot.
This mysterious illness, what was it? Hysteria? No. Science has given it the name of “nymphomania”; freely translated it means, the desire of a woman for children, moderated and disguised by time and the conventions, but suddenly breaking out with irresistible force.
This woman, always living in a state of semi-celibacy, unwilling to take upon herself the burden of motherhood, and yet dissatisfied with the incompleteness of her married life, was driven into the arms of a lover, to the commission of a crime, and, at the very moment when she thought that her lover was incontestably hers, he slipped through her fingers, and he, too, left her unsatisfied.
How miserable a mistake was matrimony! How pitiful a passion was love!
When I had finished my analysis I had come to the conclusion that the unsatisfactory nature of their relationship had driven both husband and wife to seek happiness elsewhere. The disappointment at my flight had brought the Baroness back into the arms of her husband, whose love had received a fresh stimulus, and who would henceforth strive to make her more happy.
They were reconciled, and everything was at an end.
Exit the devil.
The curtain falls.
No, it was not at an end.
She visited me again in my room, and I drew from her a full confession, brutal in its candour.
In the first year of her marriage she knew nothing of the ecstasies of love. After her baby was born, her husband grew indifferent to her, and their relations became strained.
“Then you’ve never been happy with this man with the physique of a giant?”
“Never... sometimes perhaps... hardly ever.”
“And now?”
She blushed.
“The doctor has advised him not to go on sinning against nature.”
She sank back on the sofa and hid her face in her hands.
Excited by these intimate confessions, I made an attempt to put my arms round her. She offered no resistance, she trembled and breathed heavily, but suddenly she felt remorse and repulsed me.
Strange enigma which was beginning to provoke me!
What did she want from me? Everything! But she shrank from the real crime, the illegitimate child.
I took her in my arms and kissed her, I tried to rouse her passion. She freed herself and left me, but, I thought, a shade less disappointed than before.
And now, what?
Confess to the husband? It has been done.
Give him details?... There are no details to give.
She continued to visit me.
And whenever she came, she sat down on the sofa on the plea of fatigue.
I was ashamed of my timidity; furious at my humiliation; afraid that she might think me a fool; conflicting emotions wore away my self-control, and the day came when I watched her from my window, walking away slowly, until she was hidden by the turn of the street. I sighed heavily.
The son of the people had carried off the white skin, the plebeian had won the aristocrat, the swineherd had mated with the princess! But he had paid a heavy price.
A storm was brewing. All sorts of rumours circulated in the town. The fair fame of the Baroness had suffered.
Her mother asked me to call on her. I went.
“Is it true that you are in love with my daughter?”
“It is true.”
“And are you not ashamed?”
“I glory in it.”
“She has told me that she loves you.”
“I was aware of that.... I am sorry for you. I regret the possible consequences, but what am I to do? No doubt it is a deplorable business, but we are not guilty, neither she nor I. When we discovered our danger, we warned the Baron. Wasn’t that acting correctly?”
“I’m not complaining of your conduct now, but I must protect the honour of my daughter, of her child, of the family! Surely you don’t want to ruin us?”
The poor old woman cried bitterly. She had put all her eggs in one basket: the aristocratic alliance of her daughter, which was to rehabilitate her own family. She roused my compassion, and I succumbed to her sorrow.
“Command me,” I said; “I will do whatever you wish.”
“Leave this place, go away from here, I implore you.”
“I will do so, but on one condition.”
“And that is?”
“That you will ask Miss Matilda to return to her family.”
“Is that an accusation?”
“More than that, a denunciation. For I believe I’m right in saying that her presence at the Baron’s house is not conducive to happiness.”
“I agree with you. Oh, that girl! I shall tell her what I think of her! But you, you will leave to-morrow?”
“To-night, if you like.”
At this stage the Baroness appeared, and unceremoniously interrupted our conversation.
“You must stay! You shall stay!” she said imperatively. “Matilda must go!”
“Why?” asked her mother, in amazement.
“Because I mean to have a divorce. Gustav has treated me like an abandoned woman before Matilda’s stepfather. I shall prove to them that they’re mistaken.”
What a heartrending scene! Is there a surgical operation so painful as the tearing asunder of family ties? All passions are let loose, all uncleanness hidden in the depth of the soul stands revealed.
The Baroness took me apart and repeated to me the contents of a letter from her husband to Matilda: abuse of us, and an assurance of his undying love for the girl, in terms which proved that he had deceived us from the very beginning.
The ball has now gained the volume of a rock; it goes on rolling, and crushes alike the innocent and the guilty.
In spite of all the coming and going a settlement seemed as far off as ever.
Fresh misfortunes happened. The bank did not pay the ordinary yearly dividend; ruin was menacing.
The threatening poverty was made the pretext for the divorce, for the Baron could no longer maintain his family. For appearances’ sake he asked his colonel whether his wife’s proposed theatrical career would in any way interfere with his own. The colonel gave him to understand that if his wife went on the stage, he would have to leave the service. A splendid opportunity for abusing aristocratic prejudices!
During all this time the Baroness, under medical treatment for some internal trouble, continued to live at her husband’s house, although they were now practically separated. She was always in pain, irritable and despondent, and I found it impossible to rouse her from her deep depression; my strenuous effort to inspire her with some of my youthful confidence was wasted. In vain I drew for her glowing pictures of the career of an artist, the independent life in a home of her own, a home like mine, where she would enjoy freedom of body and soul. She listened to me without replying; the stream of my words seemed to galvanise her like a magnetic current, without penetrating to her consciousness.
An agreement between the two parties had been arrived at at last. It was decided that after all legal formalities had been complied with, the Baroness should proceed to Copenhagen, where an uncle of hers was living. The Swedish consul at Copenhagen would communicate with her on her supposed flight from her husband’s house, and she would inform him of her wish to have her marriage annulled. After that she would be free to make her own plans for the future, and return to Stockholm. Her dowry would remain in the possession of her husband, as well as all the furniture, with the exception of a very few things; the little girl would continue to live with her father, unless the latter contracted a second marriage, but the Baroness would have the right to see her child whenever she wished.
The financial question gave rise to a violent scene. To save the remnants of a fortune which had almost disappeared, the father of the Baroness had made a will in which he left everything to his daughter. Her scheming mother had obtained possession of the inheritance, and was paying her son-in-law a certain percentage. Since such a procedure was illegal, the Baron insisted that the will should now come into force. The old mother-in-law, furious at the reduction of her income, denounced her son-in-law to her brother, Matilda’s father, as the girl’s lover. The storm burst. The colonel threatened to cashier the Baron; a lawsuit was impending.
Now, the Baroness left no stone unturned to save the father of her child. And to clear him I was made the scapegoat.
I was prevailed upon to write a letter to Matilda’s father, in which I took the sins of everybody and the responsibility for all the mischief on my own shoulders, called God to witness that the Baron and the girl were innocent, and asked the offended father to forgive me for all the crimes I had committed—I, the only penitent one!
It was a beautiful action and a good one, and the Baroness loved me for it as a woman loves a man who has allowed her to trample on his honour, his self-respect, his good name.
In spite of my resolution not to be mixed up in these unsavoury family matters, I had been unable to steer clear of them.
The mother-in-law paid me many visits, and, always appealing to my love for her daughter, tried to incite me against the Baron, but in vain; I took my orders from no one but the Baroness. Moreover, on this point I sided with the father. As he was taking charge of the child, the dowry, imaginary or otherwise, belonged undoubtedly to him.
Oh, this month of April! What a springtime of love! The beloved woman on the sick-bed, intolerable meetings at which the two families washed their dirty linen, which I certainly never had the least desire to come into contact with; tears; rudeness; a chaos which brought to light everything base that had hitherto been hidden under the veneer of education.
That comes of raising a nest of hornets about one’s ears!...
No wonder that love suffered under such conditions. Where is the charm of a woman who is always worn out with contention, whose conversation bristles with legal terms?
Again and again I attempted to instil into her my thoughts of consolation and hope, even though they were often anything but spontaneous, for I had come to the end of my nerve-power; and she accepted everything, sucked my brain dry, consumed my heart. In exchange she looked upon me as a dustbin, into which she threw all her rubbish, all her grief, all her troubles, all her cares.
In this hell I lived my life, dragged on my misery, worked for a bare sufficiency. When she came to see me of an evening and found me working, she sulked; and it was not until I had wasted a couple of hours with tears and kisses that I succeeded in convincing her of my love.
She conceived love as never-ending admiration, a servile readiness to please, unceasing sacrifice.
I was crushed down by my heavy responsibility. I could see the moment not very far off when misery, or the birth of a child, would force me into a premature marriage. She had claimed but three thousand francs for one year, with which she intended to defray the costs of her artistic training. I had no faith in her dramatic career. Her pronunciation still betrayed her Finnish descent, and her features were too irregular for the stage. To keep her from brooding I made her repeat poetry. I constituted myself her teacher. But she was too much occupied with her disappointments, and when, after a rehearsal, she had to admit that her progress was very small, she was inconsolable.
How dreary our love was! Instead of being the source from which flowed strength to cope with our difficulties, it was a prolonged torture.
Joy was no sooner born than it was slain, and we parted, dissatisfied, robbed of the greatest happiness life has to give. A poor phantom was our love!
But my monogamic nature recoiled from change. Our love, sad as it was, was yet the source from which sprang exquisite spiritual joys, and my inextinguishable longing was the guarantee for its endurance.