Married

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.

When he came home on the evening of the day of her departure and found the house empty, his soul was tormented by a cruel feeling of loss and longing. All of a sudden it became clear to him that he loved her with every fibre of his being. The house seemed desolate; it was just as if a funeral had taken place. When dinner was served he stared at her vacant chair and hardly touched his food.

After supper he lit the chandelier in the drawing-room. He sat down in her corner of the sofa. He fingered her needlework which she had left behind—it was a tiny jacket for a stranger’s baby in a newly-founded crèche. There was the needle, still sticking in the calico, just as she had left it. He pricked his finger with it as if to find solace in the ecstasy of pain.

Presently he lighted a candle and went into her bedroom. As he stood on the threshold, he shaded the flame with his hand and looked round like a man who is about to commit a crime. The room did not betray the slightest trace of femininity. A narrow bed without curtains; a writing-table, bookshelves, a smaller table by the side of her bed, a sofa. Just like his own room. There was no dressing-table, but a little mirror hung on the wall.

Her dress was hanging on a nail. The lines of her body were clearly defined on the thick, heavy serge. He caressed the material and hid his face in the lace which trimmed the neck; he put his arm round the waist, but the dress collapsed like a phantom. “They say the soul is a spirit,” he mused, “but then, it ought to be a tangible spirit, at least.” He approached the bed as if he expected to see an apparition. He touched everything, took everything in his hand.

At last, as if he were looking for something, something which should help him to solve the problem, he began to tug at the handles which ornamented the drawers of her writing-table; all the drawers were locked. As if by accident he opened the drawer of the little table by her bedside, and hastily closed it again, but not before he had read the title on the paper-cover of a small book and caught sight of a few strange-looking objects, the purpose of which he could guess.

That was it then! Facultative Sterility! What was intended for a remedy for the lower classes, who have been robbed of the means of existence, had become an instrument in the service of selfishness, the last consequence of idealism. Were the upper classes so degenerate that they refused to reproduce their species, or were they morally corrupt? They must be both, for they considered it immoral to bring illegitimate children into the world, and degrading to bear children in wedlock.

But he wanted children! He could afford to have them, and he considered it a duty as well as a glorious privilege to pour his individuality into a new being. It was Nature’s way from a true and healthy egoism towards altruism. But she travelled on another road and made jackets for the babies of strangers. Was that a better, a nobler thing to do? It stood for so much, and yet was nothing but fear of the burden of motherhood, and it was cheaper and less fatiguing to sit in the corner of a comfortable sofa and make little jackets than to bear the toil and broil of a nursery. It was looked upon as a disgrace to be a woman, to have a sex, to become a mother.

That was it. They called it working for Heaven, for higher interests, for humanity, but it was merely a pandering to vanity, to selfishness, to a desire for fame or notoriety.